Tim Leach - The Last King of Lydia

‘Do you know why I like having you as an advisor, Croesus?’

‘I thought it was for my unrivalled wisdom. That is what I have heard the storytellers say.’

Cyrus stopped playing with the silks and looked straight at Croesus. ‘It is because you do not love me. So I can trust what you say.’

Croesus paused for a long time. Cyrus’s face was unreadable. ‘You are a king of many talents, Cyrus,’ Croesus said eventually, ‘but humour is not one of them. It is quite hard to tell when you are joking. This is one of those times, I take it?’

‘I am quite serious. Most people do. I don’t say it to brag. Just as a matter of fact. Take a man like Harpagus. The last person you would imagine could feel affection for anyone, after the life he has led. But he loves me. I see it in him. And I don’t understand why you don’t.’

‘You don’t remember the destruction of my city?’

‘I have seen plenty of people love their conquerors. We kneel to power when it has been exercised upon us. Those who do not are men of stronger character than you. So, why don’t you love me?’

Croesus shook his head and looked away. ‘Cyrus, this is absurd.’

‘Is it jealousy? Come on, tell me.’

‘I admire you, Cyrus. You know that. I respect you, and obey you. Is that not enough?’

‘Give me the truth, Croesus.’

Croesus sighed, and sat down on a cushioned seat. He hadn’t asked permission, but Cyrus ignored the breach of etiquette. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I used to want the same things as you. To be remembered. To be a great king. You will be remembered when I am forgotten. Should I not be jealous of that? Or if not, should I not love you for it?’

He paused. Cyrus said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

‘There is something wrong with us both, I think,’ Croesus said after a moment. ‘Why do we care how we are remembered? You have spent your life conquering one city after another. What is it to you, once you are buried in the ground, how others think of you? If there is an afterlife, I should think you will have enough problems to occupy you there. You will be leading an army against Death, most likely, trying to install yourself on the throne of Hades.’ Cyrus laughed at this. ‘And if there is not another life,’ Croesus continued, ‘well, it matters even less, doesn’t it?’

‘It isn’t just for me. The cities I conquer are the better for being conquered. I bring order, and peace, an end to war, and the only price is submission.’

‘At the point of a sword.’

‘True.’ Cyrus paused. ‘Do you wish that you had been born a farmer? Or even a slave? Perhaps you think your life would be simpler. Happier too, not knowing the things you know now. A charming thought, but you are wrong. I was raised as a herdsman for twelve years, Croesus. They live miserable lives.’

‘You are right. I think that is what I’m afraid of, more than anything else.’

‘What is that?’

‘An ordinary life. Aren’t you? Can you think of anything more terrible, to live and die as countless others have before you, with nothing exceptional to mark you out? You might as well have not lived at all, living a life like that.’

Cyrus nodded. ‘Yes. You are right.’

‘I feared for my life for a long time. First from you, then-’ He stopped, catching himself. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘I was afraid.’

‘Not any more?’

‘No. Why should I be? But. .’

Cyrus’s mouth twitched into a smile. ‘But you feel ordinary. A slave and advisor. Not exceptional enough for you?’ He spread his arms wide in self-mockery. ‘Not even serving a glorious king like me?’

‘Forgive me. I meant no insult.’

‘Oh, I take no offence,’ Cyrus said, lowering his arms. ‘I understand perfectly. I don’t know if it will ever please you to be in my service, Croesus. I suspect that may be impossible. But I am glad to have you with me. I hope that there is some comfort, at least, in that.’ He looked over his shoulder, out through the doorway, over the balcony and across the city. ‘You had better go. You have a few hours of freedom left.’

‘What will you do tomorrow?’ Croesus said.

‘I honestly don’t know.’ He paused. ‘There is no one left to conquer. Perhaps we will stay here. It is a remarkable city. Perhaps our wars are done.’

The king spoke these words, and perhaps he even believed them to be true. But Croesus looked into his eyes, and saw that it was not.

The sun was low when Croesus stepped out onto the balcony, and the sky was beginning to redden in anticipation of the sunset. He stood at the highest point of the palace and looked out over the city, his eyes moving from one place to another, from one marvel to the next. The temples and gateways, the houses and canals and hanging gardens, the miracle that was Babylon. He stood, and tried to find the courage to take a few more steps, out into the air, and, perhaps, into another world.

It had come to him the night before, a resolution so strong and sudden that it might have come from the Gods. This had been the happiest day of his life, if he were to believe Isocrates’s dream.

He remembered the happy men that Solon had spoken of, and the one thing that united them: their contented deaths. He had thought, ever since he was taken as a slave, that it was his fate to die unhappy, but this was his way out, his final victory. The logic seemed flawless. He would not stay on, to watch his son go mad once again, to remain a slave for his remaining decades on earth. He would end his life as a free man.

He stepped forward, rested his hands on the edge of the balcony, feeling the stone beneath his fingers, and looked down on the ground below. It was high enough, or so he hoped. The king’s surgeons would not make any great efforts to save his life. Not for an old slave like him.

He should have died in Sardis, as his wife had. They should have leaped into their city together. He hoped that she would forgive him for taking so long. She had always seen the right thing to do long before he had.

He lifted himself up, and balanced on the edge of the balcony. He looked out, for the last time, on the city. He raised a foot, and prepared to take a last step.

A thought caught him. He remained there for a time, one foot in the air, like a balancing acrobat. If he were to move only slightly forwards he would tip his weight down to the ground far below. Then he lowered his foot to the edge and stepped down carefully. He turned his back on the city, and began to run.

He ran down through the palace, afraid he would lose the thought like a man who forgets a dream on waking. He ran out into Babylon, afraid that he had left it too late, that this last inspiration would come to nothing.

At first, Gyges would not come with him. In the house that the mad had been moved to, Croesus pleaded with him, implored him in every way he could think of, but his son would not come. Eventually, he simply seized Gyges’s arm and dragged him out into the city.

If Gyges had fought back, Croesus could not have taken him, but his son submitted. Babylon seemed to have broken his will to struggle, but even so, once they were out on the streets, it was impossible to keep him moving. Such was his horror at being out in the city that he could not move for more than a few feet before stopping and falling to the ground, throwing his arms around his head and howling in distress. He did not speak, and it seemed the trauma of the city had taken the last pieces of language from him.

Croesus, knowing that time was running out, had no time for subtlety. He begged his son and shouted at him, dragged him and slapped him through the streets, as a small crowd of idle Babylonians gathered and followed them, cheering and jeering, entertained by the sport of an old man wrestling with an imbecile like a farmer with a stubborn mule. At last, as Croesus was on the verge of utter exhaustion, they reached the market square.