The Last King of Lydia Read online

  ‘Oh, no. They are a proud people, the Athenians. They don’t think much of us. If we show him the Emerald Room, he’ll think it gaudy. Barbarous excess. Marble is the only beauty these people respect.’

  ‘I bow before your wisdom, master,’ said Isocrates.

  He turned to the court, clapped his hands together, and as one the courtiers and slaves stopped what they were doing and prepared to move.

  Many travellers came to Croesus’s court, and all testified to its grandeur, yet each returned to tell a different story. Some said the throne room was a splendid chamber where every surface seemed to be etched with gold, others that it was filled with crystal lamps and lined with polished stone so that the air seemed to catch fire with reflected light. When two such travellers met in a distant land, a fierce argument would inevitably break out, each insisting that he had seen the true throne room of Sardis and decrying the other as a liar.

  In truth, the palace at Sardis held many throne rooms, and every few months, one would be stripped and redecorated. It was an endless, opulent carousel that each visitor saw but once. The stories spread, echoed and contradicted one another, and some visitors even described throne rooms that had never existed. They told of impossible architecture, doors that opened through magic or automation, thrones that hovered in mid air, the humblest courtier dripping in gold like a king. When these stories made their way back to Croesus, he was well pleased. He desired a place in myth, not in history.

  Within a matter of minutes, the entire court had relocated to a starkly beautiful marble hall, the perfect white stone shipped all the way from Attica at colossal expense. Ministers sat at their desks hard at work, courtiers stood in groups and laughed and gossiped, sculptors and architects debated aesthetics, and slaves moved amongst them all, dispensing food and wine, listening closely for a chance item of gossip that might win favour with their masters. No one would have suspected, on entering this throne room, that they had all been there only for moments rather than for hours. The courtiers were accustomed to such changes. On busy days with many visitors, they would all move from room to room half a dozen times before the day’s work was done.

  Croesus went into an antechamber to prepare himself. He changed into a robe the colour of bone, and his attendants pulled the emerald and sapphire rings from his fingers and replaced them with finely patterned silver bands. He waited patiently as one of his slave women powdered and repainted his face. Once he had inspected himself in a polished stone and found the reflection to his liking, he entered the new throne room. He took his place on the marble throne and made a small gesture to the slave at the door.

  ‘Solon of Athens! Philosopher, statesman, and poet!’

  The doors opened, and Croesus observed a small, shrunken old man make his way carefully into the throne room. The king noted the way his visitor walked tenderly on his gout-ridden feet, took in the simple robes that he wore, the absence of gold at his wrists and neck. A man with no fortune, or one who had purposefully taken on the appearance of the sage, the beggar, Solon could indeed have been mistaken for a vagabond, except that his eyes were sharp and alive with thought, and he politely greeted the members of the court with a politician’s easy grace.

  Croesus descended the steps of the throne with his arms outspread. ‘Such a distinguished visitor honours my humble court, Solon.’ He embraced the Athenian and kissed him. ‘You must be weary from your travels—’

  ‘Yes.’

  Croesus blinked in surprise, but continued ‘—so rest with me at this table and take—’

  ‘Do you mind if I relieve myself first?’ Solon said.

  Croesus stared. ‘What?’

  The old man smiled. ‘My insides aren’t as spacious as they used to be, I’m afraid. They have shrunk, like the rest of me. As they command, so I must obey.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘Nature.’

  A titter passed through the room. ‘Of course,’ Croesus said. ‘My apologies.’

  ‘My thanks, good king, my most humble thanks.’

  Isocrates led the Athenian to a doorway at the far end of the throne room. Solon opened the door and put his head inside without entering. He shuffled back to the table and resumed his seat opposite Croesus.

  Croesus frowned. ‘Is something wrong?’ the king asked.

  ‘Forgive my little deception.’ He smiled. ‘I have heard such stories of your wealth. I wanted to see if even your chamber pot was made of gold.’

  Laughter again, and it showed no sign of abating. Croesus chose to smile magnanimously.

  ‘A good trick. Very fine. Will you sit and take some wine?’

  ‘I will. My thanks.’

  Solon sat and drank, propping his tender feet on a stool, and Croesus waited for him to speak. To observe the splendour of the court, to enquire about the king’s family, or any of the other customary greetings. Solon said nothing.

  Eventually, Croesus broke the silence. ‘I am honoured to have you visit my court. Truly honoured. They say you are the wisest man in the world.’

  ‘Do they?’ Solon said absently. ‘You see, I have always been puzzled by these people, “they”. They seem to hold all kinds of strange opinions, everyone claims to be speaking on their behalf, yet when you want to talk to them,’ he leaned forward, gesturing theatrically around the throne room, ‘they are never to be found.’ Croesus laughed politely. Solon continued, ‘“They” say you are the richest man in the world.’

  ‘If they say that, you can trust their opinion. They do not lie in my case, and so I assume they are truthful in yours . . .’

  Solon shrugged. ‘A flawed assumption. But a comforting one.’

  Croesus cleared his throat. ‘You have had a long journey?’

  ‘Long and unpleasant. I’m really much too old for this sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, we shall try and keep you entertained.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure you will try.’ This provoked another little laugh, quickly stifled, from somewhere in the crowd.

  Croesus said nothing in response. He leaned forward and looked closely at his guest, his eyes narrowed.

  Solon bowed his head. ‘Perhaps there is a place where we could speak privately?’

  ‘There is a balcony with a fine view that I was planning to show you, after a tour of the treasuries. The tour is customary, but perhaps you would rather—’

  ‘No, no. My feet ache, but I would like to see your treasures. Please, do show me. I came here for two things – to see the famous riches of Lydia, and to meet the man who possesses that wealth. Would you indulge an old man?’

  ‘Very well.’ Croesus rose abruptly and walked towards the stairwell. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, and said, as though in a challenge, ‘You will not forget what you are about to see.’

  They ascended the stairs to the upper levels of the palace, and passed through a set of silver doors, then a set of gold doors. Finally, they reached the maze of the treasuries.

  The first room was given over to the treasures of lands conquered by Croesus – enormous gold bowls etched with the histories of nations, the crude crowns of barbarians and the intricate sceptres of richer peoples, all now overthrown and subject to Lydia. The second room was dedicated to the artefacts of Lydia itself – marble sculptures of gods and goddesses, carved ivories and intricate golden jewellery. At the centre stood a statue of a horseman with a scarlet breastplate and black braided hair, a member of the invincible cavalry that had won Croesus his empire.

  The next chamber contained arms and armour from the heroic past. There were jewelled swords from ancient times that were reputed to have killed gods and monsters, but were now so fragile that a single tap of a fingernail would be enough to destroy them; shields that had turned aside thunderbolts and the spears of giants, and gold-edged breastplates that had been worn by heroes in a hundred battles, each bearing a single ragged tear for the wound that had finally brought the hero down.

  In the following room, a forest of rare fabrics hung from the ceiling in thick drape
s, 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.

  2

  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.’