Tim Leach: The Last King of Lydia

The next chamber contained arms and armour from the heroic past. There were jewelled swords from ancient times that were reputed to have killed gods and monsters, but were now so fragile that a single tap of a fingernail would be enough to destroy them; shields that had turned aside thunderbolts and the spears of giants, and gold-edged breastplates that had been worn by heroes in a hundred battles, each bearing a single ragged tear for the wound that had finally brought the hero down.

In the following room, a forest of rare fabrics hung from the ceiling in thick drapes, so that, moving through the room, one was caressed from all sides by priceless silken fingers. They hung so thickly that Solon, wandering absently, found himself out of sight of both Croesus and the walls of the room, and had to call to the king to find his way out.

The next room seemed to be filled only with knee-deep sand. Many, on seeing this, wondered at first if it were home to ancient treasures that had long since faded into dust. But the sand had a peculiar hardness underfoot, and when the curious sifted the sand through their fingers, they realized that it was pure gold dust, enough to buy the city of Athens twice over.

Yet another room was devoted to priceless paper, its bookshelves packed with scrolls and rare parchments. Each roll of paper (so Croesus said) contained the answer to some historical mystery — the secret thoughts of a general before a famous battle, the lost writings of ancient thinkers, the solutions and proofs to mathematical problems long thought impossible. Yet all these secrets would remain for ever unread, for if any of the ancient papers were unrolled they would crumble instantly into dust.

The treasuries stretched on through the entire upper floor of the palace, a labyrinth of riches. Croesus paid little attention to the ancient relics he had seen a hundred times before. Instead he watched Solon. The Athenian’s face was unreadable, and he said little as he walked. Occasionally he would ask one of the slaves to tell him the history of a particular item, or he would stretch a hand towards a treasure and give Croesus an enquiring glance to see whether he was permitted to touch. For the most part he was silent, and, finally, Croesus was moved to ask him what he thought.

‘Hmm?’ Solon looked up and smiled politely. ‘Oh. Yes, they are remarkable. Quite remarkable.’

‘Perhaps they are not as impressive as you expected? There are many chambers left to see. Something in them might-’

‘No,’ said Solon abruptly. Croesus was no longer offended by these interruptions. The habit of an old man with little time left to him, and none to waste. Solon continued: ‘No I don’t think so. You came closest with this library of yours.’ He gestured at the bookshelves and the crumbling parchments that filled the room. ‘This knowledge appeals to me more than the swords of heroes. Yet these works have no value if they cannot be read.’

‘If everyone could read them, then they would cease to be valuable. My interest in them would come to an end. There is no pleasing you, is there, Solon?’

‘Perhaps not.’ Solon gave the room of treasures one last, wistful glance. A thought seemed to strike him. ‘Where are the coins, by the way?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The famous coins of Lydia. They are minted here in Sardis, are they not? And yet they are nowhere to be found in your treasuries?’

‘That is so,’ Croesus said shortly. ‘Shall we go? I’m sure you are ready to sit down.’

Solon looked at the king, his politician’s mind sensing weakness. Then a weary expression passed over his face. ‘I am tired,’ he said.

Croesus led him out from the treasuries and, after several turns up a tight and narrow staircase, they emerged onto a balcony at the highest point of the palace. The king gestured outwards, his palm down and fingers spread, as if hoping to hold the city that he ruled in a single hand.

Solon looked down on Sardis. From this position, one seemed to look on some strange twin city. The closest buildings appeared to be two or three times the size of those just a little further away, as if Sardis were a city where giants lived alongside ordinary men, or where men lived beside dwarfs.

It was merely a trick of perspective. Half of Sardis, including the palace, was built imposingly on a steep-sided hill, a set of high walls contouring and elaborating on its natural defences. Here, the wealthiest citizens of Sardis lived, packed tight in tiny homes, sacrificing space and comfort for the prestige of living near to the king. The rest of the city, an uneven mass of mud-brick and reed houses, sprawled over the plains below. From here the common people, rich in space and poor in everything else, looked upon the dense peak of wealth that allowed no place for them.

Solon’s eyes turned towards the sound of running water, found the Pactolus river. All knew the story of this river, of how Midas had washed away his curse in its waters, how it ran with gold that any shepherd could pan from its waters. Sardis — the impregnable city, built alongside a source of inexhaustible riches.

‘My greatest treasure,’ said Croesus. ‘A king could not wish for a better place to call his home.’

They sat and took food and wine, and then Croesus dismissed both his slaves and his guards.

For the first time that day, the two men were alone together, and free to speak their minds.

They sat in silence for a time. Both men, practised politicians, trying to remember what it was to speak openly in private to a man you did not know. They looked out across the city, not at each other. Solon sat with his fingers interlaced, thumbs tapping against each other in an irregular rhythm. Croesus repeatedly took a date from a bowl, lifted it a few inches, then dropped it back on the pile again.

Finally, the older man broke the silence. ‘So. What do you want to ask me, Croesus?’

Croesus turned to look at him. ‘What makes you think I want to ask you anything?’

‘Everyone wants to ask me something.’

‘Perhaps I do. Perhaps I haven’t yet decided if you are worth asking anything of.’

Solon laughed. ‘I am a disappointment to you?’

‘So far, yes, though you may yet redeem yourself.’ Croesus shrugged. ‘I sense I disappoint you as well.’

‘Not at all.’

‘My palace means nothing to you. Nor do my treasures. You seem to have a rather dim view of me as well. I am not a fool, you know. I don’t care to be mocked in my own throne room.’

‘My apologies. I am not a very good guest. I am an old man, and I really have no patience for the theatre of throne rooms. But you are a new king, and depend on such theatrics. Perhaps you even enjoy them. I once did.’

‘And the treasuries? I have never seen a man so indifferent, confronted with so much of the wealth of the world.’

Solon thought for a moment. ‘I am glad to have seen them,’ he said. ‘But they do not move me. I was curious to see if I could be impressed by such riches. But I find that I cannot. I must seem ungrateful.’ He clapped his hands together, leaned forward. ‘Come, let me be of some use to you. What is it you wish to know?’

‘Let me turn your question back to you, first. Do you want to ask me anything?’

Solon smiled apologetically. ‘Not particularly.’

‘Why did you travel here, if it was not to speak to me?’

‘I have been travelling since I retired from politics. This was simply another place I had yet to visit. The final city on my travels, you understand — I will return to Athens now. Perhaps you will forgive my lack of courtesy, given how long I have been away from home. Twenty years is a long time.’

‘Do you love your home?’