The Last King of Lydia

  The Last King of Lydia

  TIM LEACH is a graduate of the MA writing course at Warwick University, where he has also taught creative writing on the undergraduate programme. This is his first novel.

  First published in hardback and trade paperback in Great Britain in 2013 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Tim Leach, 2013

  The moral right of Tim Leach to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Hardback ISBN: 978 0 85789 917 0

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 918 7

  EBook ISBN: 978 0 85789 920 0

  Printed in Great Britain

  Atlantic Books

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London WC1N 3JZ

  www.atlantic-books.co.uk

  For Gill and Michael

  Contents

  The Pyre

  The Philosopher

  The King

  The Slave

  Babylon

  Acknowledgements

  The Pyre

  547 BC

  The preparations for the execution began many hours before dawn.

  In the heart of the royal palace, servants had uprooted and removed trees and rare plants from a courtyard, and raised a high wooden pyre in their place. In the darkness of the winter morning, they untied sacks of dry timber and stacked it neatly around the pyre. They brought out a finely carved table from one of the royal dining rooms and placed it on a balcony that overlooked the courtyard. On the table they laid bowls of dates and olives, flasks of wine and silver bowls of water, and they placed a pair of braziers nearby, ready to warm the cold air when the time came.

  On the far side of the palace, in a cellar that had once held grain and which now served as a dungeon, a door was unlocked. Insistent hands shook the prisoner awake and led him from his cell through the dark corridors of the palace. The guards who escorted him could see well at night and saw no reason to light torches to guide the way, and so the prisoner moved slowly. He was a man who had never had to move in darkness.

  His guides did not beat or otherwise punish him for his hesitation. They led him around corners and up stairs with soft taps to his shoulders and chest, as an experienced rider can direct a horse with gentle pressure from his knees. They did not bind his wrists with iron, gave him water when he requested it, and before they had gone far they led him to a chamber pot behind a screen and gave him privacy. There, too, the guards handed him the simple white robe in which he was to die, and let him change into it without being watched. They went further and further into the palace, until they were almost at the courtyard, and not once did a man so much as raise his voice to the prisoner. The guards had long since learned the way to make a royal prisoner docile. So long as you allowed a king the illusion of servility he would go with you calmly, even as you led him to his death.

  The barber who was assigned to the prisoner did not observe this principle. He had never seen a king die, and as he cropped the prisoner’s hair and trimmed his thick, black beard, he placed little nicks in his scalp and chin, apologizing for his clumsiness each time, even as he keenly watched the royal blood flow. The guards did not share the barber’s curiosity. They were veterans of many wars of conquest, and they knew that a king bled and died like any other man.

  After the barber had finished his work, the captain of the guard observed the blood that had stained the prisoner’s robe. He barked a curse, and gestured to his men to hand him another robe. They always carried a second in case a prisoner were to soil himself on the way to his execution, for it was an impious thing for a man to be put to death in stained clothing. The captain took the clean robe and handed it to the prisoner, gesturing for him to put it on.

  The prisoner spoke out in protest, and although they did not speak the same language, the captain understood him well enough. He looked for some means by which to screen the prisoner’s nakedness, but there was nothing in that room to serve that purpose. He glanced out of a window and saw that morning light was rapidly spreading across the sky. They had no time to waste.

  The captain gave an order to his men and, as one, they turned on their heels to face the wall. After a moment, the prisoner pulled the dirty robe over his head and put on the clean one, hunched over in an attempt to conceal his nakedness. The barber glanced swiftly over his shoulder at the naked king, but the captain cuffed him sharply and told him to keep his eyes down.

  Wearing the new robe, the prisoner straightened and turned towards the guards. He did not speak. The guards would wait until he said that he was ready. For a single moment, he retained the right to command with which he had been born. For the last time, he was free. He stood silent for as long as he could, before clearing his throat to signal that he was ready.

  The captain pushed open the doors to the courtyard. The space opened up around them, vast and threatening after the narrow corridors. The prisoner looked up and shuddered as he saw the pyre loom before and above him like a beckoning finger. At the very top, where the fire would be hottest, there was a simple wooden throne for him to sit and die in.

  They led him up the steps, the wood creaking beneath their feet. The prisoner’s place was far above the ground, so high that he was level with the upper balcony. The man who was to watch the prisoner die was not one to stoop or peer down on a spectacle. He too was a king, and would offer the other this last act of respect: to be high above the slaves and soldiers as he died, to stand equal with the king who would take his place on the throne of Sardis.

  They shackled the prisoner to the chair at the top of the pyre. One of the guards held a bucket in his hand, and after they had secured the prisoner he turned to his captain in enquiry. The captain nodded, and the guard began to daub the prisoner’s robe with oil so that it would burn faster. After this was done, the captain inspected the bindings one last time, and reassured himself that everything was as it should be. He nodded to the prisoner, as if in thanks, and then he and his men descended the steps to wait.

  The preparations had been completed ahead of time. The servants lit the braziers on the upper balcony, and the guards lounged at the base of the pyre, rolling dice for coins and favours, trading memories of women they had bedded and battles they had fought. The prisoner on the pyre stared ahead without expression, watching as the day began to dawn, and the dew rose from the wood like smoke.

  At the very moment that the sun broke over the horizon, Cyrus, king of Persia, emerged from the doors of the palace. He sat in the cushioned chair, his long fingers toying with the dates in the bowl that lay in front of him as his taster sampled the food and the drink on the table. This servant turned to him and nodded, and Cyrus ate lightly, as was his custom, paying no attention to the condemned man. He raised a cup of wine and took one sip, then put it down. At last, he looked at the man on the pyre. They had gone to war to destroy each other, had traded countless messages, threats, and ultimatums through herald
s and emissaries, but it was the first time that the two kings had met face to face. Cyrus stared at his prisoner with an idle curiosity; the condemned man blankly returned his gaze. The Persian king raised an eyebrow and inclined his head slightly, to indicate that the prisoner might speak if he wished, but the other man said nothing. Cyrus leaned back in his chair, then made a slight gesture to the men who waited below.

  Four dark-skinned slaves lowered their torches to the pyre at the same instant, holding the flames to the dry wood until the fire had caught and there was no danger that a gust of wind would extinguish it. That might be taken as an omen, and this was not a time for omens. A servant on the balcony lit a bowl of strong incense and placed it on Cyrus’s table. It would not do to expose the king of Persia to the smell of burning flesh.

  The prisoner stared down and watched as the fire spread languidly from one pile of wood to another. He looked up again towards Cyrus, but the Persian king no longer watched him. Sheets of parchment had been unrolled in front of him, and the king was lost in the matters of state. Just once, he leaned forward to observe the fire and see how far it had progressed, like a man who has come early to a race and wishes to see if the entertainment is likely to begin soon. Apparently satisfied that there was still plenty of time, he went back to looking over his papers.

  The prisoner first felt the heat against the soles of his bare feet. There was only a slight increase in temperature, but it was filled with the promise of pain to come. He tilted his head back until it rested against the wooden stake behind him, and looked up at the sky. He had heard that in some nations it was taken as a sign from the Gods if it rained hard enough to extinguish an executioner’s pyre, sparing the condemned man. He didn’t know if the Persians believed that. It did not matter. The sky was clear.

  The first curls of smoke began to reach him, and he sucked at them greedily. It would be better if he were to fall unconscious before the fire touched him, but there was no hope of that – the dry wood burned cleanly and gave off little smoke, and he could hear the fire advance. It would reach him soon, kill him slowly.

  He closed his eyes, his lips moving in prayers to the Gods in whom he might no longer believe. His face remained calm and unmoved, even as the flames rose higher and nearer. Then he flinched, as a memory struck him. A low groan escaped his lips.

  Cyrus heard this cry and looked up. He saw the prisoner shuddering again, like a soldier run through with a spear, his head hanging low and his eyes open. For the first time that day, the blank mask that he had worn crumbled.

  ‘Solon,’ he said, as a coil of thick smoke ran up his body and wound round his neck like a noose.

  ‘Solon.’

  The Philosopher

  558 BC

  1

  ‘All hail Croesus, king of Lydia, son of Alyattes of the Mermnadae! Wise Leader, mighty Warrior, loving Father and benevolent Ruler! Know this, humble Lydians, know that you stand in the presence of the greatest king that these lands have ever known. Under his great leadership, we Lydians have truly become the most blessed nation on the earth. For who can match our nation in wealth? Our wondrous city for splendour? Our women for beauty? Our warriors for skill and valour? Even the Gods themselves might be humbled by our king’s treasuries, and his wealth is matched only by his kindness to his people, his nobility of spirit, his ruthlessness to his enemies, his . . .’

  Croesus sniffed, and yawned.

  The king of Lydia was suffering from a slight cold, and would have preferred it if the herald could have been more concise. He was sweating under his heavy purple robes, for the room was thick with heat – a necessary ostentation to show that the king lived untroubled by the winter cold. He drummed his bejewelled fingers impatiently on the arm of his throne, producing a priceless clatter of gold against gold. He knew the entire speech by heart now, and had to stop himself from mouthing the words. He sometimes joked to his more favoured courtiers that he was tempted to try and conquer yet another nation, lose a city or two, marry another woman, just so the herald would have something new to say.

  It was the first day of the new month, a day when any freeborn man or woman could attend and petition for his favour. Long before dawn, they would queue to cast etched stone tablets into golden urns, and a certain number would be drawn by lot to receive his royal favour.

  Some invented elaborate stories to win a moment with their king. These impostors tended to be identified before they reached the court, but occasionally a particularly skilled liar would slip through. In front of the king, their stories invariably unravelled, and they would be thrown out as timewasters and fabulists. Most of those attending were genuine supplicants, many of them having travelled for days or weeks to have their plea heard. Some were tradesmen who sought relief from their creditors, others young men caught up in blood feuds. Some were widows looking for help raising their children, others criminals begging for clemency and absolution. Together they became an endless stream of troubled humanity, each hoping for the word of the king or the handful of coins that could transform their lives.

  Croesus was usually no friend to the poor, for the fortunes of wealthy men always rely on the poverty of the many. Yet, when confronted with a supplicant face to face, he was invariably moved to pity, and would pronounce the most generous judgement that he could.

  He listened attentively to the first visitors, but grew drowsy and distracted as the day drew on. The business of politics was mainly conducted after dark, at the dinner tables and in the private rooms of the nobles, and he had to be well rested to keep his wits about him at these late-night encounters. His illness fatigued him, and the heat from the braziers and the weight of his ceremonial robes proved too much. He was fast asleep for the last set of supplicants.

  Yet judgement continued without interruption. As Croesus drifted off, a courtier stepped forward beside him. This courtier listened to the particulars of each plea, leaned down and pretended to listen to the king, and then gave the royal verdict. In mimicking his lord, he always erred on the side of generosity and clemency. The guards moved closer to the crowd and kept a watchful eye for any who might be tempted to point and laugh and spoil the illusion, but few ever did. They needed to believe in the benevolence of the king more than anyone.

  The noise of the departing crowd woke Croesus. He had fallen asleep leaning on his left arm, and as he sat up he began to massage it back to life. Seeing that the hall was empty of outsiders, he took off the heavy ornamental crown and rolled his head back and forth to relieve the cramp in his neck. Beneath this gold headpiece, a narrow silver band remained in place tight against his scalp so that his royal status was not compromised. This hidden crown never left his head, even when he slept, bathed, or lay with a woman.

  Croesus beckoned his personal slave forward, a short, powerfully built man with a shaven head.

  ‘I fell asleep again, Isocrates.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Were there any problems?’

  ‘No, master.’

  ‘I wish I could stay awake, but . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘The demands of state. It is understandable, master. But the system works – the people get their judgements either way.’

  ‘I’ve heard that in some of the kingdoms to the east, the king is considered a god that mere mortals are not permitted to see.’

  ‘The idea appeals to you, master?’

  ‘On days like this it does. I could build a wall of black obsidian with a terrifying face of gold – the face of a god king. I would hold these sessions as usual. Someone else could pass judgement and speak through the mask on my behalf, and I could sleep comfortably on a couch somewhere. What do you think?’

  ‘With respect, master, I doubt if it would go well for you.’

  ‘Oh? Why not? Speak freely.’

  ‘They don’t come this far just for your blessing. They come to see you.’

  ‘How touching.’

  ‘Besides, they are mostly farmers, wise to a showman’s tricks. They
accept that you might doze off, but I would be careful of taking it any further.’

  Croesus gave the slave an amused glance. ‘You make it sound as though it is the people who choose to keep me on the throne.’

  Isocrates gave a low bow. ‘My mistake, master.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. But I suspect you may be correct, as usual. It is one of your most irritating habits. Try to be wrong more often.’

  A smile twitched across the slave’s lips. ‘I will do my best, master.’

  ‘Well,’ Croesus continued, ‘if I do build my golden face, I promise that you shall speak for me. You’ve a much more kingly voice than I do. Deep, resonant, powerful,’ Croesus said, and ticked off each of these qualities on a finger as he spoke. ‘Your mouth was born to command, Isocrates, even if the rest of you is destined to serve.’ Isocrates politely bowed his head in acknowledgement of his master’s wit. ‘Now, why don’t you go see what that messenger wants?’ The king gestured towards the entrance of the throne room. ‘He has been hovering around for some time now, but hasn’t had the nerve to come forward and speak to me.’

  ‘I expect he is too intimidated to interrupt you, master.’

  ‘You’d better relieve him of his burden.’

  The messenger delivered his message to the slave, shot a single brief glance at the king, then hurried from the chamber.

  ‘What was our nervous friend’s message?’

  ‘Solon of Athens has arrived at the court, master, and requests an audience with the king of Lydia.’

  ‘Does he now!’ Croesus picked at his lips with his thumb. ‘I didn’t think the old man would ever respond to my invitation.’

  ‘In which room should we receive him?’

  ‘For an Athenian? The Marble Room, of course.’

  ‘Might it be better to show him something he has never seen before? Perhaps the Emerald Room?’