Tim Leach - The Last King of Lydia

The gates opened, and the Persians entered Babylon.

Marching in close order, row after row of spearmen and archers went into the city. It was one of the largest armies that the world had yet seen, but it had almost met its equal in this vast labyrinth of streets. It was as if the city had been designed to provide a last line of defence if its people failed to protect it, built to swallow up armies like some beast of the ancient times.

The Persians filtered through the city like a medicinal compound absorbed by the blood, past gardens and towers and temples, spreading to every corner of Babylon, as if it were only by traversing every street before the dawn came that the city would be conquered. They wandered, less as warriors now, in the absence of any army to oppose them, and more as curious travellers to a strange and alien place. Gradually, disbelieving that the city could be taken so effortlessly, the Persians were drawn by the sound of the drums to the heart of Babylon, and once there, they gazed on a spectacle that they could never have dreamed they might see.

Perhaps a hundred thousand people filled the main square, equal at least in number to the army that came to conquer them, moving to music that seemed to shake the earth. They gathered in small circles around elderly storytellers, swam like clumsy children in the diminished waters of the Euphrates, made love openly on the ground. They drank and danced, and shouted their welcome to the new arrivals.

If they were aware that their city was being taken, that these were invaders come to impose a foreign rule over them, the Babylonians gave no sign. Even when a regiment of Persian spearmen marched into the square, in a confused and unnecessary show of force, the people of Babylon seemed as delighted by the newcomers as by the arrival of a troupe of acrobats or a great musician from the east. They held up their hands, and asked the Persians to join them, for on the night of the festival they understood the irrelevance of kings and slaves, of cities and empires. They knew that the world would be reordered in the morning, but it did not matter. For one night alone, there was nothing but the dance.

The Persians laid aside their tall spears and wicker shields, their decorated quivers and curved bows. They called for drums and flasks of wine, and came forward unarmed into the square, not as conquerers or liberators, but as revellers.

They drank and danced together under the stars, until the dawn came to banish them all back to their homes the way thought banishes a dream, and time destroys all things.

The sun rose, the people slept, knowing that when they awoke they would be ruled by a new king. They slept contentedly, and dreamed deeply, for they knew that this did not matter. They knew that it changed nothing.

‘What do you make of it?’

‘Master?’

‘The city, Croesus. What do you think?’

Croesus hesitated. He did not know what to say.

Cyrus had entered the city that morning to find Babylon still sleeping after the evening’s revelry. The few who were still awake, blinking at the harshness of the light and heavy-headed with drink, had come out on to the streets to meet their new king.

Cyrus installed himself in the palace even as the slaves still scrubbed blood from the stone floors. It had been the only battlefield in the conquest of the city. There had been no looting and no other bloodshed. It was the most peaceful conquest that Croesus had ever known. The city taken for the price of fifty dead.

Cyrus rested his chin on his hand, and smiled at his slave, reading his silence.

‘You are disappointed with Babylon?’

‘No, it is undoubtedly beautiful.’

‘You do not sound particularly interested.’

‘I used to live for wonders, and if one lives for wonders, one must come to Babylon. Now that I am here, I am not so sure.’

‘What do you live for now, then?’

‘I do not know.’ Croesus shrugged. ‘I’m hoping I will find out. Before I die.’

‘What a morbid thought. Perhaps I should ask myself the same question. The wonders don’t move me either. What is my excuse?’

‘You too are old, Cyrus.’

The king laughed. ‘I should have you beheaded for that. But that’s not it. As a symbol, Babylon means everything to me. As a city, it is a troublesome prize. It will make one of my governors over-powerful, and the rest jealous. I desired the essence of Babylon. To be the man who rules the greatest city in the world. The reality is rather tedious.’

Croesus shook his head. ‘And they called me a dreamer when I was a king.’

‘Perhaps that is my secret. I can dream greater than those I conquer. Including you.’ Cyrus toyed with a silk curtain that ran from the ceiling and trailed beside his new throne.

‘Babylon,’ he said. ‘I came to this city not knowing whether I wanted to possess it or destroy it. I almost burned it to the ground.’ He turned back to Croesus. ‘Would that have been a terrible thing?’

‘You would have destroyed a place of beauty.’

‘Yes.’ Cyrus thought to himself for a moment. ‘I had in mind to write something. A proclamation. It is the custom here. First, the king must go north to a temple and perform a ritual of theirs. I have sent Cambyses to take care of that. Then, each new king of Babylon writes of his ambitions on a clay cylinder, declares them to the people, and buries the cylinder in one of the walls.’

‘What will you write?’

‘Some of it will be straightforward enough. I have to vilify my predecessor.’

‘Will you enjoy that?’

‘It is hubristic to enjoy it too much. That is the fate of kings like us. Gods whilst we live, objects of mockery the moment we die. I have to win over their Gods as well, proclaim myself as their champion.’

‘You aren’t afraid of blasphemy?’

‘There is only one God, Croesus. He takes many aspects. This Marduk is just another one.’

‘What else will you say?’

‘I don’t know. I have yet to decide how to rule this city.’ He turned to face Croesus again. ‘I was hoping for a little help from you.’

‘I am not much of a man of words.’

‘I have scribes for words, Croesus. I am interested in your ideas.’ He leaned forward. ‘What do you think makes people happy?’

Croesus said nothing at first. He looked at Cyrus’s face, that ageless face that had conquered countless nations, but saw no sign of mockery there. ‘Master?’

‘What makes people happy? Not men like you and me. Ordinary people.’

‘How can I answer that?’ Croesus thought for a time. ‘By the river, Isocrates told me he is happiest when nothing is changing. He just wants to be left alone by his master.’

‘I wouldn’t have called him an ordinary man.’

‘No?’

‘Perhaps you don’t see it, having known him for so long. But it is an interesting idea. Being left alone. I shall think on it.’ Cyrus yawned. ‘You may go,’ he said. ‘I will summon my scribes to begin their work. I will be curious to see what you think, when we are done. And I have a reward for you.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I want you to take a day of freedom,’ Cyrus said. ‘You and your friends. Isocrates and his woman. Explore the city, and see if you change your mind about it.’

Croesus stared at the king for a moment, unsure if he had heard correctly, if Cyrus had really uttered that old, now unfamiliar word. ‘Freedom?’

‘Yes. No soldiers to escort you. No one will summon you to serve them. You shall have free passage throughout the city.’ He paused. ‘I will be disappointed if you run from me. I will punish you if I catch you. But do as you will.’

Croesus laughed. ‘I am an old man, Cyrus. Where would I run to?’