by Tim Leach
The king signalled for a servant to take the cylinder away, but before it disappeared, Croesus took one last look at it. It was not in any way unusual, he thought. It was in the form of dozens of kingly proclamations that had come before, and thousands that would follow. Yet it was nevertheless the beginning of something, something that he could not describe because the words for it had yet to be invented. He wondered what strange event he had unwittingly been a part of, what echo down history the cylinder would sound. That was his fate, he thought. Always to be at the beginning, always to be ignorant, never to see or understand the end of things.
Once the cylinder had been taken from the room, to be entombed in the wall of the city, as Croesus had heard the Babylonians used to bury their kings of old, he dismissed his thought as foolish. It was a conqueror’s proclamation like any other, to be buried and forgotten. It meant nothing.
‘All that talk of free worship,’ Croesus said. ‘Is there something more to it than just rebuilding a few temples?’
‘Yes,’ Cyrus said. ‘I am going to do something about the Jews. There are thousands of them here.’
‘I didn’t realize there were so many in the city.’
‘Babylon captured Jerusalem some time ago. Apparently they had some trouble with the natives. Insurrections, assassinations, that sort of thing. The Babylonians grew weary of them, and exiled them all to the city where they could keep a close eye on them.’
‘You are an expert on their history?’
‘I wasn’t until recently. One of their elders requested an audience with me. He asked me – no, begged me – to allow them to worship their own god, and not to have to follow mine.’ He paused. ‘It had never occurred to me to bar them from their worship. What an impious thing that would be. And then I spoke to him a little more. He told me about their exile. We will do something about that as well.’
‘Most rulers aren’t so permissively plural in how they let their subjects worship.’
Cyrus laughed. ‘Permissively plural, is it? I like that. But who am I to keep a man from his gods? If his is a true face of God, surely I would be punished for it. If not, well, the fault lies with him, not with me, for worshipping his empty idols. Don’t you think? I am a king, not a god myself.’
‘How humble of you to admit that.’
‘Mock all you like, Croesus, mock all you like. I am in a good mood today. I shan’t punish you for it.’
‘You will send the Jews home, then?’
‘Yes. We control Jerusalem now. Let them go back there, if they wish to. They have a miserable enough time of it here; the Babylonians loathe them with an impressive passion. Maybe they will find a better home there. There is a temple they want to rebuild. Their elder made it sound very important. We will help them with that as well.’
‘Is that wise? They might rise up against you, given their own city.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps. But that is a problem for another time. I’ll trust they will remember what it was to be exiled, and act with a little humility. I have never understood why the Jews inspire such hatred. Do you?’
‘No. It is a customary hatred. Handed down from one generation to the next.’
Cyrus shook his head. ‘Hatred should never become custom. It is a poor gift to pass on to your children.’
‘You don’t believe in hatred?’
‘Oh, there are plenty of things I hate. A few people too. But I learned to hate them myself – I would not have anyone teach me. You wouldn’t expect to inherit love, would you? It’s too important to be passed down. It is the same with hate. A man who hates because he is told he should hate is a fool.’
Silence fell. Croesus stood, waiting for a command, but Cyrus said nothing, apparently without an order to give, yet disinclined to dismiss him. The king’s gaze wandered over to a map on the wall.
‘I worry about Cambyses,’ the king said.
Croesus said nothing.
‘He cries too often,’ Cyrus said after a time. ‘I worry he is too weak to be a king. I sent him to the north, to take part in a Babylonian ritual. The heir to the throne must be beaten by their priest. I thought it would do him some good. But the way he looked at me . . . Was I wrong to do this, do you think?’
‘I don’t know, master.’
Cyrus shook his head. ‘There are many things that I have mastered in this life. But this is not one of them.’ He looked at his slave. ‘Will you help me to raise him? I want so much for him to be a good king. A good son.’
‘I will do my best,’ Croesus said. ‘But I am an old man. Who knows how long I will be able to help you?’
Cyrus smiled, and toyed with a piece of silk that hung next to the throne.
‘Do you know why I like having you as an advisor, Croesus?’
‘I thought it was for my unrivalled wisdom. That is what I have heard the storytellers say.’
Cyrus stopped playing with the silks and looked straight at Croesus. ‘It is because you do not love me. So I can trust what you say.’
Croesus paused for a long time. Cyrus’s face was unreadable. ‘You are a king of many talents, Cyrus,’ Croesus said eventually, ‘but humour is not one of them. It is quite hard to tell when you are joking. This is one of those times, I take it?’
‘I am quite serious. Most people do. I don’t say it to brag. Just as a matter of fact. Take a man like Harpagus. The last person you would imagine could feel affection for anyone, after the life he has led. But he loves me. I see it in him. And I don’t understand why you don’t.’
‘You don’t remember the destruction of my city?’
‘I have seen plenty of people love their conquerors. We kneel to power when it has been exercised upon us. Those who do not are men of stronger character than you. So, why don’t you love me?’
Croesus shook his head and looked away. ‘Cyrus, this is absurd.’
‘Is it jealousy? Come on, tell me.’
‘I admire you, Cyrus. You know that. I respect you, and obey you. Is that not enough?’
‘Give me the truth, Croesus.’
Croesus sighed, and sat down on a cushioned seat. He hadn’t asked permission, but Cyrus ignored the breach of etiquette. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I used to want the same things as you. To be remembered. To be a great king. You will be remembered when I am forgotten. Should I not be jealous of that? Or if not, should I not love you for it?’
He paused. Cyrus said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
‘There is something wrong with us both, I think,’ Croesus said after a moment. ‘Why do we care how we are remembered? You have spent your life conquering one city after another. What is it to you, once you are buried in the ground, how others think of you? If there is an afterlife, I should think you will have enough problems to occupy you there. You will be leading an army against Death, most likely, trying to install yourself on the throne of Hades.’ Cyrus laughed at this. ‘And if there is not another life,’ Croesus continued, ‘well, it matters even less, doesn’t it?’
‘It isn’t just for me. The cities I conquer are the better for being conquered. I bring order, and peace, an end to war, and the only price is submission.’
‘At the point of a sword.’
‘True.’ Cyrus paused. ‘Do you wish that you had been born a farmer? Or even a slave? Perhaps you think your life would be simpler. Happier too, not knowing the things you know now. A charming thought, but you are wrong. I was raised as a herdsman for twelve years, Croesus. They live miserable lives.’
‘You are right. I think that is what I’m afraid of, more than anything else.’
‘What is that?’
‘An ordinary life. Aren’t you? Can you think of anything more terrible, to live and die as countless others have before you, with nothing exceptional to mark you out? You might as well have not lived at all, living a life like that.’
Cyrus nodded. ‘Yes. You are right.’
‘I feared for my life for a long time. First from you, then—’ He stoppe
d, catching himself. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘I was afraid.’
‘Not any more?’
‘No. Why should I be? But . . .’
Cyrus’s mouth twitched into a smile. ‘But you feel ordinary. A slave and advisor. Not exceptional enough for you?’ He spread his arms wide in self-mockery. ‘Not even serving a glorious king like me?’
‘Forgive me. I meant no insult.’
‘Oh, I take no offence,’ Cyrus said, lowering his arms. ‘I understand perfectly. I don’t know if it will ever please you to be in my service, Croesus. I suspect that may be impossible. But I am glad to have you with me. I hope that there is some comfort, at least, in that.’ He looked over his shoulder, out through the doorway, over the balcony and across the city. ‘You had better go. You have a few hours of freedom left.’
‘What will you do tomorrow?’ Croesus said.
‘I honestly don’t know.’ He paused. ‘There is no one left to conquer. Perhaps we will stay here. It is a remarkable city. Perhaps our wars are done.’
The king spoke these words, and perhaps he even believed them to be true. But Croesus looked into his eyes, and saw that it was not.
The sun was low when Croesus stepped out onto the balcony, and the sky was beginning to redden in anticipation of the sunset. He stood at the highest point of the palace and looked out over the city, his eyes moving from one place to another, from one marvel to the next. The temples and gateways, the houses and canals and hanging gardens, the miracle that was Babylon. He stood, and tried to find the courage to take a few more steps, out into the air, and, perhaps, into another world.
It had come to him the night before, a resolution so strong and sudden that it might have come from the Gods. This had been the happiest day of his life, if he were to believe Isocrates’s dream.
He remembered the happy men that Solon had spoken of, and the one thing that united them: their contented deaths. He had thought, ever since he was taken as a slave, that it was his fate to die unhappy, but this was his way out, his final victory. The logic seemed flawless. He would not stay on, to watch his son go mad once again, to remain a slave for his remaining decades on earth. He would end his life as a free man.
He stepped forward, rested his hands on the edge of the balcony, feeling the stone beneath his fingers, and looked down on the ground below. It was high enough, or so he hoped. The king’s surgeons would not make any great efforts to save his life. Not for an old slave like him.
He should have died in Sardis, as his wife had. They should have leaped into their city together. He hoped that she would forgive him for taking so long. She had always seen the right thing to do long before he had.
He lifted himself up, and balanced on the edge of the balcony. He looked out, for the last time, on the city. He raised a foot, and prepared to take a last step.
A thought caught him. He remained there for a time, one foot in the air, like a balancing acrobat. If he were to move only slightly forwards he would tip his weight down to the ground far below. Then he lowered his foot to the edge and stepped down carefully. He turned his back on the city, and began to run.
He ran down through the palace, afraid he would lose the thought like a man who forgets a dream on waking. He ran out into Babylon, afraid that he had left it too late, that this last inspiration would come to nothing.
At first, Gyges would not come with him. In the house that the mad had been moved to, Croesus pleaded with him, implored him in every way he could think of, but his son would not come. Eventually, he simply seized Gyges’s arm and dragged him out into the city.
If Gyges had fought back, Croesus could not have taken him, but his son submitted. Babylon seemed to have broken his will to struggle, but even so, once they were out on the streets, it was impossible to keep him moving. Such was his horror at being out in the city that he could not move for more than a few feet before stopping and falling to the ground, throwing his arms around his head and howling in distress. He did not speak, and it seemed the trauma of the city had taken the last pieces of language from him.
Croesus, knowing that time was running out, had no time for subtlety. He begged his son and shouted at him, dragged him and slapped him through the streets, as a small crowd of idle Babylonians gathered and followed them, cheering and jeering, entertained by the sport of an old man wrestling with an imbecile like a farmer with a stubborn mule. At last, as Croesus was on the verge of utter exhaustion, they reached the market square.
The market was closing down for the day, and at first Croesus thought that he was too late. But then, past the merchants packing their wares into carts, he saw the people he was looking for.
‘They are here, Gyges,’ he said. ‘Will you come with me? Please?’ Gyges, dull eyed and even more exhausted than his father, nodded in defeat. They crossed the square, and came to the stall of the horse-taming Massagetae.
They were a family of six nomads, a man and woman, three sons and a daughter. As Croesus approached the father looked him over with an expert eye and saw that he was a man with no money. The horse trader crossed his arms, preparing to have his time wasted.
Croesus turned to look for a translator to help him, and found a boy of twelve or thirteen already standing at his side. The boy had the dirt-rimed face of a beggar child, but looked up at him with bright, intelligent eyes and stood with a merchant’s confidence. Did he have a family, Croesus wondered? Surely not. He was an orphan who should have starved years before, but had learned to live on words alone.
‘You are here to trade?’ the boy said.
‘Yes. You speak their language?’ Croesus said doubtfully.
‘Of course.’
‘Will you speak for me? I have no money to give you.’
‘I need to practise it anyway,’ the boy said, giving a small shrug. ‘What do you want to say?’
Croesus hesitated. ‘Tell him I want him to take this man with him,’ he said at last. ‘Out of the city.’
As this was translated to him, the horse trader frowned. He spoke a few brief words in response.
‘They have no interest in buying your slave.’
‘He is no slave. He is my son.’
Hearing this, the nomad bristled. He barked out two short sentences.
‘He is insulted that you would sell your son. He asks you to leave.’
‘Tell him again that he is mistaken. I am not here to sell him.’ Croesus paused. ‘I cannot help my son. I want this man to take him in. Take him from the city, and north to the plains.’
The trader threw back his head and laughed. He spoke again.
‘He asks you to tell him why he should take this madman into his family.’
‘Tell him I can give him no good reason. If he takes this man in, he will save his life. He was meant to be free. This city is a prison for him. Please.’
The nomad listened to the translator. He shook his head and raised a finger in admonishment, but paused before he spoke, his eyes focused behind Croesus. Croesus turned to follow the other man’s gaze, and saw his son approaching one of the horses.
It was a white stallion, tall and obviously skittish, but it stood quite still as Gyges approached, then reached out with a shy hand and stroked the horse’s cheek. The animal leaned into his touch, snorting its approval, and Gyges took another step forward, placing his arm flat against its head, his elbow on the horse’s nose as his fingers curled into the top of its mane.
He took a last step forward and let his arm fall back to his side, and rested his head against the stallion’s, like an exhausted traveller placing his head beneath running water, his eyes closed, his breathing slow. The horse whickered in affection, and Gyges gave a small sob in response. Here at last, Croesus thought, in a city of madmen, was something that his son could understand. Something unspoiled by words.
Croesus turned back to the horse trader, ready to argue again, but found him wearing an almost rueful expression, like the face of a man who has made a bad wager. The Massagetae held up a
hand to silence Croesus, then called the rest of his family together into a semicircle. They began to debate.
‘What are they saying?’ Croesus asked the boy at his side.
‘They are speaking too fast. I can’t understand them.’
It was true that they spoke rapidly, over and under each other, the argument growing increasingly heated. After a few minutes, the divisions became clear. From what he could tell, two of the sons seemed to be of one mind, the mother, the daughter and the other son of another, with the father still undecided. Which of the sides was for him and which was against, Croesus did not know.
At last, the father held up his hands for silence. He looked at each of his family in turn, and they all said a single word in response. He shook his head in disbelief, then turned back to Croesus and spoke.
‘They will take him,’ the boy said, and Croesus bowed his head and closed his eyes. The world around him seemed to recede, to disappear entirely, as if the entirety of existence, for a single moment, had been reduced to one point of grief. His aching lungs, his weary heart.
When he could speak again, Croesus said, ‘Thank him for me.’
He heard a laugh. ‘He is telling you to get out of here before he changes his mind,’ the boy said.
‘I will. My thanks to you as well.’
The boy gave his small shrug once again. ‘It is as I said. I am grateful for the practice.’
Croesus watched the boy walk off into the crowd, looking for one last commission before the market broke up entirely. He turned back, and found Gyges watching him. Croesus tried to smile.
‘You had better go with them now, Gyges,’ he said. ‘I hope . . .’ His voice trailed away.
Gyges opened his mouth, trying to find the words that he knew his father would want to hear. He seemed on the verge of speech when Croesus waved his son into silence. He knew that there was nothing that needed to be said, that they both knew it all already, had always known, perhaps, but had forgotten until the moment of parting. Gyges nodded, to show that he understood.