The Last King of Lydia

by Tim Leach

  He felt her hand on his shoulder for a moment, then he heard her walk away, back to the tents and to her duties. He was alone with the city once more.

  He stayed there for a time, watching one particular light in the city. It flickered in a distant Babylonian window like a dim star seen through passing clouds. It could have been lit for a king, or for a slave attending some nocturnal errand, for all Croesus knew, but for some reason he imagined that it was the light of some ordinary market trader, a butcher or a weaver or a baker. He imagined for a moment that it was his light, his city, that he had never known the burden of kingship, or the shame of slavery.

  The light went out. Croesus went to find his tent, to join the owner of the light, his Babylonian counterpart, in sleep.

  12

  The council met each day in Cyrus’s tent. They sat in a circle and drank water and wine, and spoke of the fall of Babylon.

  They discussed tunnelling beneath the walls, or raising a mound to go over them. They considered constructing engines to breach them; they thought of ways they might spread disease inside the city, and of deceptions that might enable a band of men to get inside to take the gates. They traded rumours of heroes who were reputed to be wandering in distant lands and who might be drawn into the fight. They summoned bards to sing of the battles and sieges of the ancient world, in the hope that some inspiration might come from them.

  One by one, plans were proposed and then rejected. The flaws of some were apparent almost immediately. Other proposals were surrendered reluctantly, giving way only after sustained examination revealed their weaknesses. Sometimes, a plan would take shape late at night when the wineskins were empty, and all in the king’s tent would be caught up in the excitement of fresh inspiration. It was only in the sober morning that such plans unravelled. At other times, they would come up with an idea that seemed workable during the day. Only later in the evening, in a haze of sweet wine, would the fatal flaw in the scheme emerge. No conceit was able to withstand their consideration both when drunk and when sober.

  Some in the council tentatively began to suggest that Babylon could not be taken. That they should travel north or east or south and find another place to conquer. Cyrus received their opinions respectfully and without reprimand, but he was insistent. Babylon would fall. As months passed, generals and councillors and slaves all grew weary of the endless plotting, but the king never seemed to tire. As time went on, the contrast became too apparent to ignore.

  ‘You looked exhausted, Croesus,’ the king said at the end of one such meeting.

  ‘We are all tired, master. Except you.’

  Cyrus smiled. ‘It would not be satisfying if it were easy. I don’t know if it can be done. It may exist in that narrow place between the impossible and the barely possible. But that is where all the greatest things hide.’

  ‘Poetic, master.’

  ‘Thank you, Croesus,’ the king said dryly. ‘You must be weary if you feel so free to mock me.’ He thought for a moment. ‘We shan’t meet tomorrow. Or the day after that. We will stay apart for as long as it takes. With a little time away, we shall find our solution.’

  ‘Thank you, master.’ Croesus tried to smile. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said. But he did not believe it.

  On their third day of rest, a familiar figure rejoined the army.

  Croesus was out by the banks of the Euphrates, resting his tired feet in the water, when he heard footsteps approach. One pair of feet were treading lightly, making an uneven rhythm against the steady heavy tramp of armed men. He turned, expecting to see Cyrus or one of his advisors. But it was Harpagus and his bodyguards, standing only a few feet away from him.

  Croesus started at the sight of him, and Harpagus laughed. ‘Did you think I was a spirit, come to haunt you?’

  ‘I thought you were on the other side of the world. You shouldn’t creep up on an old man like that,’ Croesus said. ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘Just now. I was going to see the king before he slept. I saw you wandering out here, and thought I would surprise you. As I have.’

  ‘You forget that I spent years in fear of you,’ Croesus said. He paused, looking on the other man. Harpagus seemed older, he thought, though it had been little more than a year that they had been parted. ‘Your wars are over?’

  ‘Yes. The last city fell a year ago. The king’s ridiculous work on the Gyndes gave me plenty of time to catch up with you. I would have hoped that you might have talked him out of that one, Croesus.’

  ‘Well, you have come at the right time, if you can find a way into Babylon.’

  ‘What has been decided?’

  ‘Nothing. Cyrus is waiting for someone to give him an impossible answer.’

  ‘You think it can’t be done?’

  ‘I am sure it can be done. I just don’t know how. We need another trick. As when the king routed my cavalry with his camels.’

  Harpagus laughed. ‘That was my idea, you know,’ the general said.

  ‘Really?’ Croesus shook his head. ‘I should have known.’

  They stared at the city in silence.

  ‘Have you ever been there?’ Croesus said eventually.

  ‘No,’ Harpagus said. ‘It wasn’t permitted, when I served Astyages. He found its existence intimidating – the world’s most famous city, so close to his borders. He forbade us to even mention its name, and tried to forget it was there.’

  ‘I wanted to hear everything I could about it, when I was a king,’ Croesus said. ‘Every story.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you happened to hear the story of how to conquer it?’

  ‘I am afraid not.’ Croesus smiled gently. ‘But I did always want to set my eyes on it.’

  ‘Now you will get your chance.’

  ‘If I do, it will be in ruins. I never thought I would play a part in destroying it.’

  Silence fell again, filled by the low hum of noise from the army, and the rushing of the Euphrates as it passed by the camp and flowed into the city.

  ‘It was quite something, you know,’ Croesus said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The draining of the river. I have never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Vanity,’ Harpagus said. ‘That’s all. Cyrus cannot do anything simply. He has to find some new way that no one else would think of.’

  ‘I would have thought you would admire that.’

  ‘Originality isn’t always brilliance, Croesus. There are good reasons that some things have never been done.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right. Sacrificing a river. Perhaps it is an idea that should have remained in his head.’

  There was silence. Croesus looked up, and found Harpagus staring back at him intently.

  ‘What is it?’ Croesus said.

  ‘You have given me an idea, Croesus.’ He looked out across the city. ‘I know a way into Babylon.’

  ‘What?’

  Harpagus waved away any questions. ‘I shall tell you tomorrow, when I have had time to consider it a little more. Sleep well, mighty king,’ he said, and began to walk away. ‘Sleep and dream of Babylon. You’ll see it soon enough.’

  ‘In ruins?’ Croesus shouted after him, as the general disappeared to his tent.

  ‘No!’ Harpagus replied. ‘I will keep it in one piece, just for you.’

  He was gone.

  The next day in the council tent, Harpagus’s suggestion was greeted by silence.

  Eventually, Cyrus repeated the general’s words back to him as a question. ‘Drain the river?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harpagus replied.

  Cyrus cocked his head. ‘There are wells inside the walls,’ he said. ‘Stop the river, and they will still have water.’

  ‘We aren’t going to starve them out. We are going to take the city by force.’ All in the tent stared at him expectantly, but he said nothing more.

  ‘Continue,’ Cyrus said, ‘stop toying with us and looking pleased with yourself. Tell me how.’

  ‘The river enters the city at
the north wall,’ Harpagus said. ‘Too high to send men in there, and the current is too strong. But if we can lower the water, we can enter the city.’

  ‘They will notice that the river is sinking,’ Cyraxes said. ‘They will be ready for us.’

  ‘I have thought of that. We dam it as we dig the channels far out of sight of the city. Maybe even make a show of retreat. Then, open the dams, and drain the river all at once. At night. Then, we go in and take a gate. We need only one open gate, then we have the city.’ Harpagus allowed himself a small smile. ‘It has never been done before. I should imagine that would appeal to you, Cyrus.’

  Cyrus nodded slowly. The others waited as he silently considered the plan, testing it for a weakness, a flaw like the ones that had unravelled all of the others. There was none. ‘Thank you, Harpagus,’ Cyrus said at last.

  ‘Croesus gave me the inspiration last night. It is him you should thank.’

  ‘He mocks me,’ Croesus said. ‘I mentioned your sacrifice of the Gyndes to him, that is all.’

  ‘With both of you so eager to avoid praise, let’s see whether it will succeed first.’ He turned to another general, Gobryas. ‘Can you drain another river for me?’

  The general looked crestfallen, and Cyrus laughed. ‘I am sorry, my friend. I am sure that you are weary of digging channels. Your men too. We are warriors, not farmers. But this will be the last time, I promise you.’

  As the others talked, some distant memory, submerged in Croesus’s mind, came to the surface. ‘In six weeks, they hold a great festival. Belshazzar. The entire city will be celebrating. We won’t get another chance as good as that.’

  The king nodded. ‘Do you think we can do it in six weeks?’

  ‘We won’t get much sleep,’ Gobryas said. ‘But we will manage.’

  ‘Very good. Let us begin.’

  ‘So that was your plan?’ Croesus said to Harpagus as they left the tent.

  ‘Our plan, Croesus,’ Harpagus replied. ‘You also played your part.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I have had enough of helping your conquests.’

  ‘Rest easy on this one. You haven’t helped to destroy Babylon – you have helped to save it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are ways to take any city. Even Babylon. But you gave me the only right way.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Oh, you will laugh at this. But I want to take it peacefully.’

  Croesus stopped and studied Harpagus to see if he was joking, but there was no trace of humour on the other man’s face. ‘You surprise me, Harpagus.’

  The general nodded. ‘I saw something terrible out in the west,’ he said. ‘After you had gone.’

  ‘You saw plenty of terrible things while I was still there.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘This was different.’ He lapsed into silence.

  ‘Tell me. If you want to, that is.’

  Harpagus thought it over. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let us find a quiet place.’

  Finding a peaceful place in the camp was no easy matter. Rumours were already spreading through the army, and orders followed them close behind, like thunder chasing lightning. The paths of the camp were filled with cavalry riding past, carts piled high with picks and shovels, groups of men heading for their assigned places, cursing both the Gods and their leaders for making them labour on yet another river.

  After searching for a time, they found a quiet corner. A large store tent had been left unguarded, piled high with arrows wrapped in skin and bound with leather thongs. One hundred arrows in each wrap, ten thousand bundles all told, enough to destroy an army, or murder a city. They went inside, Harpagus stalking about the tent, cursing the captain of the watch for allowing the guards of the tent to slip away, whilst Croesus busied himself with fashioning a couple of seats out of the stacks of ammunition.

  The two old men sat side by side on the piles of weapons, listening without speaking to the sounds of the army outside, as Croesus waited for the other man to order his thoughts. Eventually, Harpagus spoke.

  ‘Xanthus,’ he said, carefully sounding out both syllables. He fell silent, as though it had cost him much to utter the name again. ‘A city in Lycia,’ he said, ‘one of the last cities in the west to fall. Their army came out to meet us. They would not run, and they would not surrender. Not even when there were a hundred left, wounded and surrounded, up against my fifty thousand. We killed them, to a man. Then we marched on to take their city.’ He paused for a moment. ‘That’s when we saw fire on the horizon.’

  ‘They burned their own city?’

  ‘Yes. But not just that. We heard the story from the survivors, fleeing across the plains towards us. Grateful to see us, if you would believe it.’ He paused again. ‘There were only a dozen or so.’

  ‘A dozen survivors from Xanthus? Many thousands lived there, from what I heard.’

  ‘Not any more,’ Harpagus said. ‘They told us that when the men heard our army was coming, they filled their temples with every treasure they had. Then they dragged their slaves inside, their women and children. They barricaded the doors, piled wood around them. Then they set fire to the wood. And after that, after they had set light to everything and everyone that had ever meant anything to them, they marched out to meet us. To die.’ Harpagus paused, his fingers picking absently at the bundle of arrows beside to him. ‘I thought of what must have gone through their minds, as they barricaded their children inside, as they burned their city to the ground, watched their gold run like water and listened to their women scream. What can make a man think like that? Where that seemed like the right thing to do? Then I realized that we had done that to them. I see that city in my dreams now.’ He looked sharply at Croesus. ‘You can laugh. I know you want to, hearing me talk this way. You must be pleased.’

  ‘It is a little late to have regrets like this, don’t you think? That’s what you said to me. That there will always be another war.’

  ‘I did. But perhaps we can take Babylon without much of a fight. Who knows what will happen in the next war? But we can fight this one a better way.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it is too late for you as well, you know. No matter what you do now, you will always be considered a monster to the Ionians. They will sing stories to their children. The terrible Mede destroyer who came from the east and put their people to the sword.’

  ‘I thought of you, you know,’ he said. ‘When I saw Xanthus burning.’ He stood. ‘Enough. I have matters to attend to.’

  ‘I am sure you do. Good luck, Harpagus.’

  ‘With what?’

  Croesus smiled. ‘With whatever it is you need to do.’

  ‘The same to you.’ Then, shaking his head again, a tired man trying to dispel a troublesome thought, he walked away.

  13

  It was only on the night before the attack on Babylon that Croesus finally found the courage to visit his son again.

  Gyges sat alone in a corner of the tent. All the others stood some distance apart. It seemed that even in the depths of their particular insanities, they had learned to avoid him. When Croesus sat next to him, Gyges made no response. His son was hunched over, running his thumb over the knuckles of his closed fist.

  ‘Gyges.’

  His son said nothing. Looking at him, Croesus could feel his fear rise again. No, he thought. I refuse to be afraid of my son.

  ‘I know you are suffering. I wish that I could help.’

  ‘No.’ The word came out flat, quiet, and resigned.

  ‘Is it this waiting you hate?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We are going to take the city tonight. We won’t have to wait here any longer.’

  At this, Gyges finally looked at him. ‘No,’ he said again.

  Was this the only word he had left? Croesus thought. ‘Our lives will be better in Babylon,’ he said. ‘I promise. There will be a place for you there.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Please, tell me how to help you!’ At this, he
thought he saw a sudden weakness, a need in Gyges’s eyes, perhaps even a need he could fulfil. Instinctively, he raised his hands and reached out to his son.

  Gyges backed away from him. ‘No! No! No!’ He was standing and screaming at him now, and Croesus stepped back. He saw Gyges cast a hopeless glance over his shoulder, towards the entrance of the tent. He followed his son’s gaze, looking on the farmlands out to the west, the horses grazing by the side of the river. In that moment, Croesus thought that he finally understood his son.

  ‘I am sorry, Gyges,’ he said. ‘I will come again.’

  ‘No!’

  His son might have had only one word left to him, but Croesus knew that Gyges spoke the truth. He knew that he would not come back.

  When he saw Cyrus sitting on the ground in his tent with many soldiers, Croesus assumed they must have won the honour during the draining of the river. Perhaps they were the fastest diggers, or had hunted down a scout who might have otherwise given away the Persian plan. Cyrus liked to reward such men with the finest wine and drummed music until dawn. But there was something different about this gathering; it was somehow unlike the others that Croesus had witnessed. It was not a celebration.

  No wine was passed around, and all the men still wore their armour and had swords belted at their waists. Armed men, aside from the bodyguards, were never admitted into Cyrus’s presence. They sat quietly, staring into space. Croesus counted them, and saw that there were fifty.

  It was only when he saw the rest of the weapons piled by the entrance, saw the glittering silver and gold at the tips of the spears, that Croesus realized who they were. Fifty of the Immortals, the ten thousand elite spearmen of the Persian army. It was the regiment that never died, for no matter how many fell in a single battle, at roll call the next day ten thousand would answer, the dead replaced by new men. No one knew how many faces the regiment had worn, in its time. They were the finest warriors that the king had.

  Cyrus sat beside them, one at a time, talking privately to each man. After he had spoken to all of them, the men gathered in a circle and opened a small, plain wooden chest. It contained a fine black powder – soot, Croesus soon realized, as the men began to coat their skin with it. Cyrus helped them, blackening patches of clothing or skin that the men had missed. His hands were soon black with soot, like theirs.