The Last King of Lydia (3 page)

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?’

‘Athens? Oh, yes. More than anything, though my countrymen can be foolish. They once gave me command of an army because of a poem I had written about wise leadership. An army for a poem!
They will not believe
that
a century from now.’ He shook his head. ‘A foolish people, but I have hopes for them yet. It will be a great city one day. I only wish that I had
been born a little later, so that I would live to see it.’

‘Are you enjoying your retirement?’

‘Not at all. It is a wretched business, being at the end of one’s life. Travel makes it worse. Wonders are wasted on a homesick man.’

‘Why did you leave Athens in the first place, if you loved it so much?’

‘It was a way to trick the Archons. You see, I was able to pass a number of reforms in spite of their objections.’

‘Reforms?’

‘Yes. In Athens, the wealthy rule in their own interest while the rest suffer in silence. It is the same everywhere, of course, but I wanted to change my own home for the better. Everyone
does, I suppose. I spent my life flattering and bullying a group of stubborn old men, so as to enable the passage of a few simple laws.’

‘And what was this trick of yours?’

‘A quirk of Athenian law. One of the only laws that I didn’t try to reform, in case I ever had to make use of it. If the person who passes a law is not in the city, the Archons
cannot repeal that law for ten years. It is supposed to discourage political assassination. So they were kind enough to let me pass my laws, thinking that they could overturn them in a year or two.
But I announced my retirement and left the city, and they were stuck with my reforms for a decade.’

‘Very clever. I applaud you.’

‘I’m not proud of it. It is a foolish law, and it was low of me to take advantage of it. But I hoped some good might come of it.’

‘Did it?’

‘No.’ Solon said. ‘It is as I thought it would be. They endured my laws for a decade and then they repealed them . . . Now I hear that a tyrant has come to power.
Psistratus.’

‘You know the man?’

‘Oh yes. I loved him once. Now I must go back to fight him, in whatever way that I can. It will do no good. He will ignore me and humiliate me, and I will die of old age long before he
falls from power. So you see, my life has been an empty gesture.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps I should have stuck to poetry. I was never much of a poet, but it certainly made
me happier than politics.’

‘Your politics does sound like a tedious business. A lifetime of work for a few petty changes. I think I prefer my system. A single man commands and is obeyed. Or do you believe a tyranny
like mine puts unworthy people in power? A lottery of birth, some call it. Were your politicians the finest men in Athens, the most fit to rule?’

‘No. Quite the opposite, if anything.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. It seems to me that, almost always, only the evil and the insane crave the power to rule.’

Amused, Croesus said: ‘Do you count me as such a man?’

‘No, because you were born to power. You never had to seek it.’

Croesus raised an eyebrow. ‘In that case, are
you
evil? A madman? You, after all, rose to supreme power in Athens.’

‘No.’ Solon shook his head. ‘I flatter myself enough to believe I belong to another class of men who try to rule.’

‘Who are?’

‘Men who are outraged that the worst of men are those who rise to the top.’ He finished his cup of wine and placed it down carefully.

‘Of course, I became a politician like any other, relying on bribery and trickery to get my way. I realized too late that there are few truly evil men in power. They are mostly weak,
ambitious men who fool themselves that they are doing the right thing. That is why I retired. And now I am at the end of a wasted life.’ He leaned back and looked out across the city.
‘Why so many questions, Croesus?’ he said. ‘I cannot believe you are so interested in the life of an old statesman like myself.’

Croesus shrugged, taking up a handful of grapes and chewing on them thoughtfully. ‘I am trying to discover why you are such a miserable man, given the fame that you have earned for your
wisdom.’

‘Wisdom doesn’t guarantee happiness. Neither does fame, for that matter.’

‘You should try wealth. It works for me.’

‘Ah. Now I sense we are coming to something important. Perhaps it is my unhappiness that disappoints you, more than anything else.’

‘Yes, you are right.’ Croesus paused. ‘I do have a question for you.’

‘Ask, Croesus.’

‘Who is the happiest person that you have ever met?’

Solon thought for a long time.

‘Tellus,’ he said at last, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it into olive oil.

‘Tellus,’ Croesus said carefully, sounding out the name.

‘Yes.’

Croesus looked at Solon, but the Athenian did not elaborate. ‘I haven’t heard of him,’ Croesus said shortly. ‘Who was he?’

‘Tellus? He was an Athenian.’

‘A wealthy man?’

‘Oh no, but he was wealthy enough to keep himself and his family.’ Solon cleared his throat then spoke again. ‘There are many reasons to call him happy. He had many children,
and he lived long enough to see his children’s children grow. He was fortunate enough to live in a time when Athens was prosperous and justly governed. He fought in battle against the city of
Eleusis, and it was by his efforts that the enemy was routed. He was wounded, and died a few hours later, but he died knowing that he had saved the city he loved. The people of Athens gave him a
great funeral at the place where he fell. He was the happiest person that I have known.’

‘Well then, who is the second happiest person you have known?’

‘May I name two men jointly in answer to that?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then I would name a pair of Argive brothers, Cleobis and Biton.’

‘Go on,’ said the king.

‘They were two farmers who had more than enough to live on, and they were considered the strongest men in their village. They honoured the Gods. During the festival of Hera, their oxen
were late returning from the fields, and their mother was too ill to walk into town by herself. So these two men yoked themselves to a cart and pulled her six
stades
to the temple. They
were the toast of the festival, the entire village praising their filial love and their strength, and their mother prayed to Hera that her sons be granted the ultimate blessing. And they were. The
two men went to sleep that night and never woke again.’

‘You call this happiness?’

‘They were happy when they died, were they not? What more can we hope for? Besides, their names will not be forgotten. The townspeople made statues in their honour and sent them to Delphi.
You can still see them there, if you ever visit the temple.’

‘In all this talk of happy men,’ Croesus said, speaking slowly, ‘there is one name that you have, perhaps, forgotten to mention.’

‘Whose name is that?’