Tim Leach: The Last King of Lydia

‘I have lived for thirty-six years.’

‘So you are only halfway through your life. Do you know for how many days you will live?

Croesus snorted. ‘What man knows that? Only the Gods know that.’

‘Well, in the absence of their authority, let us fall back on probability, and calculation. You may live to seventy. In those seventy years, by our calendar, you will have seen twenty-six thousand, two hundred and fifty days.’

Croesus raised an eyebrow. ‘Quite impressive.’

Solon waved the praise away. ‘I have done this calculation before. Now, half of your days are gone, and they have been happy ones. You are in an enviable position. But what of the thirteen thousand days that remain? How many of them will be happy? Until you die, you can’t be called happy. Just lucky.’

‘You speak of happiness as though you were a merchant tallying taxes and profits. Or a farmer, weighing up happy and unhappy days like ripe and rotten apples from a year’s harvest.’

‘Do you study mathematics?’

‘I’m afraid the subject does not interest me.’

‘Oh, it should. On my travels I have had many conversations with a rather brilliant young Ionian. Just a boy, but something of a prodigy. He believes that all things can be expressed through numbers. If so, surely there must be an equation for happiness. If you want to know what happiness is, then set your mathematicians to it. You have the wealth to hire the best in the world, and they’ll figure it out for you soon enough.’

Croesus paused. He half opened his mouth to speak several times, but each time he thought better of it, clearly searching for the perfect retort.

Solon leaned forward and spoke again. ‘You sought words of wisdom from the famous Solon? Here they are. Look to the end, no matter what you are considering. Often enough the Gods give a man a glimpse of happiness, and then utterly ruin him.’

Finally, Croesus spoke, calmly and without anger. ‘A wise man should judge wisdom, and a happy man judge happiness,’ he said. ‘What does a miserable old man like you know of happiness?’

‘I have offended you.’

‘No,’ Croesus said. ‘I am irritated, and a little bored, but not offended.’

‘I shall leave tomorrow.’

‘No. Stay for a few days. Relax and enjoy yourself. We shall not speak again, but try to enjoy your stay in my city. You seem to struggle with pleasure, yet I hope you find some of it here.’ Croesus clapped his hands, and Isocrates came forward onto the balcony. ‘Isocrates is my personal slave. A Hellene, so you should have plenty to talk about together. He will see to your needs this evening.’ The king stood up, walked forward, and leaned on the balcony with his back to his guest, in a gesture of dismissal.

Solon stood and bowed. ‘I thank you, Croesus.’ He paused. ‘I wish you all the happiness in the world. That is, after all, what you seem to seek.’

After Solon had left to go to the guest quarters, Croesus looked at Isocrates. ‘Something else?’

‘A Phrygian nobleman called Adrastus begs an audience with you.’

‘Do I know him?’

‘You know his family.’

‘Very well. Send him to me.’ Isocrates bowed and left.

The king of Lydia turned back and looked out over Sardis, out over the pale buildings, over the thousands of his people who busied themselves with their lives and knew nothing of the thoughts of their king. He looked down at the rings on his fingers, then back to the couch on which the old philosopher had sat a few moments before.

He shook his head. And laughed.

‘So. How was the famous Solon?’

Croesus leaned back and sighed. ‘Disappointing.’

At this, his wife laughed.

They sat, together with their eldest son, in a walled garden courtyard — a private refuge in a palace where all eyes watched their ruler, looking for his blessing, or waiting for his mistakes. A rare space for the king to be in, for a few rare moments on the uncommon days when he could spare them, could be a man with his family.

‘Disappointing?’ his wife said. ‘How so?’

‘Just an old man, like any other. A wretched old man, worn out by the world. Oh, he is clever, no doubt about that. But he reeks of disappointment. May the Gods preserve me from such an ending.’

‘What did you expect from him, Father?’ said his son, Atys.

‘Something better. Something more. I don’t know.’

‘Did you ask him anything?’

Croesus scratched his beard and turned his head. ‘Yes.’

‘And what was it?’ his wife said.

‘I asked him who was the happiest man he’d ever met.’

‘And he didn’t say you?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, Croesus. I know you too well. Must you be the happiest man in the world, as well as the richest?’

‘I thought they were the same thing.’ The three of them laughed together. Croesus leaned forward, and gave his wife a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Theirs had been a dynastic marriage, but they had been fortunate enough to grow fond of one another. Croesus remembered seeing Danae for the first time, knowing that they would be married within a month; he had been grateful, at least, that the woman his father had chosen for him was a tall, copper-skinned beauty. Over time, he came to value her thoughts much more than any other quality, for he could bring her any uncommonly tangled problem of the court and she would find a way to unravel it. He had never come to love Danae, but he trusted her.

He looked across at his son. Here, he thought, is one that I do love. Everything about the boy radiated potential. His clearly defined features, already the face of a man at fourteen, had a rare beauty that drew people to him, like iron to a lodestone. He spoke well, learned quickly, and above all he enjoyed playing the roles that were appropriate to him. He loved being the magnanimous prince, just as he would one day enjoy acting as the benevolent king.

Croesus clapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘What do you think, Atys? Is your father the happiest man in the world?’

Atys thought for a moment, for it was his habit to consider all questions seriously, even those asked in jest. ‘I think I am surely happier than you,’ he said, ‘since I have such a great man as my father.’

‘Listen to the little flatterer!’ Danae said. ‘He has got the tongue of a courtier, not a king.’

‘No,’ Croesus said, ‘no, he is very clever. He has claimed the prize for himself, yet forced me to feel gratitude in conceding it to him. He is a king. A trickster, but still a king, quick in pursuit of all the honour and prizes on which he can lay his hands. As he should be.’

‘And what of me?’ Danae asked, a playful smile dancing on her lips. ‘With such a husband and such a son, surely my happiness outstrips both of yours?’

Croesus threw up his hands in mock defeat. ‘Must everyone deny me this? My wife, my son, Solon the Athenian. . I suspect conspiracy. But I shall be the greatest king the world has ever known, and is not the king the man that all others aspire to be? Is not the happiest king the happiest man? Dispute the logic of that, if you will.’

‘Did you ask him who was the unhappiest man he had ever met?’ asked Atys.

‘No. But I think I may have met him today myself.’ Croesus shook his head. ‘Poor Adrastus.’

‘Adrastus?’

‘A young man who came to throw himself on my mercy. He is from the east, a Phrygian. He killed his brother by accident, and was hounded from his city as a fratricide. Cursed by the Gods, they said.’

‘Will you take him in?’

‘Of course. It was an accident. He shall be one of your companions, Atys.’

Atys opened his mouth to reply, but fell silent at a familiar sound. A scraping walk, bare feet dragging over the stones. The family fell quiet and still. They looked to the entrance to the garden, and waited for Croesus’s second son to come into view.