by Tim Leach
Most returned to their own chambers at once. Some would confide in wives and lovers, the desire to confess outweighing the fear of betrayal. Others would lose themselves in drink, for there were many who had grown practised at drowning horrors with wine, like blood washed in water. The few who would go furthest in the court, who would survive every purge and rise to the greatest positions of power, would return to their beds and sleep soundly, unmoved by what they had seen.
Croesus had no wife or lover to go to, and what slave could find wine enough to still the mind, day after day? Instead he walked, with the resigned air of a beaten warrior going to offer his surrender, to Parmida’s chamber. Outside the door, he waited for the slave to take his message to the queen, waited to see whether she would say yes or no. He thought, with sudden dread, of the king coming here, finding his slave outside this chamber, what he would have to say. Worse yet, to have to see the king disappear into the chamber, to think of what would follow. But the king did not appear, and, at last, the slave beckoned him inside.
It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of her chamber. A single torch, almost burned away to nothing, gave the only light in the room, for now it was she who lived in shadows, and the king in light. Perhaps, he thought, she sought to hide from the king in this darkness, to win a few moments free of his advances when he came to this place.
She sat up in her bed, the blankets gathered around her, and he did not know if she had retreated there already, or had not left it all day.
‘Why have you come here, Croesus?’ she said.
‘I have come to ask you to do something for me.’
‘You would dare ask anything of me?’
‘I do not know what else to do,’ Croesus said. ‘He killed a child tonight.’
‘What?’
‘Your brother. He killed a boy.’
A pause. ‘You want me to reason with him?’
‘No. I have no hope of that.’ He hesitated. ‘I want you to speak to Isocrates and Maia. To ask if they will see me.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘For no purpose. Just to speak to them. They may listen to you.’
‘I thought you might have come here to help me. How foolish of me.’ She tipped her head forward, and her untied hair fell about her face. She was silent for a time, then raised her head, and, almost defiantly, said: ‘I am with child.’
As soon as she said the words, Croesus shuddered. He wished that he had not, for even in the darkness he could see the pain in her eyes, and knew the wound he had inflicted. ‘I had hoped it would not come to this,’ he said.
‘All your hoping can do nothing for me. Though I suppose it eases your conscience.’
‘No. It does not.’
She put her hand to her stomach, as if to hide it, though she showed no sign of her child yet. ‘It is an evil thing,’ she said. Then: ‘Will you help me?’
‘I do not know that art.’
‘Would you help me if you did?’
He hesitated. ‘I do not know if I could do that.’
‘You would allow this to happen?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I can feel my child in me, longing to die. To not be born a monster, the son of a monster.’
‘You must speak to Isocrates and Maia,’ said Croesus. ‘They may know more of such things than I.’
‘Why do you flinch from this?’
Croesus felt a sickly weariness descend on him, the way a warrior, exhausted by killing, will collapse where he stands at the end of a battle and sleep a night amongst the dead. He found a chair to sit in, and rested in it for a time. ‘I think of those who are children now,’ he said, ‘or are born now. I think of how they may outlive us, outlive the king, and see a different world. At least, that it what I used to think. But I saw today that is not true. Now children die as men do.’
‘I would have it that none were born. Until this time has passed.’
‘Until Cambyses is dead.’
‘Yes.’
‘I tried, the night . . . the night of your wedding. But I was stopped. I am sorry.’
‘There is a part of him that used to long for death. That knew what he would become. But he did not have the courage. He wanted to die. I wish you could have helped him.’
‘I do not think I believe that.’
‘You still think that all crave life,’ she said, ‘as you do. He would have thanked you for it, if you had given him that death. But now it is too late for such things. He wants to be as the gods are now. Witnesses to death, again and again. But never to suffer it himself.’
‘Yes. You are right.’
She lay down on the bed, and turned so that she no longer faced him. He waited for a long time, but she gave no sign that she intended to break the silence. It was only when he stood to go that she spoke again.
‘I will tell Maia and Isocrates what you have asked for,’ she said. ‘But I cannot promise what they will say.’
‘They are Hellenes. A stubborn and proud people. But kind too. Perhaps they will take pity on an old man. I do not know.’
‘Leave me now, Croesus.’
‘I am sorry I could not do more. I wish . . .’
‘I know. Leave me.’
He did not bow to her as he left. It would seem a mockery to one who, in spite of her royal birth, was more of a slave than he was.
After he had gone, she sat there in silent thought for a long time, one hand absently gathering up the cloth of her bedding into a bunched fist, then releasing it and beginning the process anew. At last, like one waking from a nodding half sleep, she raised her head, and looked to one of the heavy hangings at the side of the chamber.
‘He is gone now,’ she said.
From behind this heavy piece of cloth, Maia stepped forward. She sat down beside her mistress, gently taking one of the queen’s hands in both of hers.
‘You heard how he spoke,’ Parmida said. ‘What will you do?’
‘I will speak with my husband.’
‘I asked what you would do.’
‘That does not matter.’
‘You obey him?’
‘No. We will decide together.’
‘Of course,’ the queen said, then lapsed into silence.
If one were to enter this chamber, knowing nothing of who these two women were, one would not have thought that the first was a queen and the other a slave. The way they spoke held no sign of command or servitude. Parmida wore none of her finery, and, in the near darkness, one might not notice Maia’s simple clothes, the callused hands that marked her as a slave. One would have thought them mother and daughter.
After a time, Parmida spoke again. ‘I look on you with envy, sometimes,’ she said. ‘What kind of a world is that, where the queen looks on the slave in that way?’
‘That is a foolish thing to say, my lady.’
‘It is?’
‘I have endured many times over what you have suffered, my lady.’
‘I did not know. You have never had a child, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Is it true, what they say? Of children that . . . of a child like this. That they are born weak or crippled?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘That they are cursed by the gods?’
‘No. I do not believe that can be true. It does not have any choice in how it is born.’
‘I had no choice, either.’
‘That is true.’
‘So you think I am not cursed?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps I would rather that were so. That I was the plaything of the gods.’ She looked away. ‘Do you know how this can be stopped?’
‘I wish that I knew how. I would help you that way, if I could. I cannot. But I will help you to raise this child.’ She hesitated. ‘I have always wanted to do such a thing.’
‘Thank you,’ the queen said. ‘But it will not come to that.’
After that, they sat together in silence, knowing that there was not
hing more that could be said.
9
They met some days later, at dawn, in an old armoury that had long since fallen out of use. Croesus had been there for some time, amidst the rusted and broken-down relics of old wars fought many centuries before, and had begun to think that Isocrates and Maia had changed their minds, that his old companions had chosen not to come. But, just as he was about to rise and wander slowly back to his chamber, he heard the footsteps approach.
Isocrates and Maia entered the room, and the three of them stood in silence for a time, gathered in that forgotten place like some group of aged conspirators. What a notion that was, Croesus thought. Conspiracy was for the young, those driven by desperation or ambition. What ambition could an old man have?
‘I am glad that you have come,’ Croesus said at last. ‘You are both well?’
‘Well enough,’ Isocrates said.
The silence returned. Isocrates seemed almost unchanged since Croesus had last seen him. His movements were perhaps a little slower and stiffer, but he could not tell if that were some mark of age or simple discomfort. But Maia looked exhausted – perhaps she had fought long and hard to get Isocrates to agree to come here.
‘It is a strange thing,’ Croesus said, ‘to live in a cursed time. It does not trouble either of you, I suppose.’
‘No. It does not,’ Isocrates said shortly.
‘It haunts me. But then I think of other places. Lands where they may yet be piecing together a different way of living, and have not made the mistakes that we have. Or I think of other times, when these will be stories to scare children. Be quiet, and go to sleep, or Cambyses will come for you.’
‘And Croesus too, perhaps,’ said Isocrates. ‘You too may find your way into such histories.’
‘Yes, I would deserve as much. Cambyses said I am a man for another time. I think I am not cruel enough for this one. Or brave enough. I do not know what I believe. I do not know what to do.’ Croesus looked away. ‘He killed a boy.’
‘Cambyses?’
‘Yes. Or Psamtek. I do not know any more. Which is the hand and which is the mind that guides it.’
‘Why are we here, Croesus?’ Maia said.
‘I have shown you both too little gratitude. For all you have done.’
‘And now you wish us to do something for you once more, I suppose.’
‘No, no. That is not what I want.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘I do not want to be alone.’
They did not reply.
‘I want us to take care of each other,’ Croesus said. ‘I have no greater ambition than this. I spent my life in this world thinking that I might reshape it. Even as a slave, that was what I wanted. Now I want only some comfort before I die. And I find nothing matters to me more than both of you.’
Croesus could see some silent conference occurring between them, for Isocrates and Maia had known each other so long and so well that words were no longer necessary. He thought that it was Isocrates who still held back, that it was Maia who, in that silence, fought hardest for his cause.
At last, they turned back to him, and at first Croesus thought that his plea had failed. Then Isocrates said: ‘Very well.’ Perhaps there was the barest trace of a smile on his face, Croesus could not tell. ‘You tend to get your way, after all.’
‘Not in all things.’
‘No. But when it comes to me, you do.’
Maia nodded once, tired but satisfied, like a priestess concluding some long and difficult ritual. She came forward, gestured for Croesus to rise, and embraced him.
‘I have missed you both, very much,’ Croesus said.
‘We have missed you as well.’
‘There is a garden. A Persian garden, hidden within the palace.’
‘I know. I helped to plant it, when we first came to this place. But are we permitted?’
‘I often visit it now. They will not stop us. Would you like to go there?’
Isocrates nodded. ‘Yes. You should both go.’
‘You will not come with us?’ Maia said.
‘Not yet. I have something to attend to.’ He tried to smile. ‘Perhaps I will join you there when my work is finished.’
‘Will you know where to find us?’ said Croesus.
‘Yes. I will find you.’
Croesus clasped the other man on the shoulder. He turned back and took Maia’s hand, almost without thinking, and led her away into the palace.
Isocrates watched them go; another man walking away with his wife. He imagined that, once again, he could feel the invisible chains of servitude settling upon him, heavy as they had always been. He had spent decades of his life in service to Croesus. Even all the time that they had spent as slaves together could not erase those instincts. As the other man commanded, or even requested, he felt himself obeying. He knew that he would never be free of it. And he knew what had to be done.
When Isocrates reached his destination, the guards at the door would not admit him at first.
‘Whom do you serve, in coming here?’ one said.
‘I serve no one,’ Isocrates replied. He waited for a moment to let the guards think about this impossibility, a slave acting without a master’s command, then spoke again. ‘But I come with knowledge that the King’s Eye will be glad to receive.’
‘You must tell us, and we will pass on your message to him ourselves.’
‘I cannot. My words are for Prexaspes alone.’
‘Then we may not admit you.’
‘As you wish. It means nothing to me. But, if I were you, I would fear his displeasure when he learns of this.’
One of the guards still eyed him doubtfully, but, after a brief and whispered discussion with his companion, went within to deliver the request. Soon enough, the summons came, and Isocrates was taken inside.
He found Prexaspes sitting on a cushioned chair. His gaze was aimless, marked with the ghostly aura of the bereaved, those who look as though they have almost followed the lost to the next world. From somewhere deeper within the set of chambers, Isocrates could hear a soft insistent sobbing. Prexaspes’s wife, he supposed.
‘What do you want?’ Prexaspes said.
‘Forgive me for intruding on your grief.’
‘Has Croesus sent you?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Isocrates replied.
For a moment he did not act, permitting himself one last moment of hesitation. Then, from within his robe, he took the parchments that he had commissioned many months before, but had not found the will to use.
‘Can you read the Egyptian script?’ Isocrates said.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you may look at this for yourself.’
Prexaspes took the papers from him, but did not read them immediately. He fixed the slave with a steady gaze, perhaps looking for some sign of nervousness or doubt that might colour his reading. Isocrates could not help but be a little impressed at this composure, a day after the death of his son.
At last, Prexaspes began to read, careful and thorough, like a merchant studying a contract, or a priest consulting a prophet’s written words. After he had read it through for a second time, he gave a small nod.
‘It is good work,’ Prexaspes said, without taking his eyes from the parchment in his hands, still seeking some flaw in what had been written. ‘I commend you. When did you have this done?’
‘Some time ago. I thought that it might one day be necessary.’
‘Why wait so long?’
‘I hoped it would not come to this. Will the king believe it, if you show it to him?’
‘I think that he will. But it is a risk. He is unpredictable.’
‘As you well know.’
‘Yes. I do.’ At last, Prexaspes looked up from the parchment, and studied Isocrates. ‘Why do you think that I will do this thing for you?’
‘I would have thought it obvious.’
‘Perhaps I value my life more than you think, and will not risk it for anything.�
�
‘Perhaps. But I think you will do it, because you are a little like me.’
‘In what way?’
‘We are the men who do what others will not.’
Prexaspes’s eyes dimmed for a moment, in pain or recognition. ‘Yes, we are,’ he said. ‘Tell me, why do you do this? Is it for revenge?’
‘No. A sort of kindness, I think.’
‘Kindness?’
‘Yes. For a man like this, I think death may come as a kindness.’
‘You justify yourself well. You should take my place.’
‘In another lifetime, I might have done. But I am glad this is not that life.’
‘And I wish that it was.’ At this, Prexaspes stood, and made ready to go.
‘Was he your only child?’ Isocrates said.
‘Yes.’ And Prexaspes left the chamber without another word.
Isocrates stood still and waited, counting his breaths to mark the time. He waited until he had marked five hundred of them, until he was certain that Prexaspes would have reached the king’s chamber, and that what had been begun could not be reversed. Then, with the slow steps of a tired old man, he began to make his way towards another part of the palace.
When Isocrates entered the chamber, the man within did not acknowledge his visitor. The slave who had once been a king sat in his chair, poring over his papers and in no hurry to finish what he was doing. And so Isocrates waited.
Finally, Psamtek, last ruler of the ten-thousand-year dynasty of Egyptian Pharaohs, rose from his chair and looked at his visitor.
‘You are Isocrates,’ the Egyptian said. ‘I have heard a little of you.’
‘What do they say?’
‘Some say you are in love with Croesus. And that there is a woman who acts as a wife to you both.’
‘Is that what they say?’