The Last King of Lydia (4 page)

‘Mine.’

Solon looked at Croesus. Then he laughed.

‘Come, you toy with me,’ Croesus said. ‘You promised that you were done with mockery.’

‘I don’t mean to mock you.’

‘Do you hold my happiness in such contempt that you would place me behind these farmers?’ Croesus asked. ‘Look around you. My empire is the greatest in the world. No one has
ever possessed such wealth as I do. I have a noble son to carry on my name. My people love me. I am happy. What do I lack that would put me above these men?’

‘Death, Croesus. Perhaps if you were to die at this moment, I might be able to grant you the title that you seek.’

‘Explain yourself.’

‘Croesus, I don’t judge anyone happy until they are dead, and I know how they met their end. That is the moment to judge someone’s happiness; the moment when his entire life is
behind him. You are prosperous now, but the Gods have a habit of making life difficult for such people; they do not like to see us mortals become too powerful. Or too happy, for that matter.’
Solon paused. ‘How old are you, Croesus?

‘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.

Gyges felt his way along the walls like a blind man. His wide eyes appeared to take up most of his head, which was, as always, covered in long, thick hair. He could only rarely be bathed,
depending on his unpredictable whims, and so his appearance was that of a wild man, or a prophet. But prophets spoke, and wild men howled. This son could do neither.

When he looked into the boy’s eyes, Croesus was always grateful for his silence. They seemed to stare through walls, through people, as though they saw through to another place entirely. A
terrible place, judging by the fixed expression of horror on the boy’s face.

The king would have preferred to have Gyges kept in some comfortable set of rooms, but his son would not stand to be confined. He would not shout, scream, or make any noise louder than a
whistling gasp, but he would pull at his hair, pound on the walls, tear out his fingernails in his attempts to prise open doors and windows if they were barred against him. He was surprisingly
strong, and had, on occasion, knocked down a guard or servant who had tried to restrain him. So now they let him go free in the palace, with only one slave, named Maia, tasked to follow him. It was
her company alone that he would accept.

Gyges shuffled forward to the edge of the garden. He did not like to walk on anything but stone, and so stopped just before his feet touched earth, as spirits are said to be halted by the
shallowest trickle of running water. He stared at his family without apparent recognition. Then he reached out and pointed to Atys, let his hand fall, then raised it again and pointed at Danae. The
finger fell once more, and then seemed about to rise a second time. Gyges hesitated, and then instead raised his hand to his chest, the palm facing Croesus, the knuckles against his heart. He
turned and walked away, feet dragging against the stones until he was out of sight, Maia following silently in his wake.

None of them spoke for a time. Danae picked at the gold leaf on her necklace. ‘A blessing or a curse, do you think?’ she said at last.

‘Neither,’ said Croesus. ‘He’s no prophet. He sees some other world. He should have been born in that world, not this one.’

Danae did not argue with this. Looking at Gyges, she saw something – a creature worthy of pity, an accident of flesh, a warning from the Gods. But she did not see a son.

In a private chamber in another part of the palace, Solon sat and massaged his aching feet. Isocrates stood in the corner of the room, waiting for the Athenian to ask for wine,
music, or simply to be left alone. But the guest made no requests, nor did he ask for his solitude. He was, perhaps, waiting to see when the slave would finally speak.

‘Gout?’ Isocrates said, after a time.

‘Yes.’

‘It is bad?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘You have tried remedies?’

‘Yes, many. None that worked.’

‘That’s because you haven’t tried my cure. Wait here.’

‘You don’t have to—’ But Isocrates had gone. Solon shifted on his chair, clenching folds of his robe in his fist and releasing them, in a distracted, rhythmic motion. It
was not long before the slave returned with a silver bowl in his hand, containing a dark red liquid. ‘Drink this,’ he said.

Solon took a sip, and winced at the bitter taste. ‘What is it?’

‘Crocus root in wine.’

‘It tastes foul,’ he said as he drank it down. ‘But I am used to bitter medicine.’

‘Within a week or so, you will feel much better. I will give you some to take with you, and instruct your servants in how to find and prepare it.’

‘Oh, that won’t be necessary. Just give me a year’s supply – I am sure your master can afford to spare it. I don’t suppose I shall last much longer than
that.’

Isocrates shrugged. ‘As you will. Though I imagine that the Gods will play a joke on you, and let you live longer; punishment for the arrogance of presuming to know when you will
die.’

‘Ah. But then I shall have tricked them into giving me a few more years of life, even if I must be uncomfortable . . .’ Solon paused, looking on the slave, and saw his arms were
strong and his stance confident – almost too much so, for a man in his position. He had the physical presence of a labourer or a wrestler, not a subtle man of the court. ‘You
don’t speak like most slaves I have met,’ he said.

‘Is that a complaint?’

‘It is an observation.’

‘I think you prefer honesty. I can flatter well enough, if it is necessary.’

‘So you are whatever others want you to be?’

‘Something like that.’

‘And do you spy on your guests for your king, after you have put them at their ease?’

‘Sometimes. Not this time. He doesn’t have much interest in you.’ Isocrates allowed himself a small smile. ‘Then again, I would say that, wouldn’t I?’

Solon waved a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing that I would say to you that I would not say to him.’

‘What can I do for you? Would you like a massage? Shall I find someone to play music for you? We have a lyre player whose musicianship is quite exquisite.’

‘I have always found the Lydian lyre a little shrill for my tastes.’

‘Would you like a woman? Or a young man, if you prefer?’

‘I am almost eighty. A dried-up old man. I have very little to offer a woman these days. Or a man, for that matter. I think you mock me.’