by Tim Leach
‘It is. Though I do not believe it.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘I cannot think you would be that taken with him. You are a man of intelligence. Croesus is a fool.’
‘Oh, many men have thought that of him,’ Isocrates said. He paused for a moment, and idly ran a finger across the stones set in the wall. ‘It might even have been true, a long time ago. But not any more. Still, there are some things that he cannot bring himself to do.’ He looked back to the Egyptian, and folded his arms. ‘But he has me to do them for him.’
‘You still serve him? A slave to a slave? Perhaps the habit is a difficult one to break.’
‘That may be so. But he does not know that I am here.’
‘Why are you here?’
Isocrates did not reply.
‘You have come to threaten me, I suppose,’ Psamtek said. ‘But none will lay hands on the favourite of the king. And the guards are within earshot.’
‘You will not call for them.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ said Isocrates. ‘Will you answer a question of mine?’
‘What is it?’
‘Why do you toy with the king? I would understand if you sought to kill the man. I would kill him if I could. But it is a strange revenge, that kills the innocent, and spares the guilty.’
‘What did you think I would do? I am not a coward like Croesus. Like you. To fawn and beg for favour from a conqueror. They will always remember him, now. Remember what he has done. There can be no revenge greater than that.’ Psamtek paused, for a moment, then said: ‘Why are you here?’
‘To tell you that Prexaspes will come for you today.’
There was silence for a long time.
‘What have you done?’ Psamtek said.
‘You have been conspiring against the king.’
‘That is a lie.’
‘Yes, it is. But he is being given letters, written in your name, that prove that you are a traitor to him. ‘
‘I do not believe you,’ Psamtek said. But there was doubt in his voice.
‘I am not a skilled liar. I never learned the art. So you may believe what I say.’
Psamtek said nothing, and Isocrates watched his eyes go dim, his mind searching for a way out. ‘I will speak to the king,’ the Egyptian said eventually.
‘You of all people should know the futility in that.’
‘Then let us talk. We can reach terms. What is it that you want?’
‘It is too late. The letters have been given. Prexaspes will take your death sentence from the king. He may already be on his way here.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘To let you choose how to die.’
Silence fell once again. Psamtek looked down and stared at his hands, lying limp at his sides. Isocrates wondered if he were trying to remember, once more, what it was to turn them against himself.
‘You want me to have the death I deserve?’ said the Egyptian.
‘Few of us get that. But you will get the chance to choose. There are not many that have that privilege.’
Psamtek did not move for a long time. He stayed seated, his eyes dull and body tense. Then he seemed to sink down slightly into his chair, some tautness in his shoulders going slack. The smallest gesture of defeat.
He stood and went to the corner of the room, and opened a small wooden chest. From it he took a wineskin, and poured out a thick red liquid into a clay cup.
‘You are prepared, I see,’ said Isocrates. ‘What is that?’
‘Bull’s blood.’
‘Like in the old stories.’
‘Yes. Like them.’
‘Not the blade again?’
‘Croesus told you that, did he?’ Psamtek shook his head. ‘The body refuses a death it has faced before. I cannot endure that again.’ He took his eyes from the cup, and looked back at Isocrates. ‘When the king has you put to death – which he will eventually, I promise you – will you remember something for me?’
‘What is that?’
‘Remember that it is I who am killing you, with his hands.’
‘I will try to keep it in mind,’ said Isocrates. He pointed to the cup. ‘You had better drink that. They will be coming for you soon.’
Psamtek stared at the cup in his hand. His mental rehearsals must have brought him to this point a thousand times, Isocrates thought. Perhaps he had even poured the blood out once or twice, and held it there in front of him. He had never gone further, but always imagined that it would be a simple enough choice, given the alternative. But now, faced with swallowing death, he hesitated.
He closed his eyes. Perhaps he imagined that it was a dream he had to wake from. Perhaps that was the only way he could trick his mind and body into accepting this death. He breathed steadily, and raised the drink to his lips.
‘You will have to put something in that,’ Isocrates said.
Psamtek opened his eyes once again. He lowered the cup and looked down at the bull’s blood within it.
‘It will not kill me?’ he said.
‘No. The old stories are wrong. It is just blood.’
Psamtek shuddered once, and put the cup down on the table with a strangely careful gesture, as though afraid to spill it and see the blood run loose. ‘What will I do?’ he said.
Isocrates did not reply. He took a small, sharp piece of flint from within his robe, and held it up between a thumb and two fingers for Psamtek to see. Isocrates had carried it with him for many long years, and thought he would have to use it for himself one day. He reached out and offered the blade to the Egyptian.
The moment that Psamtek took it, his muscles seemed to go weak. Perhaps his body truly did remember what it was to feel sharpness in its hands, to know that that sharpness would be turned against it, and stole the strength from his limbs in one last attempt to prevent this act.
‘Will you help me?’ Psamtek said. ‘Please.’
‘No,’ Isocrates said. He pointed to the blade. ‘That is a better death than the one that the king’s executioners will give to you. Do as you wish. It means nothing to me.’ With that, Isocrates turned and walked away. He closed the door softly behind him.
As he walked down the corridor, he could hear the rattling stamp of the soldiers approaching. Perhaps Psamtek heard them too. A moment later, the first choking screams came from behind him, as the blade began its slow work.
‘I did not think I would see you again.’
‘You cannot escape me so easily, Croesus. Even if you were to travel one way, and I another, we would always find each other.’
‘You have heard?’
‘Isocrates told me. I am to go east to be a gardener, it seems.’
‘Yes. I go to war, and you go to paradise.’
‘To build a paradise. An important difference. From the stories I have heard of the gods, building a world can be hard work.’
‘I wish I could go there with you.’
‘You will come there in time.’
‘So Isocrates says. I hope so. I sometimes wonder, you know, what would have happened if I had been born a slave, not a king.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Had we met then, I would have married you, I think.’
‘If you had been born a slave, maybe I would have been born a queen. And I would have the pick of handsomer men than you.’
‘A man like Isocrates?’
‘Handsomer than him, too, I would hope.’
‘But if I had been a slave and you a slave, or I a king and you a queen, do you think—’
‘You would not have been happy, Croesus. I could have given you no children.’
‘My sons are lost to me.’
‘What of that? We are all lost, in time. You must be glad to have seen them. To have had what time you had. I wish that I could have known such a thing.’
‘Does it trouble Isocrates? He would have been a good father.’
‘A hard father. But yes, a good one. I do not know. I do not want to speak o
f it.’
‘I am sorry. I wish we could stay here longer. I wish that we did not have to leave Babylon. I wish that we had more time.’
‘So do I. But there is no time left.’
The Second Death
1
When they heard of Psamtek’s death and the rumours of conspiracy that came with it, the people of the court expected another purge, more great and terrible than the last. They sent their families into hiding, and began to think of whom they might denounce to save themselves. But the days passed, and the king did nothing.
They watched him obsessively, as priests study omens, and every man had differing thoughts on what this inaction might mean. Some said his cruelty might have died with his advisor, that he seemed in some way relieved, like a man who is at last freed from some terrible burden or heartless duty.
But most did not believe that the king had changed; it was merely that his attentions were elsewhere. For though none had seen her leave her chamber for months, all knew that Parmida must be growing heavy with child. The king spoke of little else now, so excited was he by the coming of an heir. The city waited for the birth of the child, the beginning of a tainted dynasty. All feared what would come to pass when the child was born. The king had taken no chances when it came to his own safety; a single misplaced word that might hint at disloyalty would earn a death sentence. What lengths would he go to protect his child? The noblemen implored the priests to take countless auguries, seeking some sign of what was to come. But no matter how many sacrifices were made and prophets consulted, all were inconclusive. The future, it seemed, was not set.
In the slaves’ quarters, Croesus listened to these rumours and stories with little interest as they made their way down the corridors and staircases, passed from noble to servant to slave. He had surrendered his stake in the future, grown weary of trying to understand the cruelty of the king, like those tragedy-struck men who have given up hope of fathoming the will of the gods. But, one day, a rumour came from a different place; not descending from the court, but rising up from the slaves themselves. And the moment he heard it, he knew that it was true.
Word came to him, spoken of amongst the slaves and servants as nothing of consequence, but it was news that meant everything to him – that somewhere within the depths of the palace, an old slave lay dying.
It did not take Croesus long to find them. He searched the forgotten parts of the palace, storerooms that had long since been abandoned, half-collapsed side chambers that none had seen fit to repair. He knew every one of these places, and, more importantly, he knew the minds of those he looked for, knew where they would take shelter at a time like this.
And so, he came at last to a chamber that had fallen out of use, pushing aside a hanging of rough fabric that should not have been there. He found Isocrates sitting on a broken stone pedestal, dull-eyed with lack of sleep, beside him a jar of wine and a heavy piece of wood to serve as a club. Behind him was a doorway with another fabric partition.
Sitting there before that second chamber, Isocrates resembled nothing more than some ancient sentinel, a warrior who might have been assigned to guard this place decades before in some long-forgotten war, abandoned at his post and left to grow old there. He looked up at Croesus and offered no greeting, his eyes empty of hope.
‘She is in there?’ Croesus said.
‘Yes.’
‘And she still lives.’
‘Yes. For now at least.’
‘When were you going to tell me?’
‘I do not know.’
Croesus tried to find anger, but could not. Instead, he sat down on the ground at Isocrates’s feet, leaned back against a tall, empty clay jar. He had not seen Maia for many days, but he had paid it no mind, thinking that, as the birth drew near, she must be kept busy in service to the queen. He wondered whether they had both known for a long time, or whether some sudden collapse or overnight fever had brought about this crisis.
‘Has she asked for me?’ Croesus said.
‘Yes.’
‘And still you would not send for me?’
‘I hoped . . .’ Isocrates faltered. ‘I hoped that it was not true. Though I suppose I knew. A part of me has known for a long time.’
‘You could be wrong. Perhaps it is not true.’
‘I have seen the wasting sickness before. She has been exhausted for months. I thought it might be something else. It is not. No one recovers from it.’
‘You are certain?’
‘Yes.’
Croesus bowed his head. He wondered how he could feel such grief as this. He had known that one of them must die soon. It was a strange stroke of fortune that had kept the three of them alive for so long, and it could not go on for ever. Yet somehow he had always thought that he would die first, that he would not have to think of continuing his life without them, the way a child, so needful of his mother’s love, will believe, against chance, that she must outlive him.
‘Can I speak to her?’ said Croesus.
‘Yes.’ There was something in Isocrates’s tone, a sense that this was a statement that was unfinished, and so Croesus waited. At last, the other man spoke again. ‘But this will be the last time,’ he said.
It took Croesus a long time to understand. ‘No,’ he said.
‘If you have heard, others will have too. They will come for her soon. A dying slave is sport for the cruel. I would spare her that.’
‘When?’
‘Call to me when you are ready. When she is ready. We will . . .’ He faltered for a moment, then spoke again. ‘We will do it today.’
When Croesus parted the fabric, he stepped into near darkness, a small fire casting the only light in the room. He wondered if the light pained her, or if it was one of Isocrates’s precautions against discovery. Someone glancing inside would have seen a storeroom like any other, but if they had lingered for a moment longer, a vague scent would have revealed that something was not right. The smell of urine, soaked and dried into bedding. A childish smell. And beneath it, another odour, a subtle, stale scent that did not have a name.
He found Maia huddled in the corner, wrapped heavily in blankets. He sat down beside her and took her hand, pale and dry, into his. ‘How do you feel?’
‘As if I am dying, of course.’ He looked away. ‘It is the truth, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘I do not know. Are you afraid?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will get better. You could get better.’
‘No, I will not,’ she said. She paused. ‘You must know, Croesus, that I love you.’
He did not reply at first, not trusting himself to speak. ‘As a brother, not a husband, I think,’ Croesus said.
‘Yes.’
‘I do not know why. I have never done anything for you. I always thought I would find the time to help you, some day.’ He hesitated over the words, the admission that they contained. ‘And now it is too late.’
She did not reply at first. He realized, with a surge of disgust, that he’d hoped for reassurance, hoped to use her one last time, imagined that she might give him some kind of absolution. She cocked her head, a gesture he knew so well, and considered the problem he had presented to her. ‘You are an interesting puzzle,’ she said. ‘You want so much to be happy. More than anyone I have ever met. I tried to help, I suppose, but I treated you as a curiosity. Perhaps I was not as good a friend as you think I was.’
‘Have you been happy?’
‘From time to time, perhaps,’ she said. ‘Looking after your son, yes, I was happy then. I sometimes wish I had died when Sardis fell. That is another thing we might have in common. But I was glad to see Babylon with you. That was a good day. I am glad I lived to see it.’
Croesus closed his eyes, felt the tears seeping down. When he opened them again, he saw her looking at the doorway.
‘I know what he is going to do,’ she said quietly.
‘What?’
‘He thinks he can hide everything from me. But he is n
ot the liar he wants to be. He is an honest man, like you.’
‘Do you want him to?’
‘I trust him,’ she said. ‘Even with this.’
‘You love him.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I do not know about that. But we helped each other along the way. We tried to be good to each other. And that will have to do.’
‘Maia—’
‘There is nothing more to say. I am tired.’ She hesitated, trying to find some other words to speak. ‘I am tired,’ she said again. She reached out, with effort, and touched his face.
When he felt that he could speak again, he said, ‘Shall I call to him?’
‘Yes.’
Croesus called out, and heard the curtain part, the heavy footsteps approach, felt a presence kneeling on the ground beside him, a reassuring hand placed on his back. Croesus bowed forward at this touch. That his friend would think to comfort him at a time like this, faced with what he was about to do.
Isocrates placed both palms to the ground and, like a supplicant prostrating himself before a king, brought his head down and pressed it to her shoulder. She turned a little, put both arms around him, and gently stroked his neck. Isocrates shuddered once, like a man run through, then rose again, took her hands in his. They stared at one another in silence, sharing their thoughts, wordless, for the last time.
Croesus made to rise, to leave them alone together, but a hand reached out and took his elbow.
‘You must stay,’ Isocrates said. ‘I cannot do this on my own.’
Isocrates got to his feet and went from the chamber. In his absence, Croesus took Maia’s hands, like a sentry replacing his companion at the watch. They did not speak.
When Isocrates returned, and knelt once again beside his wife, he had a cup of wine in his hand. Even in the dim light, Croesus could see the discoloration, the presence of some foreign element in the cup, and that Isocrates’s hands were trembling.
‘What is it?’ Maia said.
‘Hemlock.’
‘A shame to spoil the taste.’
Isocrates bowed his head at this; she reached forward and touched the whitened stubble on his crown.
When he had recovered, she struggled upright in her blankets and took the cup from him. She paused for only a moment; then in two long swallows drained it almost entirely. She threw out the last of the wine on the ground in the way of the Hellenes, giving the lees as an offering to the gods. From another it might have seemed a desperate action, one last bribe of faith offered to the divinities in hope of their protection. From her, it seemed like a gesture of farewell.