The Last King of Lydia (34 page)

He smiled at her. He offered a hand to help her up. She took it, and he led her away without a word.

‘I am Cyrus, king of the universe, the great king, the powerful king, king of Babylon, king of Sumer and Akkad, king of the four quarters of the world, son of Cambyses,
the great king, grandson of Cyrus, the great king, descendant of Teispes, the great king, king of the city of Anshan, the perpetual seed of kingship, whose reign Bel and Nabu love . . .’
Croesus stopped reading, and tried to keep the smile from his face.

‘Is something wrong?’

He turned to face his king. ‘It is a little overdone, don’t you think?’

‘People expect this kind of thing from me now.’ Cyrus paused. ‘You didn’t have to come here, you know. It is supposed to be your day of freedom.’

‘I know,’ Croesus said. ‘But I wanted to read it today. It’s my choice to make, isn’t it?’

‘Well, come on then. Don’t waste your time speaking to me. Keep reading.’

Croesus looked again at the cylinder. It was the length of three fists placed side by side, and every part of the pale clay surface was marked with the strange cuneiform script. Next to it was a
wax tablet, marked with the translation that he was reading from. He had never learned the cuniform of Babylon, and even as he read it he wondered what had been lost in translation, what nuances in
the original language he would never understand.

He read on. It said that Cyrus came as a liberator to the city, to free it from a tyrant king, with the blessing of the Babylonian God, Marduk. It spoke of how he would not seek to impose his
own gods, but would help the Babylonians to rebuild their damaged temples, how he would reconstruct what had been destroyed in the war, to help Babylon prosper, and to worship freely.

‘There you are,’ Cyrus said, when he saw that Croesus had finished. ‘My proclamation. To leave the people alone, as your Isocrates would wish. What do you think?’

‘It is a fine piece of writing. I especially like that part about your army. “His vast army, whose number, like the waters of the river, cannot be known”.’

Cyrus rolled his eyes. ‘One of my scribes. Something of a failed poet. I like to let him add the odd bit of grand language, here and there. It keeps him from pining.’

The king signalled for a servant to take the cylinder away, but before it disappeared, Croesus took one last look at it. It was not in any way unusual, he thought. It was in the form of dozens
of kingly proclamations that had come before, and thousands that would follow. Yet it was nevertheless the beginning of something, something that he could not describe because the words for it had
yet to be invented. He wondered what strange event he had unwittingly been a part of, what echo down history the cylinder would sound. That was his fate, he thought. Always to be at the beginning,
always to be ignorant, never to see or understand the end of things.

Once the cylinder had been taken from the room, to be entombed in the wall of the city, as Croesus had heard the Babylonians used to bury their kings of old, he dismissed his thought as foolish.
It was a conqueror’s proclamation like any other, to be buried and forgotten. It meant nothing.

‘All that talk of free worship,’ Croesus said. ‘Is there something more to it than just rebuilding a few temples?’

‘Yes,’ Cyrus said. ‘I am going to do something about the Jews. There are thousands of them here.’

‘I didn’t realize there were so many in the city.’

‘Babylon captured Jerusalem some time ago. Apparently they had some trouble with the natives. Insurrections, assassinations, that sort of thing. The Babylonians grew weary of them, and
exiled them all to the city where they could keep a close eye on them.’

‘You are an expert on their history?’

‘I wasn’t until recently. One of their elders requested an audience with me. He asked me – no, begged me – to allow them to worship their own god, and not to have to
follow mine.’ He paused. ‘It had never occurred to me to bar them from their worship. What an impious thing that would be. And then I spoke to him a little more. He told me about their
exile. We will do something about that as well.’

‘Most rulers aren’t so permissively plural in how they let their subjects worship.’

Cyrus laughed. ‘Permissively plural, is it? I like that. But who am I to keep a man from his gods? If his is a true face of God, surely I would be punished for it. If not, well, the fault
lies with him, not with me, for worshipping his empty idols. Don’t you think? I am a king, not a god myself.’

‘How humble of you to admit that.’

‘Mock all you like, Croesus, mock all you like. I am in a good mood today. I shan’t punish you for it.’

‘You will send the Jews home, then?’

‘Yes. We control Jerusalem now. Let them go back there, if they wish to. They have a miserable enough time of it here; the Babylonians loathe them with an impressive passion. Maybe they
will find a better home there. There is a temple they want to rebuild. Their elder made it sound very important. We will help them with that as well.’

‘Is that wise? They might rise up against you, given their own city.’

‘Perhaps, perhaps. But that is a problem for another time. I’ll trust they will remember what it was to be exiled, and act with a little humility. I have never understood why the
Jews inspire such hatred. Do you?’

‘No. It is a customary hatred. Handed down from one generation to the next.’

Cyrus shook his head. ‘Hatred should never become custom. It is a poor gift to pass on to your children.’

‘You don’t believe in hatred?’

‘Oh, there are plenty of things I hate. A few people too. But I learned to hate them myself – I would not have anyone teach me. You wouldn’t expect to inherit love, would you?
It’s too important to be passed down. It is the same with hate. A man who hates because he is told he should hate is a fool.’

Silence fell. Croesus stood, waiting for a command, but Cyrus said nothing, apparently without an order to give, yet disinclined to dismiss him. The king’s gaze wandered over to a map on
the wall.

‘I worry about Cambyses,’ the king said.

Croesus said nothing.

‘He cries too often,’ Cyrus said after a time. ‘I worry he is too weak to be a king. I sent him to the north, to take part in a Babylonian ritual. The heir to the throne must
be beaten by their priest. I thought it would do him some good. But the way he looked at me . . . Was I wrong to do this, do you think?’

‘I don’t know, master.’

Cyrus shook his head. ‘There are many things that I have mastered in this life. But this is not one of them.’ He looked at his slave. ‘Will you help me to raise him? I want so
much for him to be a good king. A good son.’

‘I will do my best,’ Croesus said. ‘But I am an old man. Who knows how long I will be able to help you?’

Cyrus smiled, and toyed with a piece of silk that hung next to the throne.

‘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.