The Last King of Lydia (11 page)

Two years after Atys died, word came that the empire of the Medes had fallen.

The conquest had been sudden, like some disaster of the earth or sea that is precisely managed by the Gods. An exhausted messenger arrived at the court of Sardis to bring word that a Persian
army was marching on Ecbatana, the capital of Media. Before Croesus could decide whether to send the man back alone or accompanied by the entire Lydian army, another messenger arrived with the news
that the Medes’ army had been destroyed and Astyages had been captured. Cyrus of Persia now sat on the throne of the Medes.

Cyrus. The name meant nothing to Croesus, but rumours soon followed the messengers. That he was of a Persian noble family was all that could be said with confidence – all else was the
stuff of folktales. Some said that Cyrus had been raised by wolves, that he fed only on the flesh of kings and drank only the waters of the river by which he had been born. Others claimed that wild
beasts formed the vanguard of his army, while immortal demons served as its elite warriors. Persian sorcerers were said to have destroyed the army of the Medes with lightning from the sky and
earthquakes that shook men to death; not a single blow was struck. Croesus soon gave up any attempt to identify the truth behind these wild tales. A new power had risen in the East. The only thing
that mattered was how to respond.

At the council of war, they began with numbers. The respective sizes of the Persian and Lydian armies, the cost of mercenaries, the yields of croplands, the wealth of mining regions. Above all,
they sought to calculate what Lydia stood to gain and lose. The fate of a dozen nations was reduced to numbers inked on parchment and etched in wax: a balance sheet for a war. It was only after
they had finished their calculations that they talked of what should be done.

It was unacceptable, one man said, for the Persians to rule an empire. The Hellenes to the west could be bargained with and understood – they were a civilized people. But there was no
negotiating with the Persians. Who knew how they would use their new-found power?

Others of the council were unconvinced by the case for war. Sandanis, the commander of the army, was the leader of this faction. An old man now, with the loose-skinned and weary features of a
soldier who had spent a lifetime fighting enemies abroad and politicians at home, he had led the army even in the days of Croesus’s father. Repeatedly and forcefully, he argued that Lydia had
grown strong through trade and good governance; why risk it all on war with the East? What did events so far away have to do with the Lydian empire?

It was only after the discussion had continued for some time, growing increasingly heated, that the men around the table realized that the king had yet to speak.

One by one, they fell silent and turned to face their ruler. ‘Forgive us,’ said one of the young noblemen. ‘We have spoken at great length, and not waited to hear you, as we
should have done.’ He coughed apologetically. ‘What, may we ask, do you think?’

What did he think? Croesus almost laughed. How could so grave a decision be made on the basis of doubt and suspicion, but nothing more? He could feel the excitement around the table at the
thought of war, but he found himself unmoved by it. It mattered little to him who ruled over the lands to the east – Astyages had been his brother king in name only. Given a little more time,
another year or so, he believed he would find the right way to use his wealth.

And yet, for all this, when he came to speak, he could not find the words for peace. ‘I thank you all for your counsel,’ he said. ‘What an embarrassment of riches you have
given me; enough to put those of my treasuries to shame!’ Laughter broke out around the table. ‘I have no hunger for war,’ Croesus continued, the words coming easily now,
‘but will the Persian be satisfied with his new-won kingdom? I think not.’ He looked across at Sandanis. ‘Do not worry,’ Croesus said. ‘I will not be rash. We shall
consult with the oracles, and with our allies. I have detained you all too long from your own affairs.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘You may leave.’

The king drummed his fingers on the marble table, smiling and nodding as each of the noblemen departed the council chamber. He sat in silence for a time after they had gone. He turned to
Isocrates.

‘Your thoughts?’ Croesus said.

‘Of war with Persia?’

Croesus shook his head, and nodded at the empty chairs. ‘Of them.’

Isocrates shrugged. ‘Divided. They will follow where you lead.’

‘Yes. Or where the Gods lead.’

‘That is true, master.’

‘We must have a prophecy to guide us. To which of the oracles should we turn? Abae?’

‘The prophet at Abae is a stubborn old man, master. He doesn’t like foreigners. If you were a Hellene, I might recommend it, but as a Lydian . . .’

‘Ah. That is unfortunate. You know much of these matters?’

‘I rely on the opinions of men who are wiser than I, master.’

‘Well, what do these wiser men have to say of Dodona?’

‘I have yet to hear him give a favourable word for war. He lost both his sons in battle many years ago.’ Isocrates hesitated for a moment. ‘He would give you a prophecy to
prevent a war, not to begin one.’

‘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.

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.

‘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
like.’

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.