The Last King of Lydia (27 page)

‘Did you kill him?’ Croesus said.

‘Astyages?’

‘Yes.’

‘It does not matter, does it?’

Croesus opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, and swallowed what he had been about to say. Instead he said, ‘What is it, by the way?’

‘What is what?’

‘This project that Cyrus wants my help with?’

‘Oh. That. Nothing of consequence,’ Harpagus said. He looked again at the parchment, and then back at Croesus. ‘He’s invading Babylon. That’s all.’

Babylon.

As a king, he had listened to every story of Babylon that travellers and merchants brought back from the East. It was the largest city that would ever be built, they said. There was a sacred
tower, ramped with steps that went above the clouds; one could climb to the top and speak to the Gods, and priestesses would remain at night to lie with them. The Ishtar Gate was so beautiful that
men had torn out their eyes at the sight of it, so that it would be the last thing they ever saw. And the gardens were the greatest treasure of all, where water ran uphill, where delicate flowers
and thirsty trees flourished impossibly in the desert city. It was a place where the rule of nature had been suspended.

Croesus discovered later that, as it was known that news of Babylon was a sure way into his presence, half of what he had been told was pure fantasy spun by those who had never been near the
city. But this only added to the mystery of Babylon; a city that existed half in myth.

The city rarely left his thoughts as he travelled east along the Royal Road with a company of soldiers, winding along the old trading paths, bearing messages and treasures for the king. They met
many merchant caravans heading in the opposite direction on these gold roads, traders from a dozen different nations drawn west, for commerce always followed in the wake of war.

At the forts and cities and way stations on the road, Croesus sat each night and listened to the travellers exchanging stories. Of Cyrus in the east with his invincible army; of Harpagus in the
west, conquering city after city, becoming a figure of almost legendary terror to the Ionians; of the Hellenes across the sea, poor, backward cities that thought too highly of themselves; of the
decadent Egyptians to the south and east, the ancient people whose civilization had existed long enough to witness the rise and fall of great mountain ranges, let alone the hundred human kingdoms
that had faded to memory and dust. They traded stories about the Scythians and Massagetae to the north, nomads who drank blood from skulls and slept in the open like dogs. Once, they spoke of the
fall of Sardis, a traveller telling the tale he had heard that a man called Hyroades had scaled the impossible south wall and let the army in. The others dismissed it as impossible.

Sometimes his own name was mentioned in these stories. None of the travellers would have thought that the grey-haired slave who sat silent in the corner, his skin like that of an old drum,
off-white and taut against the bone, his eyes deep and weary, could once have been a king. If he ever was asked his name, he said he was Solon, Tellus, or Isocrates. The Persian soldiers exchanged
knowing glances, but never gave him away. They let Croesus listen to the tales that were told of him.

Some travellers said Croesus was a wise man, and had engineered the irresistible Persian advance. Others countered that Croesus had lost his kingdom through foolishness, and was hardly a man to
turn to for counsel (Croesus, listening silently, could not fault this logic). There were those who insisted that he had died in Sardis, that the stories of his service to the Persian king were
just that, stories spun for fools to listen to.

These nights of storytelling were more than just a way to pass the evenings in company. For the Persians, they were a way home. They hunted the army as though it were a colossus that wandered
the continent, following its rumours like a spoor. The closer they approached, the more stories of the army multiplied and contradicted each other. Perhaps, Croesus thought, they would wander
perpetually in its wake, pursuing false rumours and growing old in its shadow, as those in the underworld are eternally locked into some endless task that seems just within reach, but that will
never be fulfilled.

After months on the road, they finally came across its trail, the mile-wide wound in the land that the army had left in its wake. They pressed on hard, as though they were homesick travellers
returning to their city from exile. Just as the sun was about to set, they finally came upon the army itself, pressed up against the Gyndes river, like a woman curled close against her lover.

The soldiers cried out at the sight of it, thinking of old companions they had thought they would never see again, the new stories that they would tell and hear. Croesus kept silent, and thought
of Maia and Isocrates, Gyges and Cyrus.

Slaves and soldiers together made their way down to the camp, to be reunited with their friends.

Croesus had long since become proficient at reading the mood of the army. It took on the character of a single giant creature, and every individual, in his or her own small
way, merely manifested the feeling of the whole. Croesus sometimes wondered if kings and generals truly lived apart from this collective as a rider does from his horse, or if they too were parts of
this great beast, forced merely to follow its will, not to direct it.

As soon as he entered the encampment, he saw that something was wrong. Most of the men were slumped on the ground. Those who were alone stared out blankly, whilst others clustered together in
groups to talk in furious whispers. The captains did nothing to restore order, and no one would talk to the newcomers. When they saw Croesus, they stared at him, uncertain of what to make of his
arrival in the context of whatever was troubling them. In all his years of service, the soldiers had yet to decide if he were favoured by the Gods or no. The army had not lost a battle whilst he
had been with them, it was true. But bad luck had followed him as a king, and there were many who thought it was only a matter of time before his ill fortune affected the Persian cause.

He thought of plague or famine, but there were no signs of either. Perhaps some great opposing army was too close to run from, and would soon come to butcher them all. Perhaps Croesus had found
the army at last only to be destroyed along with it. He wondered if Cyrus had taken ill, and felt a sudden surge of fear.

The soldiers who had travelled with him dispersed, looking for old friends to discover what was happening. Croesus went to find the king.

‘Croesus.’ Cyrus smiled wearily at his visitor. ‘Welcome back. Just in time, as well. We could use your advice.’

Croesus gazed around at the men gathered in Cyrus’s tent. Cyraxes was there, looking even older and more distracted than Croesus remembered him. A Gutian general called Gobryas was the
only other man he recognized, having been promoted in Harpagus’s absence. On every man’s face, he saw fear. He looked to Cyrus, expecting to find the king, as always, a centre of calm.
He did not see fear there, but there were the beginnings of it – a certain hesitance, an unease that he had not seen before. ‘What has happened?’ Croesus said.

‘One of my horses broke its tether and ran into the river.’ When Croesus seemed perplexed, the king continued. ‘One of my white horses, the sacred ones. They have been with me
all the way from Persia.’

‘A horse?’ Croesus tried not to give a blasphemous smile of relief. ‘That’s all?’

‘Don’t talk lightly of it, Croesus. It is a terrible omen.’

‘Of course, master.’

Silence fell in the tent, and Croesus thought of how strange it was, that he alone should be unafraid. He believed in the Gods, for what else was a man to believe in? But perhaps he had lost the
faith that they would act on one side or another, that a man could be blessed or cursed by the Gods, rather than by his own choices. He had come to realize that they were neither enemies nor
friends to the people of the earth. They were content merely to watch.

‘How bad is the mood in the camp, do you think?’ Cyraxes said to Croesus.

‘It is foul. I thought the king must have died, or that we were on the verge of some other disaster.’

‘I do not know what to do,’ Cyrus said, and there was another shiver of fear in the tent. ‘Did you have to deal with omens like this when you were a king, Croesus?’

‘The omens always seemed to be in my favour.’

‘Until I conquered your city.’

‘Yes. Until then.’ Croesus paused. ‘Sacrifice is what the Gods value most. Make a great sacrifice, and win their favour back. Or if it is refused, then you will know for
certain that you must not cross this river.’

‘Yes. You are right, of course.’ Cyrus smiled at him – the thinnest of smiles, but Croesus was glad to see it. ‘Now, let me show you how a king deals with omens.’
He turned, and spoke to Gobryas. ‘I have an assignment for your men.’

The general bowed. ‘My lord, I don’t think they will be fit for anything until a sacrifice is made.’

‘That is what I require from them. We are going to sacrifice the river.’

The general blinked. ‘My lord?’

‘I want that river lowered to such an extent that even a woman can cross it without getting her knees wet. Do you think you can manage that?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ He thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes. Enough channels and the river can be drained.’

‘How long will the work take?’

Gobryas hesitated. ‘For a river this size . . . at least a year,’ he said tentatively.

Cyrus nodded. ‘Well. We had better get started then, hadn’t we?’

Croesus left the king’s tent, and walked through the encampment, searching for Isocrates and Maia.

He asked each spearman and servant that he passed where he could find his friends. Many would not answer, still lost in the ill omen, but he at last found a young boy who knew the tent where
Isocrates was sleeping. Croesus hurried then, almost running through the wandering paths of the encampment. Word of his return might spread through the camp, and he wanted to surprise them, if he
could.

He slowed as he approached the tent. From within, he could hear an unfamiliar sound, the sound of a woman crying.

He walked close to the entrance, hoping to be mistaken, but the sound persisted, grew stronger. He hesitated, then lifted the flap of the tent a fraction; through the narrow gap, he saw the
woman who was weeping. It was Maia.

She had been beaten. One eye was purpled, and blood ran from her nose, half wiped into a reddish smear across her lips and chin. These were only her visible wounds, but she sat hunched and
curled up around some other pain.

Isocrates was beside her. He had his arms around his wife and was rocking her gently, whispering words that Croesus could not hear. He was weeping too. Croesus had never thought that he would
see Isocrates cry.

Neither of them had seen him, and before they could, he let the corner of the tent fall, and walked away.

Croesus had heard of men who would beat their wives half to death and then fall about weeping, begging to be forgiven for what they had done. That was not what had happened, he was certain of
that. All that he knew was that he had witnessed something he was never meant to see.

Croesus sat on the grass at the edge of the river, and listened.

Close to, he heard the rush of the water, ignorant of the hundred thousand men who now worked to silence it; in the distance, the sound of picks biting into wet ground and the cheerful curses of
men labouring beneath the sun. Looking across the banks of the river, he counted out the work teams. There were hundreds of groups of hundreds of men, each at work on a separate channel – an
army of soldiers, many of them farmers’ sons, remembering what it was to work the earth again.

‘Cyrus has announced a contest, you know,’ he said to Isocrates, who lay on the grass nearby. ‘Ten talents of gold shared amongst the men who finish their channel first. A
fortune.’ He paused. ‘I have heard rumours that at night some teams have taken to filling in their rivals’ work, hoping to secure the prize for themselves. Imagine if that is
true. Imagine if they are all doing that. We might be here for ever, digging trenches by day, filling them in by night.’

Isocrates sighed. ‘Must you talk?’ he said. ‘I was enjoying the quiet. That’s why I brought you out here, Croesus. To enjoy yourself, while we have a little time free
from our masters. Try it, you might surprise yourself.’

‘You’re cheerful.’

‘Of course. Why aren’t you?’

‘It doesn’t bother you? We’re going to sit here for a year, doing nothing but watching them dig away at this river. A year of our lives, wasted here.’

Isocrates shook his head. ‘You still have much to learn about being a slave.’

‘Tell me then, why don’t you?’

Isocrates paused and stretched out, exploring the ground with his hips and shoulders to find a comfortable hollow to fit his back. ‘Change is the enemy,’ he said. ‘For slaves
like us. Now we have gained a year where nothing will change. We will eat, do our work and sleep. The army will dig its channels, Cyrus will destroy a river. No wars will be fought, no empires won
or lost. Time is frozen, and what a gift that is. To be granted a year of this stillness. There will be no surprises to trap us into making any mistake. If I had my way, I would be happy to wait by
this river for the rest of my life.’

Croesus shook his head and said nothing. Looking out at the river, he could see Gyges sitting on the bank some way off. From a respectful distance, Maia watched him closely, for Cyrus had
granted Croesus’s request to let her see him.

He thought suddenly of what he had seen, and wondered if his son were responsible for what had been done to Maia, if he had always been responsible. Perhaps he could have believed it before, in
Sardis, but now, as he sat dangling his ankles in the water and tossing blades of grass to be carried downstream, Gyges looked different. He almost looked happy.

‘You are still unsatisfied, I suppose,’ Isocrates said.