The King and the Slave

by Tim Leach

  Shortly before midday the word came back, passed from one man to another, summoning Croesus to the king’s side. The slave turned his steed out of line, and made his way up the column of men. He drew close to the centre of the army, and saw, as he had seen so many times before in the month-long march, three riders together, Cambyses and his two companions. On the king’s left hand was Prexaspes. There were few who could have named him a month before, when he was just another anonymous young nobleman, circling the king and seeking favour. All knew his name now.

  At first, there had been no title for the work that Prexaspes did, and there were many who nervously fell silent when introducing the man, uncertain of what to call him. The King’s Eye – this was the euphemistic title that had come to be accepted at last, though Croesus thought he better resembled some other part of the king. A muted throat, perhaps, that swallowed and consumed, but did not speak.

  Prexaspes rarely left the king’s side. He said little, and was quietly attentive, like an eager student at lessons. Occasionally the king would mention a name to him, and Prexaspes would repeat it to himself several times, marking it for remembrance. Whether it was a man marked for reward or death, Croesus never knew.

  On the other side was Phanes. A Hellene, he held an uncanny resemblance to Isocrates, as if he were some other version of the slave from another life, dedicated to war. Whenever he saw the general, Croesus wondered what terrible force of ambition had brought him halfway across the world to leave the service of the Pharaoh and serve Cambyses. Unlike Prexaspes, Phanes spoke constantly. Not to flatter, but because the king was in constant need of reassurance. Many times a day, Phanes would repeat words that he had said many times before, about the weaknesses of the Egyptian army, the strength of the Persians, the ways in which they would subdue the great nation, repeating these words again and again until they took on the quality of prayer.

  If these two new favourites of the king had any kind of rivalry, it was not on open display. They had neatly divided a world between them, though Croesus wondered how long that could last. When Phanes would look at the secret world that Prexaspes ruled, and Prexaspes look at the force of the army, each would surely feel a craving for another kind of power.

  He rode to them, and offered the king a bow from the saddle.

  ‘Master. You asked for me?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Cambyses pinched the sweat from his eyes. ‘Did I do this, Prexaspes?’

  A pause. ‘I do not recall, my lord.’

  ‘Phanes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Phanes said, and glanced at Prexaspes. ‘Though you did not give your reasons.’

  ‘Well. No matter. I am sure I will remember.’

  Croesus bowed again. ‘I will leave you, master.’

  ‘No, no. Stay, Croesus. We were speaking of what we will do when the war is finished. Phanes?’

  ‘With your permission, my lord, I will take my sons, and we will go home.’

  ‘The Pharaoh would not let you go?’

  ‘No. Amasis would not permit it. My sons will see their home again. I will see it again.’

  ‘A very fine ambition. Do you not think, Croesus?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Prexaspes?’

  ‘I wish only to serve you as best I can, my lord.’

  ‘Oh. How dull. You must think of something better. Or I may give you a task you will not like.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘And you, Croesus? What will you do? Die, I suppose, after the war.’

  ‘Or during, master.’

  Cambyses laughed, a little too loudly. ‘Perhaps you are right. What else is there for an old man like you to do but die?’

  ‘And what will you do, master?’ Croesus said.

  Cambyses said nothing, and Croesus saw, out of the corner of his eye, both his advisors tense. What fool asked a question of the king? To the king belonged all questions, to his advisors every answer. To go against that seemed almost a violation of a natural law.

  But Cambyses seemed amused.

  ‘I had not thought of that,’ he said. ‘A good question.’ He thought for a time, his eyes wandering over Croesus, as if searching for the answer there. ‘Follow me, Croesus. Away from the line.’ Phanes and Prexaspes both made ready to follow, but Cambyses waved a dismissive hand at them. ‘No. You both stay here.’

  Croesus tried not to look at them. He did not think that he would like what he saw there. He urged the mule forward, and followed the king away from the marching soldiers. Behind him, he heard the word to halt, for it was coming towards midday. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the men hurriedly setting up their shelters of cloth to huddle beneath, with the same sense of urgency as if they had been setting their spears against a cavalry charge.

  Cambyses seemed to feel no need to take cover in this way. Often, Croesus had seen him wandering idly, like a man walking beside the sea, whilst his men cowered in hiding from the sun. He did not seem to feel the heat. He stared out into the desert, a little smile playing across his lips.

  ‘A wife,’ Cambyses said abruptly. ‘And children.’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘That is what I should do. After this war. What do you think?’

  ‘It is what most men desire. An honest ambition.’

  ‘So it is said. Yet I think it is not for me.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps I will return to this place.’

  ‘You like it here, master?’

  ‘It is beautiful, is it not? I would stay here for ever, if I could.’

  Croesus assumed at first that it was some kind of strange joke. But he glanced at Cambyses to read his mood and found him looking out with a shy smile, and Croesus knew that the king meant what he had said.

  ‘I could live with these desert people,’ Cambyses continued. ‘Who needs eyes to see here, where there is nothing? Who will speak of my shame here? These tribesmen know nothing of such things. To live a life without shame and judgement. Would that not be beautiful? I will avenge my dishonour in Egypt, but there will be more shame to come. Unless I come back here.’ He paused, and looked suddenly afraid. ‘Would you come with me, Croesus? I would be frightened to come back on my own. Will you promise me that?’

  In his mind, Croesus thought of the journey they would make. They would take another slave who spoke the language, camels and gold to buy their way into one of the wandering tribes. They would learn the ways of the desert tribes, live in this impossible place, and die there too. Of all the ends he had thought of for himself, this was not one he had ever imagined. He wondered what they did with their dead; whether they interred them in caves, or if they burned them out on the sands, as if they were giving their dead back to the endless sun they lived under. If that was the end he came to, the one that was meant for him, he wondered if he would die happy. If the king might die happy.

  ‘Yes,’ Croesus said at last. ‘I will come back with you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cambyses said. His eyes shone. Bright. Then too brightly.

  He stooped, the colour leached from his face. Like a bull struck dead, his mouth fell open, his tongue lolling from between his teeth, then he slid from his horse and fell to the burning ground.

  2

  The army moved on, for what else could they do? To stay still was to die, to retreat was to die.

  They laid the king in a covered cart, his fever worsening each day. None in the army were told of the king’s sickness, yet all knew. Rumours spread, and there were some, terrified by the omen of a fallen king, who disappeared into the desert at night. They went to their deaths, for without guide or water they would not last a day on the burning sands. But if to run into the desert were an act of madness, to stay with the army seemed a double madness, when the gods had struck down the highest amongst them.

  At night in the king’s tent, Croesus sat at his side and waited. Often, it was only he, the physicians, and one of the ten thousand Immortals who remained in the tent with Cambyses
. Prexaspes and Phanes came to see the king each day, for neither wished to appear disloyal. But they looked at the king with fear, and they left as quickly as they could. In life, the king was ever surrounded by those seeking to draw favour from him. In death, he would always be alone.

  It was during the third night of the fever that the crisis came, and Cambyses began the last fight for his life. When it began the physicians left, filing silently from the tent as if by some prearranged signal, for none wished to risk being at the king’s side at the moment of death.

  As the last of them walked out into the night, Croesus gave him a message, and a handful of coins to ensure its delivery. He sat back down beside the king and held his hand, like a desert stone between his palms, warm and unyielding. He waited, drifting away into a half sleep, and did not know how much time passed, with the king’s burning hand held in his own. When he came to himself, he found that Isocrates stood over him.

  ‘Is he dying?’ said Isocrates.

  ‘I do not know. Do you know anything of this sickness?’

  ‘It could be many different things.’ Isocrates glanced at the guard who stood at the entrance of the tent. Then he knelt, and examined the king for a time, rolling open his eyes, putting his lips to the man’s forehead to feel the heat of his skin. He stood once more, and when he spoke again, it was with regret. ‘I think that he will live, if he survives the night. The fever is close to breaking.’

  Croesus saw motion from the corner of his eye. The guard had been looking out of the tent for some time, apparently measuring the passage of time by the height of the moon in the sky. He now made as if to go, lifting his spear and opening the flap of the tent.

  ‘Why do you leave?’ Croesus said.

  ‘My replacement is late. He will be here soon.’

  ‘You will abandon your king?’

  ‘You would do well to hold your tongue. You are still a slave. Do not think to threaten a free man.’ And without another word, the guard walked away.

  They watched him go, and turned to face each other.

  ‘We do not have much time,’ said Isocrates. He paused, and let his gaze drift down to the sleeping king. ‘I will do it, if you will stand watch. It will not take long.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘I did not ask you here for that,’ said Croesus.

  ‘The guard leaving? That was not your doing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  Croesus reached out, his robe folded up over his palm, and wiped the sweat from Cambyses’s face. ‘How many has he killed so far, do you think?’ Croesus said.

  ‘Hundreds. The slaves and servants. Many nobles as well. Harpagus. Or had you forgotten him?’

  ‘How many did I kill when I was a king? One war after another. Thousands, or tens of thousands. Would you have killed me, given the chance?’

  ‘Perhaps I should have done,’ said Isocrates. ‘We do not have time for this.’

  ‘I made a promise to Cyrus,’ Croesus said. ‘He had a dream. A great empire. Ruled by generations of his children. Ruled for peace. One last great war, and then an end to wars. That is what he wanted for his son. For all of us.’

  ‘A fool’s dream. Only an old king like you could have believed such vanity.’

  ‘You did not say such things to me. When you were my slave, and I sought to build an empire of my own.’

  ‘No. I wish that I had.’

  Slowly, Croesus leaned forward, put his face in his hands. ‘Cambyses made a promise to me. Before the fever took him. That after this war, we will go to the desert together. That he will give up the throne.’

  ‘You cannot believe him.’

  ‘I have to. The war with Egypt will happen whether he lives or dies. But I will take him away, afterwards. I cannot make him a good king. But I can save him. I can keep my promise, in part at least.’

  For a moment, Croesus thought he saw the other man’s body go tense. Then they both heard the heavy tread of the guard approaching, and knew the moment had passed. It was too late.

  ‘I forgave you for the death of the others,’ Isocrates said softly. ‘I do not know if I can forgive this.’

  ‘We cannot change what will happen.’

  ‘I suppose you must let yourself believe that. For the rest of your life, you will wish you had found the courage to do this.’

  ‘If you truly believed that, then you would have done it without my help. You think I could stop you?’

  He could not remember ever seeing pain on Isocrates’s face before, but he saw it there now. ‘You do not understand me at all, do you, Croesus? Do not come looking for me any more. Or for my wife, to beg for our help.’ He nodded to the sleeping king. ‘You have chosen your place. At his side.’

  ‘I do not want to choose.’

  ‘You already have.’ And he left.

  Croesus did not sleep that night. He stayed kneeling on the ground, like a penitent at prayer, and waited to see if the king would live or die.

  He watched the king’s eyes moving beneath his closed eyelids, frantic dartings beneath the skin, and wondered what fever dreams were passing through his mind, what things he saw, what pieces of the mind were being destroyed by the fire that raged there.

  Sometime during that prelude to dawn when the sky begins to lighten but before the sun is seen, Cambyses woke. Croesus did not notice at first, for the king lay quite still, his eyes staring straight ahead, barely open. Then the king turned his head a fraction and he faced Croesus.

  His face was still and unchanged. His eyes burned with madness.

  3

  A little out of bowshot, the Egyptian army stood before the Persian force.

  There were only the occasional sounds to suggest that the army before them was anything but a mirage; the wooden clatter of spear shafts against each other, the metallic sound of a man shifting in his cuirass, the nervous whicker of a horse that could sense the imminence of its death. In a few moments, the killing would start. In a few hours, Croesus knew, most of those Egyptians would be dead.

  He thought of how many times he had seen a doomed army like this one. All of them the same. The outcome had been determined beforehand. The Egyptians would be slaughtered by the tens of thousands. All who stood there knew this, had known it for days beforehand, as the two armies marched and manoeuvred into position, as their generals gave their speeches and the priests sacrificed and cast their auguries. The battle itself was a formality, the bloody proof to a martial theorem that needed no testing.

  Phanes had told them everything. He offered up every detail of the Egyptian forces, the habits of the generals, which regiments would fight to the last and which would be the first to surrender, the battlefield that the Egyptians would try to use and the one that the Persians could force their opponents to take. It was as cruel and intimate as a lover’s betrayal.

  Prexaspes, Phanes, and Cambyses. The three were united again, as before. Phanes continued to talk incessantly, and was now able to point out where his predictions had come true – the disposition of the Egyptian army was proof positive of his knowledge. Prexaspes still said nothing – he was just a little more watchful than before, as they all were, trying to discern how the king had changed.

  When anyone mentioned the fever, Cambyses seemed puzzled, confused as to why this was being spoken of, as if it were something that had happened to some other man. Croesus could not help but wonder what pieces of the king’s mind had been taken from him by the pitiless glare of the sun.

  Phanes was about to give the command to advance, to begin the inevitable slaughter, when on the battlefield Croesus saw movement from the Egyptian ranks. A regiment of men advanced in front of the army, the sun glittering on their bronze armour. They were the Hellene mercenaries who had remained loyal to Egypt, even after Phanes defected. They stood on the desert plain between the two armies, and brought forward half a dozen prisoners with them. Croesus had only to look at Phanes to know who the men were.

/>   One by one, the prisoners stepped forward. In shaking voices, they denounced their father as a traitor, the Persians as cruel aggressors cursed by the gods, themselves as collaborators. Occasionally one would stumble over the words he had memorized, only to be quietly reminded by the soldier next to him. The last, the youngest, broke down in tears, unable to finish, and was beaten to the ground for his failure.

  When the confessions had ended, the Hellenes knocked the men down, wrapped their fingers into hair, and raised their knives high, for Phanes to see. They leaned forward, and began to cut.

  Croesus closed his eyes and looked away, but he could still hear them, sounding like men screaming underwater. It went on for longer than he thought was possible, and it was only when he was sure it was over that he looked back. There, he saw the worst sight of all.

  Phanes’s sons lay on the ground, the sand blackening beneath them. Beside each of the bodies, a man had stepped forward with a bowl to catch the blood as it fell. Croesus watched as they passed the bowls around between all of the Hellenes. They each drank in turn, the hot blood flowing from their mouths and staining their beards a reddish black. Then, as one, they gave a single cry, the first note of the paean echoing out over the battlefield like the scream of some angry, dying god. They stepped back into line, and the two armies returned to silence.

  Croesus stared straight ahead. He did not want to look at Phanes, or Cambyses. He feared what he would see on both their faces – the grief of one, the indifference of the other.

  ‘You will have more sons, Phanes,’ he heard Cambyses say, after a time, ‘and a kingdom of your own to raise them in.’

  Croesus could hear Phanes weeping. The ugly sound of a man unused to tears, who had never imagined he would have use of them again.

  ‘Come,’ Cambyses said. ‘Let us begin.’ He signalled to the soldier beside him. The drums rang out to signal the Persian advance, and the doomed Egyptians surged forward to meet them.