The Last King of Lydia (2 page)

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?’

‘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.