The Last King of Lydia (7 page)

‘You all remember the story of Heracles, do you not? He fought against the Erymanthian boar. Perhaps this boar we hunt is a descendent of that monster. Heracles captured the boar, but we
live in harsher times, and we will not be so merciful. This monster’s head will hang from the gate of the palace, and his pierced hide will become one of my greatest trophies.

‘I will dispatch my own hunters to kill the beast. Any man of Lydia may join them, as servant or huntsman. The man who strikes the killing blow will be awarded ten talents of gold, with
another talent for each man who proves himself valiant. We will end this terror, and our country will be at peace once again.’

Croesus paused for a moment, looking out over the crowd to judge the impact of his speech. He could feel, in the air, the particular silence that the actor and the politician both crave.
Whatever happened next, whether the boar were taken or not, his part in the drama would not be faulted.

‘Who will go with them?’ he said.

A voice, familiar and strong, came from the crowd. Croesus recognised its sound and tone, but his mind refused to believe it at first. Then a man pushed to the front and advanced beyond the
others to stand alone, and the king could deny the truth no longer. It was Atys.

His son had grown into a striking man, skilled with horse and spear, and yet Croesus could not help but see a child standing there. And he fancied that in his son’s eyes he could still see
a child’s desire, the desire to win his father’s pride.

Croesus said nothing for a time, his face impassive. Several times he parted his lips to speak, but each time he swallowed his words. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘You shall not
go.’

‘Why not?’

‘It would not be fair to our people, to risk their future in this way.’

‘I will be protected by the very finest, travelling through the lands of our allies. There will be no danger.’

The king shook his head. In the past, whatever challenge confronted him, the words had always come without effort, entire speeches conjured from nothing. Now, no matter how eloquently he tried
to shape his thoughts, they distilled themselves down to a single word.

‘No,’ he said again, not much above a whisper.

‘Why,’ said Atys, ‘then I shall sneak from the palace at night to join the hunters.’

‘My son—’

Atys turned to the people who packed the hall. ‘What do you say, people of Lydia. I will be guided by your will. Shall I go with them?’ A roar broke out from the crowd, loud enough
to fill the throne room, and Atys turned to his father, triumphant. The crowd roared again, surging forwards past the guards towards the prince. They brushed the backs of their hands against his
hair, placed their fingertips to his forehead and the nape of his neck. A few were bold enough to clasp his hand, all hoping for a touch of their champion.

Feeling the hunger of the crowd, knowing that now, truly, it could not be undone, Croesus descended the steps of his throne and advanced into the mob. The people parted before him, and he
embraced his son tightly.

‘Atys, my brave son, let me congratulate you.’ His voice dropped. ‘But in private.’

‘Father—’

‘What were you thinking?’

‘My father—’

‘No, don’t tell me. I know it all already.’ Croesus paused to breathe, his face white with anger. ‘You think it a sport to humiliate your father.’

‘I meant no disrespect.’

‘It was very clever. Cornering me like that. Very sharp.’ He lifted a finger and held it in front of his son’s face. ‘But don’t ever do it again. Ever.’

Atys bowed his head and said nothing.

‘Why do this?’ Croesus said, his anger ebbing.

‘For glory, father. For the glory of it.’

‘Of course. Why else?’ Croesus hesitated. ‘I am afraid for you, Atys. I am afraid.’

Atys nodded. ‘There will be danger. But the prize is worth the risk.’

‘You talk like an epic’s hero. This isn’t you. Talk like my son.’ He paused. ‘Stay here.’

Atys said nothing for a moment, weighing his answer carefully, the way he had ever since he was a boy. ‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘when I was young, when we spoke in the
garden after you had seen that man from Athens? Solon was his name.’

‘Yes. I remember.’

‘I said I must have been the happiest of us all. Because I had you as a father.’

‘Atys—’

‘How can I become a king like you when you hide me away in the palace like a woman? When you make me run from the sight of iron because of some dream?’

Croesus did not speak for some time. He had told his son of the dream, soon after iron had been banished from the palace, and as a boy Atys had believed it with the trust of a child for a father
who cannot be wrong. Now, as a man, he did not. ‘Do not mock my dream,’ Croesus said.

‘Then think it through. This prophecy is a blessing. I cannot be killed by this boar.’ Atys tried a smile. ‘He isn’t going to come to battle with spear and shield, is he?
That’s what your dream means, that I cannot be killed by a beast, no matter how terrifying it is. Please, let me go.’

The king leaned in close to his son, and stared at him in silence for a time. ‘I hate that you put me through this,’ he said. ‘I hate you for this.’ He turned his back on
Atys. ‘You may leave.’

‘I’m sorry I displease you, Father.’ Croesus could hear the pain in his son’s voice, but he would not turn around.

‘Go then. And send Adrastus to me.’

He waited for a time, his mind empty, and listened to his son leave. Then he heard the sound of another pair of feet against the stone, and the soft noise of Adrastus’s robe as he
bowed.

‘Adrastus,’ he said, ‘you did not volunteer for the hunt?’

‘No. A man with my poor luck has no place on a venture like this. Have I displeased you, my king?’

‘No, no.’ Croesus voice grew hesitant, absent. ‘Have I been kind to you, Adrastus?’

‘My lord, you have given me back my life.’

‘I see.’ Croesus dropped his head and looked at the ground. ‘I think you must be the most loyal man I know, since you owe me the most. That makes sense, doesn’t
it?’

‘My lord?’

‘Go with the hunters, Adrastus. Protect my son.’

Once again, Adrastus bowed low. ‘With my life, my lord.’

Late at night on the plains of the north, the hunters gathered around a fire. They passed around a heavy wineskin, trading stories and crude jests. They were not too crude
– Atys’s presence tempered their language. They sat and talked and looked at the stars for some sign or omen that might guide them, for there are few who need the luck of the Gods more
than hunters.

After the wineskin had made its way around the circle several times, one of the men produced a small skin drum and began to beat a syncopated rhythm. The others, yelping and whooping, staggered
to their feet and began to dance. Atys smiled and waved them off as they implored him to join them, but insistent hands dragged him up, and soon he was moved amongst them, his quick feet picking up
the step.

The drum sang faster and faster, and the men danced with it, all knowing that the first man to stop dancing would be no man at all. They expected Atys would be the first to cry off, but he was
strong and determined, and kept up with the best of them. They danced at a furious pace, until finally one man’s legs shook and gave way and he fell to ground. The others collapsed only a
moment later, laughing and howling insults at the man who had fallen first. The drummer slowed his rhythm, allowing them to recover. Soon, the beat would bring them all to their feet again.

Out on the edge of the camp, Adrastus sat alone. He watched the dancing, waiting for the noise to die down so that he could return to the fire and sleep in the warmth, for he knew he would not
be welcome at the camp until then. He looked out to the east, towards Phrygia. The distant home he would never see again.

He heard a noise behind him and turned, his hand reaching for the spear at his side. Atys threw his hands up in the air in mock surrender, a wineskin slung over his shoulder, his legs still
unsteady from his exertions at the fire.

‘May I approach and sit, fearsome sentinel?’ he said.

‘Of course. My apologies.’ Adrastus spread his cloak out on the ground, knocking the dust from it with a few strokes of his hand, and Atys sat down beside him.

‘You should not talk to me, you know,’ Adrastus said. ‘None of the others do. They know I am bad luck.’

‘If you were bad luck, you wouldn’t have found your way to Lydia. You wouldn’t have had the fortune to have a man like my father take you in.’

‘And I wouldn’t have a man like you as my friend.’

‘That as well. Come,’ Atys said, ‘join us by the fire? It makes me sad to see you out here.’

Adrastus smiled. ‘No. I wouldn’t want to make the others uncomfortable.’ He looked over his shoulder. The music had ended, and the men sat watching them. ‘You see, they
observe us. Don’t stay too long, or they will think that I am drawing your good fortune from you, like an evil spirit. But I thank you. You are kind to me.’

‘You are a friend to me, Adrastus. When I am king—’ He checked himself.

Adrastus laughed. ‘Don’t stop. There’s no harm in it. What prince doesn’t dream of being king one day? You would be a poor son indeed if you lacked ambition.’

‘No. It’s bad luck to speak like that. But there will always be a place for you at my side.’

‘Thank you, Atys.’

They sat in silence for a time.

‘Did you have a wife, back in your homeland?’ Atys said.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Do you miss her?’

‘A little. We were never in love. Not like you and Iva. But she was kind to me, and fond of me, I think. She wept when I left, and they were tears for me, not for her. You understand what
I mean by that?’

‘Yes. You should marry again. There are plenty of women who would be honoured to have you for a husband. You are in the king’s favour. I could ask—’

‘No.’ Atys started at the interruption. ‘You may not believe that I am cursed,’ Adrastus continued slowly. ‘But I am glad that I have no children. I did a terrible
thing, and that is my punishment. To live alone, and have no children to follow me.’

Looking at him, Atys suddenly felt like a boy again, a boy who knew nothing of grief. Adrastus gave him a companionable touch on the shoulder. ‘Good night, Atys. And don’t drink too
much of that stuff, or you’ll feel rotten tomorrow.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind. Sleep well, Adrastus.’

In a dark, peaceful part of the palace in Sardis, Maia allowed herself the luxury of leaning against a wall to rest her tired legs; she watched Gyges as he knelt on the ground
and traced patterns in the dust.

He had been at work for perhaps an hour, tracing a complex sequence of symbols, then standing and scuffing the marks out before kneeling and beginning over again. Once, many years before,
Croesus had summoned scholars to examine the marks his son made in dust and sand. He had hoped that they might divine some trace of meaning there; the boy worked with such fixed intensity that it
seemed impossible that the symbols he drew could mean nothing. For a time, the king had spoken of how he and his son would soon spend hours side by side, talking silently together in the dust, once
his men had solved the riddle of the script.

The scholars studied the boy’s work for many months, trying to deduce what Gyges could possibly be drawing. From the images, they tried to extrapolate an alphabet, numbers, some sequence
or sign. All had reached the same conclusion. There were no patterns there. They were simply the idle scratchings of an idiot child.

Maia became aware of a presence at one entrance to the room. She did not have to turn towards it to know it was the king. He came more often now, since Atys had left for the north. She sometimes
wondered what strange need he satisfied when he came to see his second son; whether, in the lines of Gyges’s face, he saw some shadow of his other child.

Most days, he tried to remain unseen, though the king was not as adept at hiding as he thought he was. She always affected not to see him, unless he came forward to speak. She did not know
whether Gyges mimicked her pretended ignorance or whether he genuinely did not notice his father, but either way, he never gave any sign that he registered his father’s visits.

‘Maia.’ The king spoke softly, but the sound of his voice, of any voice, was still startling to her.

‘Master.’ She turned to face the king, and kept her gaze to the floor.

‘You may look up. My son, he is well?’

‘Yes, he is,’ she said. ‘He misses his brother.’

‘Really.’ Croesus gave a pained smile. ‘How can you tell?’

‘Oh, he has his moods, like any of us. I think I can read them now.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps that is presumptuous of me. I speak too much, master. Forgive me.’

‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘An interesting thought. I should have known you’d be clever, if Isocrates wanted you for a wife. You are a Hellene like him, are you
not?’

‘Yes. From Phocaea.’

‘Do you need anything? Does my son need anything?’

‘No, master. We are well taken care of.’

She saw his eyes wander across her face without interest, then stop and fix on her cheek. He clicked his tongue in displeasure. ‘Did Gyges do that?’

‘Do what?’

He pointed, and she raised her hand, brushing over a small, dark bruise beneath her eye. She shook her head. ‘No, master, he would never hurt me. I fell in the courtyard. That is
all.’

‘Ah. I am glad.’ He looked at his silent son. ‘It is an onerous enough duty that I have given you without you taking blows for it as well.’

‘Oh, not at all. I am happy to take care of him.’

‘Why?’

‘He makes me feel peaceful.’

The king cocked his head for a moment, as if he expected some trick. Then he smiled. ‘I want to reward you. For taking care of my son.’

‘I deserve no reward, master.’

‘Oh, but you’ll have one.’ He smiled broadly. ‘You can have children. If you want to. No better gift than that, is there?’

She stared at him, her mouth slightly parted.

‘I imagine you have refrained out of duty,’ he continued. ‘Fear, perhaps, of what I might say. There is no need. When I gave permission for you and Isocrates to marry, I meant
for you to have that freedom.’