by Tim Leach
Then he stepped forward and took his father’s hand in his own. He held it loosely, just for a moment, before he let go and went to join his new family.
The mother threw a sheepskin over his back to keep out the cold and handed him the reins of a horse to lead out of the city, and together, now seven instead of six, they made their way from the market square, to begin their long journey to the steppes and plains of the north, a world of wild herds and wandering rivers, of thousands of people but not a single city.
Croesus stood motionless, and watched them for as long as he could before they were gone from his sight, lost in the crowds of Babylon. He then looked up, back to the royal palace and the balcony at its highest point. If he hurried back, he thought to himself, he might still get back before the sunset. He did not want to die in darkness.
4
Croesus watched the merchant caravans leave the city. He watched the low sun bathe the city in a soft red light. He tried to remember all of the sunsets he had lived to see, to remember how they each compared with this one, whether the last one he saw would be the tenth or the hundredth most beautiful he had ever seen. He stood quite still, and tried to find his strength again. The strength to step up and step forward.
It had been hard enough the first time, and now, even when it felt more right than ever before, it was harder still. His coward’s spirit held him by some intangible, compelling force. Each breath came more ragged and painful than the last, and he began to count them. On the tenth breath, he decided, he would jump.
He thought of Isocrates and Maia, and hoped they would be well. He thought of Harpagus and Cyrus, and was surprised by his sadness that he would not see them again. He thought of Gyges one last time, disappearing north to a new life in the wild lands. This was what Isocrates’s dream had meant, he thought. That at the end of his foolish, selfish life, he would find the way to save his son. Now, at last, he could die happy. He counted the tenth breath.
‘Croesus.’
At first, he did not respond to his name. He wondered if it were some trick of his mind, desperate to save itself, conjuring some aural phantom. But the voice came again, real and insistent.
‘I should have known I would find you here,’ Isocrates said as he came forward, and leaned against the balcony. ‘Well. Did you enjoy your day with my wife?’
Croesus looked across at the other man, and tried to smile. ‘Yes,’ he said carefully.
‘Good, good. And did you find what you were looking for?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Croesus thought for a moment. ‘The city disappointed me, but still, I am glad to have seen it. Your dream was not wrong. I think I have been happy here today.’
Isocrates laughed.
‘Something amusing?’ Croesus said.
‘You, you pompous fool. Always talking about happiness as if it is some kind of holy thing.’
‘What is happiness to you then?’
Isocrates thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Eating a good pear with a sharp knife,’ he said. ‘Making love to Maia, when she’ll have me. Falling asleep with the sun on my face. Shall I go on?’
Croesus shook his head. ‘Sensation. Relief from pain. That’s not enough.’
‘It is enough for me.’
‘It is not enough,’ Croesus said.
‘I suppose not, for you. That’s why you’re out here, isn’t it?’
Croesus said nothing. They stood together in silence for a long time, Isocrates running his fingers along the edge of the balcony, Croesus standing quite still, counting his breaths. They were some way past a hundred now.
After a time, Isocrates spoke again. ‘Would you like me to go?’ he said. ‘That’s not what I want to do. But I will, if you ask me to.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I’d like to go back inside to my slave’s life. I would like you to come with me.’
‘For how long?’
‘For years. Decades perhaps. There won’t be much joy along the way, but I’d like you to be there with me. That is selfish of me, isn’t it? But it’s the only reason I have.’ He paused. ‘Croesus. Would you like me to go?’
Croesus said nothing for a long time.
Then he said, ‘No.’
‘What would you like me to do instead?’
‘Stay here, and watch the sunset with me,’ Croesus said. He paused. ‘It might be a good one.’
‘It might.’ Isocrates leaned on the balcony, and looked down at the city.
‘This is Cyrus’s greatest conquest, isn’t it?’ he said, after a silence.
‘Yes.’
‘A fine city to rule an empire from. A fine home for a king, and for slaves like us. Is this the end of his wars, do you think?’
Croesus shook his head.
‘No?’ Isocrates said.
‘We shall stay here for a time. But he will grow bored. And one day he will look at his maps, and find another place to conquer. And we will go with him.’
Isocrates gazed down on the streets of Babylon. Then he shrugged. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘let us try to enjoy ourselves until then.’
Far below, the city stretched on as far as an old man’s eyes could see.
Babylon. As close to a perfect city as men had yet managed to build. The Persians had come to make it greater, to make it the heart of an empire. They had, instead, initiated its slow decay. It might take centuries or merely decades for it to be destroyed entirely. Some unknown time after that the city would become myth, then die altogether, lost to memories and stories alike.
The people of Babylon, had they known this, would not perhaps have cared. They had been taught, ever since birth, that the Gods loved decay as much as they loved creation, that death and rebirth, entropy and regeneration, were the way of things, that nothing lasted for long, least of all a man or a city, a king or a slave, a memory or a story.
If any of the people down below had looked up at the balcony of the palace, they might have assumed that it was their new ruler looking down on them, a trusted slave at his side, though which was the king and which was the slave, they could not have said. Those with keener eyes might have seen the glint of silver in their hair, and wondered whether their wandering lives were over, and they would grow old together and die in the city, or whether their travels had hardly yet begun.
The two men remained outside until the sun had set. If they were still visible through the darkening air, an observer from the streets below might have seen the two men draw together for an instant. It was possible that the blurring of the two forms was a mere trick of failing light and tired eyes. It was also possible that they embraced once, sudden and joyful, the way that children do. Then they returned to the palace, to serve their king, and wait for the next war to come.
Acknowledgements
Very many thanks to Ravi Mirchandani, James Roxburgh, Sara Holloway, and the rest of the Atlantic Books phalanx who have worked so hard on this book, and to Caroline Wood at Felicity Bryan, whose undaunted enthusiasm and keen eye for storytelling have been truly invaluable.
This book has had many readers, and I owe a huge debt to Maureen, Tim, Nick, Gaby, Helen, Vestal, Thom and to all the others who have offered their support and advice along the way. Special thanks to John and Jayme, who set me on the right path in the first place.
Last, but by no means least, I must thank Herodotus, who first told this story so long ago.