The Last King of Lydia Read online

  ‘What about Ammon, in Libya? Astyages always swore by him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust a Libyan on a matter like this.’

  ‘Prejudice from you, Isocrates?’

  ‘Forgive me, master. But I think prophecy is a matter best left to the Hellenes.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right. Look at what happened to Astyages, after all. I imagine you have objections to Trophonius at Lebadaea as well?’

  ‘Athens has bought him out. He will not give a good word to any other city or nation.’

  ‘Well, it appears our choice is made for us. Delphi it is.’

  ‘The Pythia does give the best prophecies.’ He tried to smile. ‘I hesitate to say it, to you of all people, master, but you know it will cost you dearly?’

  ‘Do not be concerned with that. What else needs to be done?’

  Isocrates thought for a moment. ‘We will need to offer a reason,’ he said. ‘As to why we’ve favoured Delphi, over the others.’

  ‘Their feelings will be hurt? I wouldn’t have thought they would be so sensitive.’

  ‘It doesn’t pay to anger a priest. They don’t mind if gods ignore them. Just when men do.’

  ‘Very well,’ Croesus smiled. ‘Make something up, will you?’

  ‘Me, master?’

  ‘Who else? Use your imagination. I’m sure you’ll come up with something fitting.’

  The story spread quickly.

  None could say exactly where it had come from. Some said it had begun at the dining tables of Lydian high society, where a noble close to the heart of the palace had first told the story to impress another man’s wife. Others claimed that it was first told in the market squares of the lower city, where the storytellers had gathered to share the rumours of the day. It seemed to appear in many different places at the same moment, as though it were some singular vision that the entire city had dreamed together.

  First, the story said, the messengers left the city. None who listened to the tale had mentioned these messengers before, and yet now everyone seemed to remember watching them go, a dozen riders heading from the city half a year earlier, each with two horses, each bearing the mark of a king’s messenger. The more men spoke, the more they found themselves agreeing on what these men had looked like, what they had worn, how well they had ridden their mounts.

  The messengers left the city together, riding west to Smyrna. There, so the storytellers said, the group divided, one man taking a ship south towards Ammon, the others sailing west to Hellas. These divided again as soon as they touched the shore, scattering across the land, to Abae, Dodona, Lebadaea, and Delphi. They each came to the oracles with gold enough to ask a simple question, but they did not seek the favour of the Gods at once. They waited, counting the days carefully. They waited for the date on which they had all agreed.

  A hundred days after their departure, the messengers went in supplication to the prophets and asked the same question of them all. A simple question that did not request that the Gods bless a union, end a feud, save a blighted crop, or otherwise shape the fate of nations. They only desired to know what was it that Croesus, king of Lydia, might be doing at that moment.

  On the hundredth day, as this question was being asked in half a dozen different places on the other side of the world, Croesus retired to his chambers, dismissing every courtier and slave who tried to accompany him. Alone, he lit the coals beneath a bronze mixing bowl and poured oil into it. He cracked the shell of a tortoise and cut the meat into pieces. He skinned and gutted a small lamb and, for hours, he mixed the strange, alien stew together. When it was done, he offered the greater portion to the Gods and ate the rest himself.

  Each of the oracles responded in their own way. Most spoke in riddles, metaphor and myth. Only one was different, and soon, the words from Delphi, from the Pythia on her sacred tripod, were repeated in every corner of Sardis.

  I know the number of grains of sand and the measure of the sea,

  I understand the mute and hear the speechless.

  Into the depth of my senses has come the scent of hard-shelled tortoise

  Boiling in bronze with the meat of a lamb,

  Laid upon bronze below, covered by bronze above.

  The messengers could not have offered bribes for this information, for they had not known what Croesus would do. Only Croesus and the Gods had known. Croesus, the Gods, and the priestess of Delphi.

  4

  ‘Well.’ Croesus shook his head. ‘I said use your imagination. I never thought you would go that far.’

  ‘Are you displeased, master?’ the slave asked.

  ‘Far from it. The story is so absurd that no one would think you had invented it. You are full of surprises. Though you do realize that I will have to retell it a hundred times before the year is out? Your revenge on me, I suppose, for making you think on your feet like that. Someone is sure to ask me to actually butcher a lamb or a turtle one of these days. Do I look like a butcher to you?’ He laughed. ‘But you have done well. The people now believe in Delphi. We must make sure that the oracle gives them something worth listening to.’

  ‘What do we do now, master?’

  ‘We prepare an offering,’ Croesus said, ‘that not even a God could refuse.’

  Often, in the months that followed, Croesus travelled to the great wooden doors of the furnace room. There, he listened to the sound of the chisels, the roaring, hungry fires, the barked instructions that the metal workers and sculptors gave to the slaves who worked in the room day and night. He listened each day, sometimes for hours, but he did not go inside. He tried to busy himself with other matters. He met with his general, Sandanis, to discuss the preparation of the army. He discussed the changeable attitudes of the nobles with Isocrates. He entertained the rulers of the subdued Ionian nations, gauging the price of their loyalty. Each night, he dreamed of what lay behind the foundry doors.

  At last, when the work was only days from completion, he gave in to his desire. He summoned his master craftsman, and asked to be shown the gifts.

  Croesus felt the sweat break out across his skin when the doors of the foundry were opened. The air was thick and heavy with heat; the furnaces had been burning for months without being extinguished. The workers wore only loincloths which clung close to their bodies with the sweat, and even the light tunic that Croesus wore felt like an encumbrance in the burning air. The fire gave light to the windowless room, illuminating pools of sharp colour surrounded by shadows; in the low red glow he watched gold and silver bubbling in pools, pouring through gates and into moulds. Everywhere he looked, the king saw his wealth being transformed for the Gods.

  ‘Show me the gifts,’ he said.

  The master craftsman bowed. He led the king to a far corner, where heavy gold ingots were stacked one on top of the other. Each was a cubit long, half a cubit wide.

  ‘We’re up to ninety now,’ the craftsman said. ‘We’re hoping to reach a hundred and twenty by the time we’re finished.’

  Croesus knelt down and spread his fingers across the ingot on top of the stack. ‘How much does each weigh?’

  ‘As much as a small man.’ The craftsman grinned, revealing a mouth full of yellowed teeth. ‘Or a large woman.’

  Croesus nodded, his face impassive. ‘What else do you have?’

  In another corner, two enormous bowls towered above them, each one fit for a Titan. One was made of gold, the other of a quarter-ton of silver.

  ‘Wine bowls?’ Croesus asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘The priests like something practical amongst their gifts, or so we’ve heard,’ the master craftsman said. ‘Statues and golden ornaments are all very well, but you cannot mix wine in them, can you? Perhaps the Gods like a drink as much as their priests do.’

  ‘I see. You expect them to use these? How much do they hold?’

  ‘Five thousand gallons each. Not the kind of quantity you’ll want to mix for your evening meal, but it should serve them well for bigger occasions. Festivals, and the li
ke.’

  Croesus nodded again. ‘Show me more.’

  The king saw elaborate silverware, casks, goblets, jewel-studded brooches, elegant statues in gold and bronze and marble. There was no limit, he thought, to the different forms that his wealth could take. There were infinities of splendour, and he could spend a lifetime discovering them all.

  He made his way to the centre of the room. A lion, cast in solid gold, stood proud and defiant, like a ruler surveying his kingdom. The likeness was perfect, as though the Midas of legend had crept into the hills and laid his hands upon a lion mid-roar. In the outlines of its frozen golden mane, its bared teeth and flat nose, Croesus fancied he could see some resemblance to that crude image he had seen long ago, stamped into the electrum of his father’s first coin. A faint smile crept to the king’s lips.

  ‘Are you pleased, my lord?’ the craftsman asked.

  ‘I have never heard of a greater offering,’ the king said. ‘It is magnificent, and I thank you. But there is one thing I haven’t seen. The second statue?’

  ‘Of course, my lord. Just this way.’

  Away from the furnaces, almost lost in shadows, was another perfect likeness in gold, this time of a woman. Croesus circled it, counter clockwise then clockwise, studying it from every angle, paying particular attention to the familiar face. He reached forward and traced his hand across the cool golden skin, to see if his hands could find some fault that his eyes could not. He shook his head. ‘It is remarkable,’ he said. ‘Has she seen it?’

  ‘Who, my lord?’

  ‘Maia, of course.’ Croesus looked again at the statue. ‘You carved her in gold,’ he continued, ‘but have not shown it to her?’

  ‘No, my lord.’ He hesitated. ‘We did wonder, my lord, why you asked for a statue of a slave. Perhaps you could enlighten me? It would settle a wager.’

  Croesus smiled, but did not look at the craftsman. He stared into the empty golden eyes of the statue. ‘She can’t have children,’ he said.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘She can’t have children. She told me that once. So I thought I would give her immortality in some other way.’ Croesus shrugged. ‘A whim of your king. Pay it no mind. You have done very well.’

  ‘I’m sure there is plenty more we can do,’ the craftsman said. ‘What else, my lord? Name anything.’

  ‘No. This is perfect. Wait.’ Croesus thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘My wife has some very fine necklaces. I shall have them sent down to you immediately. They will be a fine addition to the offering.’

  ‘Your wife? Won’t—’ the craftsman began to say. He checked himself.

  Croesus affected not to hear. ‘When will it all be finished?’ he asked.

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘Very good. We shall dispatch it all in a month.’

  ‘A month, my lord? Why the delay?’

  The king’s smile broadened. ‘It will take another week to bring the animals into the city once your work is finished. A gift of this size requires an appropriate sacrifice to mark its departure, don’t you think?’

  5

  The main square in the lower city was vast, designed for great public occasions. But on this occasion, it was not large enough. The scale of the sacrifice was unprecedented.

  Twelve thousand sheep, goats, bulls and pigs, each flanked by the head of a household, filled the square and packed every street that led into it. Even the rooftops were alive with women and children, for everyone in the city had come to bear witness.

  Above them all, on the balcony of the palace, Croesus looked down on the streets of the lower city far beneath him. He inhaled the smell of Sardis, listened to the sounds that filtered, faint and distorted, from the streets below him. The air was thick with the earthy stink of the animals, the chatter of the people as they waited for the ritual to begin. There had been many arguments between neighbours as to where they would stand, who would be closest to the central square and claim the greater glory. Some had been settled with fistfights, others with quiet bribes to nearby soldiers or priests. The poorest stood cramped in the side streets and back alleys, the richer shopkeepers on the main thoroughfares, the nobility in the centre square itself. All waited for the king.

  Croesus signalled, and the soldier beside him blew a single, long note from the bullhorn that was slung round his neck. The chattering roar of the people ceased. Each of the twelve thousand men gripped the hair of the animal at his side and looked up to the king. They did not wait for him to speak, for he was too distant for them to hear him. They awaited a sign.

  Croesus glanced over to the other side of the balcony. The goat, its coat pure white, ruminated calmly next to him. Sensing the king’s gaze, it inclined its head to face him. Its black rectangular pupils passed over Croesus with little interest, until it caught sight of a roll of parchment thrust into his belt. It lunged forward, its lips parted and snuffling for the paper, but Croesus pushed its questing nose away, letting his fingers trail down through its coarse wisp of beard. He took a silver cup of water from the edge of the balcony and raised it high in the air as a signal to those who waited below.

  In the square and the streets beneath the citadel, each man took a cup of water, lifted it high, and poured it over the head of the beast in front of him. Each animal, feeling the water running over its head, instinctively nodded as if in unwitting agreement, giving its consent for the sacrifice. Croesus lifted his curved knife. Twelve thousand blades shone an answer back to him.

  Then the knives fell, digging and cutting and sawing, and waves of blood poured out like an onrushing tide. The air was filled with the screams of the dying animals as they slumped to their knees and the blood boiled up through their mouths. A moment later the sound was drowned out as the people of Sardis roared in celebration.

  The king’s hands trembled, and a priest stood nearby to second his attempt if he faltered. But he had been well instructed and made no mistake. He reached forward and opened the animal’s throat with a single cut.

  The goat gave a single barked bleat, of confusion more than pain. It dropped its head and choked, then fell to its knees. It moaned mournfully, shivered and rested its head on its forelegs. It watched its own hot blood spread out around it like a crimson blanket. Its eyes grew dim, and then half closed, a tiny glint of gold visible through the thin slit of the eyelids. It lay still, and waited to die.

  Croesus blinked back sudden tears. He put his hands into a basin of water, watched the tendrils of blood eddying into the water like smoke through the air. He shook his head, and smiled uncertainly at his wife. ‘Well, it is finished.’ She said nothing in response, and Croesus turned to his slaves. ‘Prepare this’ – he gestured at the carcass – ‘for my evening meal. Minus the Gods’ share, of course.’

  He watched them take the beast away, and felt a kind of weary relief. This sacrifice committed him. The moment for doubt, the moment when he could have changed his mind, was past. The pressure of choice had lifted, and now he had only to follow the course through to the end. He turned to share the thought with his wife. But when he looked back, Danae was gone.

  For a single, irrational moment he thought she must have thrown herself from the balcony down into the square below, passing from the world with a single sudden step. Then he saw a long piece of fabric fall back into place over one of the entrances to the balcony, disturbed by her passage. He hurried inside to follow her.

  Far below the balcony, the streets of Sardis were wet with blood. The stones of the square were thick with the holy gore, which mixed with the earth and dried in blackish whorls. The priests walked calmly through the crowd, finishing off wounded animals where an inexperienced hand had botched the job.

  The rooftop onlookers came forward, daubing their foreheads with the blood that ran on the ground in shallow streams. A swarm of prostitutes who had waited at one side of the square as the sacrifice was prepared now advanced in a surge of incense and clinking jewellery, trying to entice the men to honour the Gods in anot
her way. Children dipped their hands deep in the blood and tore off through the streets, chasing each other and tagging every wall and doorway with tiny bloody hand prints, spreading the mark of the Gods to every corner of the city.

  Inside the palace, Croesus pursued his wife.

  Like a figure in a dream, her pace seemed to slow and hasten along with his. At any moment that he seemed on the verge of reaching her, she somehow drew further away from him. He almost called out to her, but realized that he had no confidence that she would respond to command.

  Finally, after following her through the rooms and corridors of the palace, he found her waiting for him at the entrance to the women’s quarters.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  She looked at him, her eyes disbelieving, and under her gaze, he felt a sudden shame. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I have not been kind to you.’

  ‘You haven’t been anything to me,’ she said. ‘A husband, or a king. Ever since—’

  Croesus bowed his head and raised a hand, palm forward. He gestured to a cushioned couch in the corner of the room. ‘Sit with me. Please,’ he said.

  They sat together in silence, and as they did, Croesus tried to remember how to speak to his wife. Once he could have said anything to her. He thought back, tried to think of the last time they had spoken that had not been at some official function, a private conversation that had not been merely an empty exchange of pleasantries. He could not. He had let her become a stranger to him.

  She broke the silence. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she said.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Fighting this war. And don’t speak as you do to the others. Of glory or honour or necessity. They may believe it, but I don’t. It’s about you. It’s always been about you.’

  ‘I considered peace,’ he said. ‘I knew it is what you would wish for. But I realized that it might never come again. That I might pass my whole life without another chance.’