by Tim Leach
As soon as the dawn woke him, he rolled out of his blankets before he could be tempted to doze. Stepping over the slumbering forms that were packed into the room, he made his way out into the silent palace. Somewhere on the other side of the palace, he knew that Maia was doing the same.
They met like conspirators by one of the great fountains. Laughing together, not quite believing, they made their way to the gates of the palace. The guards, yawning from their long night spent on watch and cursing those who were late to relieve them, laughed at Croesus and Maia as they approached. ‘Eloping?’ one of the guards asked with a wry smile. But when Croesus handed over a parchment marked with the unforgeable seal of the king, the guards opened the gates without question or hesitation. They left the palace behind, and stepped out into a city that was just beginning to wake.
Most cities grow unplanned. A village that stumbles on some sudden wealth and expands to become a town, a town that is occupied by a wandering warlord and grows larger still. Then there is an influx of migrants, drawn to the promise of work, and the city is finally born. Buildings appear more by accident than any kind of design. Later attempts to provide architectural unity, by kings eager to shape and control their possessions, only serve to highlight the disorder that lies at the heart of every city.
Babylon was different. From the very first brick, it seemed to have been precisely planned, each building carefully placed like a tile in some great mosaic. Or like a miracle of geometry, as though designed by a mathematician to solve a great equation if it were viewed, impossibly, from above.
That early in the morning, the city was almost empty. The dung carts still moved through the streets, and a few revellers from the night before stumbled past, the stale stench of beer following them home. Soon though, the streets began to fill, and with no idea of where they were going, Croesus and Maia followed the trails of citizens like swimmers following a current. Before long they found themselves in Shuanna, the market district.
The merchants gathered as they had done for centuries, each square dedicated to a different kind of produce. In between the ordinary stalls, where cloth was cut by the yard, fresh flatbread sold to hungry workers, piles of worked leather and crafted bronze picked over by merchants, were more unusual tradesmen.
In one, stonemasons carved out the foot-long boundary stones that marked property and court rulings in Babylon, each one etched with a strange mixture of legal formalities and ancient curses. One square seemed to be populated by wives buying perfumes for their lovers, another by worried husbands haggling with shamans over love charms for their wives. The Massagetae, the nomad horse traders from the northern steppes, stood with silent disdain at the edge of the market, making no effort to draw customers to them. They knew their horses, the finest in the world, would bring crowds soon enough. Amongst the traders’ stalls moved the translators of Babylon, essential for business conducted in a city of a hundred different tongues, taking a percentage of each transaction as their fee.
Everything was as it had always been in the world of Babylonian commerce; only the guards had changed. Persians now watched over the stalls, breaking up fights when the haggling became too heated, quietly accepting bribes from merchants who wanted to trade in illicit goods. To his surprise, Croesus saw that most of the coins that changed hands were his, the golden ovals marked with the bull and the lion. His coins had clearly conquered Babylon long before the Persian army. That was his legacy.
‘Come on,’ Maia said. ‘I don’t want to spend my day gawping at the markets.’
‘What do you want to see?’
‘Wonders, of course,’ she said. ‘Wonders and miracles. Let’s go and find them.’
After asking for directions, they found the Ishtar Gate, the grand entrance into the heart of Babylon. Its pillars were covered in tiles glazed a deep turquoise, the impossible blue of a sea in a dream, a sea teeming with golden lions, aurochs, and dragons. Remarkable as it was, Croesus had no desire to take his eyes out after seeing it, like the men in the stories. After all, it was just a gate into a city, a gate through which dung carts passed and where beggars loitered.
They continued to the Etemenanki temple, the great ziggurat at the heart of Babylon. The temple was dedicated to Marduk, the God of fifty names, and rose high above any other building in the city. It was said to be the foundation of heaven, seven tiers high, a place where the priests spoke with the Gods themselves.
Maia looked up at it and grinned. ‘It is wonderful. Don’t you think?’
‘I have heard that the Jews have a story about this tower. They say that as it was built, their God grew angry at how tall it was growing, seeing it as a threat to his kingdom. So he cursed its builders by making them speak hundreds of different languages; before then all people had spoken in the same tongue. All misunderstandings begin here, if the story is true.’ Croesus looked up at the temple doubtfully. ‘I don’t think you could talk to the Gods from the top of it, do you?’
‘They never finished it, did they?’
‘But the people of Babylon say that their priests speak to Marduk here. Their priestesses lie with him up there.’
‘Perhaps Marduk lives lower down than Yahweh,’ Maia said lightly. ‘Come on. There is so much more to see.’
They made their way at last to the storied gardens. As soon as they were through the gates, Maia went on ahead, running along the stone-paved pathways and terraces like a child. She shouted her discoveries from every corner; leather conveyor belts, hung with buckets and turned by slaves, that carried water from the Euphrates up into the gardens; a bed of flowers, purple, gold and red, designed to mimic a sunset; a copse of slender trees that creaked in symphony when the wind blew over them; lush grasses that reached as high as a man’s thigh. All of them miracles in this desert city. But Croesus was weary of miracles. He found a stone bench beneath a Persian silk tree, as alien to that land as he was himself. Sitting beneath it, he thought, in an idle kind of way, about escape.
He had told Cyrus that he had no intention of escaping. But why not? They could walk through the gates, the king’s seal in hand, and disappear into Mesopotamia. He looked across at Maia, bustling about the gardens, and wondered if she would run with him. They could find a place to take them in, a temple perhaps, and live out the rest of their lives in peace. He turned the thought over in his mind, waiting for a spark of inspiration, for the moment that the idea would catch fire in his mind and drive him to action, but it did not come.
He settled back on the bench, and closed his eyes. He meant to rest for only a moment, but the air was thick with flower scent, like a courtesan’s quarters, and in the afternoon heat he soon dozed off to sleep.
He woke with a start to find Maia shaking his shoulder.
‘Your one day of freedom, Croesus, and you spend it sleeping?’ she said. ‘For shame.’
‘How long did I sleep for?’
‘An eternity. Babylon was burned and built again a dozen times, and you slept through it all.’
He shook his head. ‘Sleep is a luxury for a slave. Your husband taught me that.’
‘A maxim he observes rather too well,’ she said, and sat down beside him. ‘He would have spent this whole day asleep in bed, if he had had the wit to take Cyrus up on his offer.’
‘Did you enjoy the gardens?’
‘They are wonderful. Built for a woman, or so they say.’
‘I can’t believe that’s true.’
‘Oh, I am sure they don’t like to say so. But I heard it from one of the old Babylonian slaves. I believed her.’
‘Is that so?’
‘No need to sound so sceptical. I suppose it offends you, to think of something so remarkable being built for a woman.’
‘Tell me the story.’
‘Well, they say the king’s wife was a Persian princess, and she pined for her home when he brought her here to be his queen. He doted on her, and built this – a little piece of Persia in the heart of the city.’ Maia nodded approvingly.
‘He must have been quite a husband.’
‘Don’t you think Isocrates would do the same for you, if he had the chance?’
She snorted. ‘He would see it as a terrible waste, building me an impossible garden because I was unhappy. Would you have built this place for Danae, if she had asked?’
‘Yes. I would have done anything for her. It’s an easy thing to say, isn’t it? But it wasn’t true then. I did little enough for her when she was alive. And I could have made her so happy. She did not ask for much.’
‘I am sorry, Croesus. I shouldn’t have spoken of her.’
‘I don’t think of her often enough. Especially now. I can barely remember what she looked like. Isn’t that terrible?’ He let his head fall and closed his eyes, and for a moment she thought he was going to weep. But when he opened his eyes again, they were clear and dry.
‘We were wrong about Gyges,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought it was the waiting outside the city that was driving him mad. It wasn’t.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘The city itself.’
She said nothing for a time, turning the idea over in her mind. ‘Of course,’ she said softly.
‘I didn’t understand before. He hated Sardis, and smiled when it burned. He was happy out on the plains, by the river.’
‘It is cities he hates. What they do to people.’
‘Yes. Now he will be here for years. He is already forgetting how to speak. He will go mad here.’
She shook her head. ‘I won’t allow it.’
‘There is nothing you can do.’
‘Maybe not. But I’ll try.’ She paused. ‘When did he first speak?’
‘It was at the fall of Sardis.’
‘What did he say?’
‘ “Do not kill Croesus.” He saved my life. I don’t know why.’
‘He loves you, Croesus. That is all.’
He breathed deeply, tried to breathe away the pain, the shame of an error that could never be corrected. ‘I never gave him a reason to,’ he said, his voice unsteady.
‘It does not matter. He still loves you.’
‘I don’t think so. Not any more. Take care of him, will you? I don’t think he will see me again.’
They sat silently for a time, listening to the passing of the Euphrates, looking out over the impossible gardens, built long ago to heal a broken heart. Croesus stared up at the sky, and saw that there was still some time to go before the end of the day. He had a few hours left.
‘Can I ask you something, Maia?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
He hesitated. ‘I know the truth.’ He gestured to the dim, half-healed bruises on her face. ‘About those.’
A shiver of tension ran through her. Then she sighed, and shook her head. ‘I wish you had not said that.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I liked it better that way,’ she said. ‘Isocrates always knew that he would have to share me. I liked it that you didn’t know.’ A ghost of a smile moved across her lips. ‘You are an innocent, Croesus. In spite of all that has happened to you. There are terrible things that happen every day, and you do not notice because you can’t imagine people can be so cruel. That is what I like about you. When I am with you, I can pretend these things don’t happen either.’ She paused. ‘Now that is ruined, too.’
‘Why do they do it? You are not . . .’
‘Not beautiful?’
Croesus looked away and said nothing. She shook her head.
‘Why do you men ever do anything?’ she said. ‘You are just the same, Croesus. That is what you want too, isn’t it? To possess things. To control them.’
He stared at the ground. ‘You should not fight them,’ he said slowly. ‘If you did not fight them, they would not hurt you so much.’
‘That is the best advice you can give?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, I don’t fight them. I gave that up long ago. Sometimes they beat me anyway. Because they can, and they like it.’
‘I . . .’
‘Croesus, you are a good friend to me. To me and my husband. But there is nothing you can do about this. And you know it. You are not trying to help me. You are trying to make yourself feel better.’ Her voice shook, then steadied. ‘And that is wrong.’
He hesitated. ‘Does it get easier?’
‘No. It gets worse. I try not to think about it.’
‘I won’t talk about it again.’
‘Yes, you will, Croesus. I know you too well.’ She reached over and touched him on the shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s go back.’
They walked out of the gates of the garden. Out on the streets, the first fires were being lit, and from here and there came the echoing sounds of wine casks being broached, the sweet scent of cooking meat, as Babylon began to prepare for its evening meal.
Maia started out back towards the palace, but Croesus hesitated.
‘Is something wrong?’ she said.
‘I am going to stay a little longer.’
She paused for a moment, then nodded. ‘As you wish.’ She smiled. ‘Goodbye, Croesus. Thank you. It was a good day.’
He watched her go, waiting until she had disappeared into the maze of streets. He began to walk in the opposite direction.
He made his choices at random in the winding paths of Babylon, losing himself deliberately, yet also looking for something. Before long his wanderings brought him to the entrance of a tall building. A temple. And inside the temple, something else – if the stories he had heard were true. Suddenly nervous, he toyed with the idea of going back to the palace. Of forgetting this desire.
He walked into the temple, to find a woman he could buy.
He remembered Sardis. There, one had only to walk through the working quarters to find a woman prostituting herself, like all impoverished, pragmatic Lydian women, to secure a dowry. In Babylon, where all things were made beautiful or sacred, the women gathered in the temple, and the selling of their bodies took on the quality of a religious rite.
At least once in her life every Babylonian woman had to visit a temple, sit down there, and go to bed with the first man who threw a coin in her lap. The tall and beautiful women would sit only for moments before being claimed. The young men of Babylon clustered outside the temple gates, watching the women who entered the temple to fulfil their duty to the Gods, drawing lots as to which of them would choose first. The ugly and the deformed, when their time came, had much longer to wait.
There were stories of women who spent years in the temples, waiting for some man to cast a coin in their laps and free them. Some, it was rumoured, spent the rest of their lives there, growing uglier with age and bitterness, bowed over lower with time like a dying tree on a river bank, until their hearts gave out.
He did not know how or when or why this ritual had begun. If it were a divine decree handed down from gods to men at the beginning of time, or if the cruel joke of an old king of Babylon had somehow found its way into law and now remained, protected for centuries by force of habit, by a stubborn refusal to think differently.
He walked across the temple to where the women sat still and silent, as though they were at prayer, not waiting to be bought. He let chance decide for him. He simply walked along the row of women without looking at them, and counted down from ten. Then he stopped, turned to the woman beside him, and threw a coin into her lap.
She looked up at him, and he saw that she was neither ugly nor beautiful. A merchant’s daughter, perhaps, who had spent her life weaving and cooking, until her duty had taken her to this temple. A plain, ordinary-looking face, with calm grey eyes that looked at up him without fear. She had a body like Maia’s, he thought, then wished that he hadn’t.
He smiled at her. He offered a hand to help her up. She took it, and he led her away without a word.
3
‘I am Cyrus, king of the universe, the great king, the powerful king, king of Babylo
n, king of Sumer and Akkad, king of the four quarters of the world, son of Cambyses, the great king, grandson of Cyrus, the great king, descendant of Teispes, the great king, king of the city of Anshan, the perpetual seed of kingship, whose reign Bel and Nabu love . . .’ Croesus stopped reading, and tried to keep the smile from his face.
‘Is something wrong?’
He turned to face his king. ‘It is a little overdone, don’t you think?’
‘People expect this kind of thing from me now.’ Cyrus paused. ‘You didn’t have to come here, you know. It is supposed to be your day of freedom.’
‘I know,’ Croesus said. ‘But I wanted to read it today. It’s my choice to make, isn’t it?’
‘Well, come on then. Don’t waste your time speaking to me. Keep reading.’
Croesus looked again at the cylinder. It was the length of three fists placed side by side, and every part of the pale clay surface was marked with the strange cuneiform script. Next to it was a wax tablet, marked with the translation that he was reading from. He had never learned the cuniform of Babylon, and even as he read it he wondered what had been lost in translation, what nuances in the original language he would never understand.
He read on. It said that Cyrus came as a liberator to the city, to free it from a tyrant king, with the blessing of the Babylonian God, Marduk. It spoke of how he would not seek to impose his own gods, but would help the Babylonians to rebuild their damaged temples, how he would reconstruct what had been destroyed in the war, to help Babylon prosper, and to worship freely.
‘There you are,’ Cyrus said, when he saw that Croesus had finished. ‘My proclamation. To leave the people alone, as your Isocrates would wish. What do you think?’
‘It is a fine piece of writing. I especially like that part about your army. “His vast army, whose number, like the waters of the river, cannot be known”.’
Cyrus rolled his eyes. ‘One of my scribes. Something of a failed poet. I like to let him add the odd bit of grand language, here and there. It keeps him from pining.’