The King and the Slave

by Tim Leach

  The ship touched the shore and shuddered, and Bardiya fell to his knees once more. He heard the creak of the wood, as the rider came aboard the ship and walked forward to the prow. The circle parted, and Bardiya looked at the face of his executioner. He knew this man from the king’s table. They had shared wine together, laughed together, hunted together.

  Bardiya saw the blade the other man carried. He could see the killer’s hands trembling.

  When they came to Psamtek’s quarters, Croesus could not help but look first to the floor, to see if any trace of blood was there – some drop that had dried between the stones, a tiny, unwashed smear in some dark corner of the room. But there was none. It had been cleaned with forbidding exactness. He wondered if Psamtek had another slave do this for him, or, trusting no one with this secret, if he had done it himself. A man who was once a king, and one of his first acts as a slave would have been to get to his knees and wipe his own blood from the floor.

  ‘How did you know?’ Croesus said.

  ‘It was not so difficult to guess. You are a predictable man.’

  ‘Why would you stop me?’

  Psamtek did not reply.

  ‘Do you hope for power? That he will return to Persia and give you your kingdom back?’

  ‘No. He will never leave Egypt. He is afraid to leave this place.’ Psamtek paused. ‘What did you think would happen? Afterwards, I mean.’

  ‘I would die. They would kill me. What would matter after that?’

  ‘You are a man who always thinks of the after, I suspect. Every assassin dreams of a better world.’

  ‘Bardiya would take the throne,’ he said.

  ‘Did you see Bardiya at the ceremony tonight?’ the Egyptian said.

  Croesus did not speak for a long time. He understood then why Prexaspes had looked so broken when Croesus had seen him the day before. Doubtless he had men who usually did the work for him, but Prexaspes would not have trusted anyone but himself with a killing of such significance. At last, with many hundreds dead at his command, Prexaspes had become a murderer with his own hands.

  ‘We could have saved him, you and I,’ Croesus said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we could have,’ Psamtek said. ‘But I did not want to.’

  ‘You owe your life to me.’

  ‘You need not worry. I have no desire to seek your death.’

  ‘You are the second man to offer me my life today. I suppose you expect gratitude.’

  ‘No. I do not expect that. Your death would not hurt him. It would mean nothing to him. So it means nothing to me.’ Psamtek paused. ‘What a terrible thing it must be. To be willing to sell your life, and yet find it can buy nothing of value, that it will change nothing.’

  The Egyptian turned from Croesus, his manner still that of a king dismissing a subject. There was nothing more that could be said.

  *

  The marriage passed, like some natural disaster that is so great that all know it will become myth in time, but in the present is merely to be endured. Within the palace, the king fell into silence and absence, rarely seen by any.

  The old jokes, of new husbands lost for months at a time in the bedchambers of their wives, went unspoken, though all thought of it and shuddered. Yet whatever happened in the private chambers of the king, it seemed to have calmed Cambyses. He no longer wandered restlessly through the palace in search of an insult to counter. He came to the court, gave passive acceptance for what his advisors suggested he do concerning the governance of his kingdom, then disappeared again.

  This, at least, was what Croesus heard. He did not see it himself, for he went no longer to the throne room of the king, nor attended on him in privacy. Quietly and suddenly, he withdrew from the business of the court. He wandered through the palace, at no one’s command, going where he pleased. He went to find the high balconies and look out at the teeming city he could not go to himself. When, from time to time, a servant came across the old slave on these balconies and took a moment to study the movement of his eyes, they noticed that Croesus seemed to be looking towards the youths who ran errands for their parents, and the packs of children who swarmed and played in the streets and alleyways, and who seemed oblivious to the tyrant who lurked in the palace.

  Croesus became the subject of gossip in the court. There were those who felt that it was improper for other slaves to see one of their number standing idle. Yet he was of no use to anyone save the king, and the king did not call for him. His idleness could perhaps be excused. Some even began to speak of it as a good example to show to the slaves, to show them that if they worked hard and earned favour, they too might be permitted to retire into meaningless obscurity. It was not a vision of the future that any free man would want, but a better tomorrow than most slaves could hope for.

  Croesus was sitting in the empty garden the king had made, many months after the wedding, when the summons finally came. As he dozed in the sun, he became aware of another presence on the balcony. He lifted his head and found the eyes of Prexaspes’s son staring back at him once again. The boy stood there hesitantly, acting with an unnecessary shyness, for he should have known that as the son of a noble he was far above a slave, and that no respect for age was needed in a time where the old were prey for the young.

  ‘What is your name?’ said Croesus.

  ‘Artabanos,’ the boy said, coming forward.

  ‘And what message do you bring? A summons from your father? You are young, to be doing his work.’

  ‘No. From the king. You are to dine with him tonight.’

  Croesus nodded. ‘Very well. You may tell him I will join his table. That it will be an honour.’

  The boy made no move to go.

  ‘Why do you stay?’

  ‘Will you tell me about my father?’ Artabanos said.

  Croesus glanced down at his hands. ‘You hear the other children speaking of him?’

  ‘They do not say anything to me, but . . .’

  ‘No. They would not dare to bully you, would they? Their fathers would not let them. But these boys, they talk to each other? And sometimes you overhear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is true, what they say. He has killed men. Or rather, they die at his command. Perhaps that makes you feel better?’

  ‘Did they deserve to die?’

  ‘No.’

  The boy fell silent. Croesus looked at him, and thought of how another more brutal, or braver, man might have taken revenge on this child. The boy’s father had killed innocents. When Prexaspes had killed Bardiya, he had killed all hope with him. Should not Prexaspes pay the price himself? It would have been no blasphemy. Croesus thought of infants thrown from the battlements to spite their dead fathers, heirs to captured thrones who were castrated and blinded to remove them as future threats. The child was but an extension of the man, a part of him like any other. You would not shy from hurting it, any more than you would ignore a gap in an opponent’s armour.

  ‘You may have wanted me to tell you a comforting lie,’ Croesus said. ‘But I will not lie for him.’

  ‘No. I wanted the truth,’ the boy said, as he blinked back tears. ‘Did he choose to do it?’

  ‘He had a choice. But it was the choice that few men are willing to make, the choice between living badly, and dying well. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think that I do.’

  ‘Now you wonder, perhaps, what you should do.’

  The boy nodded solemnly.

  ‘You must get away from the court,’ Croesus said. ‘As soon as you are able, though it will be some years yet. You must get away from the king, whatever it costs you in honour or position, whatever your father or your friends say to you, to shame you into doing otherwise.’

  ‘What will happen if I stay?’

  ‘You will grow rich and powerful. You will marry a beautiful woman. You will commit terrible acts, and witness them. And then you will die.’

  ‘Will my father die?’

  ‘Yes.�
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  ‘At the king’s hand?’

  ‘At the command of the king. Not by his hand.’

  The boy fell silent, locked in that serious, concentrated way of thinking which is unique to children, who can lay their minds entirely open to a new thought without prejudice.

  ‘I will do as you say,’ the boy said.

  ‘I am glad.’

  ‘But you should go too. Is that not true?’

  ‘I cannot run. Even if I could, I would not. I think there might be something left for me to do here. But I do not know what it is.’ He regarded the boy for a time, and some deep, buried knot in his mind seemed to loosen a little. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘What have I done?’

  ‘It is difficult to explain. One day, you may understand.’

  The boy left, and Croesus sat alone for a time in the garden with the ghosts of the disappeared, looking upon the verdant replica of Persia. A beautiful land that he would never see again.

  At last, it grew dark. It was time to go.

  8

  In Persia, the king had insisted on dining in almost total darkness. In Memphis, the great hall was brightly lit, the walls hung with polished artefacts of gold and brass. His perpetual indecision, between subjecting others to his darkness or providing as much light as he could for his failing eyes, had swung once again towards the latter.

  To an outsider, the table might have offered a semblance of companionship. The nobles and generals spoke to one another, interspersing discussions on politics and ethics with raucous, obscene stories. But, looking closer, one could begin to see the real games that were being played. Calculations were being made, shown in the brief hesitation before each man spoke. Every man there watched and probed for the weaknesses of others, guarding against a mistake of his own, his conversation a form of self-defence. A single mistake would, at the least, cost him his position. It might well cost him his life.

  Each man struggled to keep a clear head, fighting against the wine and his own exhaustion. There was no hope that Cambyses would become tired before them. Whatever other qualities he was lacking as a king, he never seemed to grow weary, rarely slept, and never seemed drunk, in spite of all the wine he swallowed. Sometimes, Croesus wondered if he drew sustenance from his time awake in the same way that normal men were refreshed by their dreams. If Cambyses regarded the waking world as a dream to be shaped to his will, it would explain much.

  The noblemen’s sons worked around the table, bringing private messages and taking them away, pouring wine for those that needed it or, more commonly, those whom Cambyses decreed had not drunk enough. They were learning first-hand from their fathers how to survive at the king’s table: how never to say anything that one might be held to firmly at a later date, how to speak only in empty, abstract constructions, how to trap one’s rival in a conversation that he could not escape from, and how to silently form alliances around the table in a matter of moments, and break them in half that time. To be witty, but not stand out, to be insightful, but not to show a dangerous intelligence. To be shadow men, taking shape as the king willed it. Amongst the boys who served, Croesus could see Prexaspes’s son, and Artabanos looked up at him only briefly before averting his gaze. Good, Croesus thought to himself. He has learned not to associate with those who are out of favour.

  There were some that Croesus recognized at the king’s table, and many he did not. He was grateful to see Parmida was not there.

  ‘My wife is unwell,’ Cambyses said, with his uncanny habit of answering unspoken thoughts. ‘You have been long absent, Croesus.’

  ‘Forgive me, master.’

  ‘Oh, it means little to me. In truth, I had not noticed that you had been gone. But Psamtek says that he has missed your company.’

  Croesus turned to the Egyptian, who silently inclined his head in greeting. ‘I see,’ the old slave said. ‘It is a blessing, to be missed.’

  ‘Sit, Croesus. There is better food here than the kind you are used to.’

  ‘As you wish, master.’

  Cambyses said little, and even at the table, Croesus could see he kept a short bow propped against his chair; occasionally his hand would stray down and brush against it, as if he were about to launch into his exercises even as he ate. But for now, the king contented himself with listening to the conversation, accepting the compliments that regularly came his way and offering the occasional comment of his own. He seemed to enjoy the discussions and the jokes, but did not contribute to them. All could see that, as was his habit every night, he was working on a question to ask them. A single, dangerous question that they would all have to answer.

  When a few men’s heads were nodding from exhaustion, and all had drunk too much, the king cleared his throat to bring silence.

  ‘So,’ Cambyses said. ‘I have a question for you.’ He smiled. ‘Who do you think is the greater king? My father, or myself?’

  The men said nothing.

  ‘You must present your case, master,’ Psamtek said from the king’s side.

  ‘Oh I will.’ Cambyses leaned back and drained his cup. ‘He may have formed his kingdom from nothing. He may even have conquered such trifling kingdoms as Babylon, and Lydia.’ Polite laughter at this. ‘But I have retained all of my father’s lands,’ he continued, ‘and I have added Egypt to his conquests. He never conquered so great a kingdom as Egypt. There has never been an empire as great as mine. What do you think?’

  Croesus said nothing. He stared down at his plate, hoping that perhaps they would think he had fallen asleep at his meal, and that he would not have to perjure himself for the king’s vanity.

  ‘What do you say, Croesus?’ the king said. ‘You served my father. You should know, better than anyone. Am I the better king?’

  ‘I cannot agree,’ he said quietly.

  Silence fell around the table. Croesus looked up. Cambyses still smiled, but it was a ghastly smile.

  ‘Oh,’ the king said, his voice still light. ‘And what makes you say that?’

  Croesus stared at him. ‘Because you have not yet been blessed with a son to match yourself.’

  Relieved laughter burst out around the table, led by Cambyses. ‘Very good, Croesus, very good,’ the king said. ‘Even as old and ugly as you are, it is good to see you still have a few wits left.’ The king smiled. ‘But you are wrong. You shall learn so shortly.’ He turned to look at the last man at the table. ‘And you, Prexaspes. What do you think?’

  ‘I think Croesus speaks well,’ Prexaspes said, ‘though in truth, I think you have already surpassed your father, son or not. You are a great king, and your people love you.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘Though I have heard that they say you are a little too fond of wine,’ he said, raising his goblet in an ironic toast.

  Laughter broke out again, stronger than before, but this time Cambyses did not join them. He smiled patiently until the laughter died away. ‘Who says this?’ he said.

  ‘They say . . . I spoke in jest, my king. I apologize.’

  ‘If they think I drink too much, they think I am a drunk. If they think I am a drunk, they must think I am mad. You dare to call me mad?’

  Prexaspes opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Psamtek leaned in and whispered to the king. ‘Quite right, Psamtek,’ Cambyses said. ‘Prexaspes, where is your son? He is here, isn’t he?’

  Prexaspes hesitated.

  ‘Answer me. Where is your son?’

  ‘By the door, my king.’

  Croesus turned to look. The entire table, silent, turned with him.

  The boy looked uncertain, with every gaze in the room suddenly on him; shy, like any other boy his age. Artabanos glanced at his father for some indication of what he should do. Run, Croesus thought at him.

  ‘Excellent,’ Cambyses said. ‘Let us ask him, shall we?’ He peered towards the doorway. Croesus realized that, in the king’s near-blindness, he couldn’t see the boy. ‘Where are you? Speak to me.’

  Croesus shook his head at Artabanos
, but the boy did not notice. His eyes were fixed on Cambyses.

  ‘I am here, my king,’ the child said softly.

  Cambyses squinted. ‘So you are. Good, good.’ He nodded once. Then he picked up the bow that lay beside his chair and, turning sideways in his chair like a mounted archer in the saddle, he nocked an arrow and shot the child.

  The boy stood tall, and for a moment Croesus thought the arrow had gone astray, that the near-blind king had missed his shot. But, looking closer, he could see there was something wrong with the boy’s chest. A protrusion. A sudden, spreading darkness.

  Artabanos sighed, and leaned against the wall. Croesus thought he heard a choked sob before the boy fell to the floor.

  ‘Bring him here,’ Cambyses said.

  The guard at the door did so.

  ‘Cut him open.’

  The guard hesitated for the briefest of moments, then took his knife and cut the boy’s chest open.

  ‘Tell me,’ Cambyses said. ‘What has it pierced?’

  The guard looked up at him. ‘The heart, my king.’

  Cambyses turned to face Prexaspes. The other man shook silently in his chair, and the king smiled. ‘You see? I am not drunk. I am not mad either. No mad man could ever shoot so straight. Do you not agree, Prexaspes?’

  Croesus thought he would never forget the expression on the other man’s face. It was the face of a man who will be forever lost to the past, who will relive a single moment, again and again, for the rest of his life.

  ‘It is so,’ Prexapses whispered. ‘I was wrong. Forgive me.’

  The king, half blind as he was, somehow felt Croesus’s eyes upon him. He turned to the old slave and, once again, answered his unspoken question. ‘A child is not a man. I still have not killed a man.’

  Cambyses turned away. But before he did so, just for a moment, Croesus saw Cambyses look again at Psamtek. The briefest look, a child seeking an acknowledgement of good behaviour. And he saw Psamtek nod, and give his approval of what the king had done.

  They went from the dining chamber in silence, no man allowing himself to speak. Even these practised actors would struggle to voice the words of praise that would keep them safe. The slightest intonation, the faintest expression of censure, these would be noted and recorded by the others. No one could be trusted, for even a close companion might become a rival in a year for a woman or position at court. An almost innocent comment would be remembered, and turned against the one who had spoken it. It was better not to speak of such things. Better, by far, to forget.