Croesus’s metallurgists had finally perfected the art of turning electrum into gold and silver. They had tried every possible combination of heat and pressure that they could imagine, to no effect. One day, in sheer desperation, they added salt to the molten metal, as though it were a gamey meat in need of seasoning, and once the fire was scorching hot, the silver separated to the top, enabling it to be skimmed away like scum from a stew, and the bottom of the crucibles shone with pure gold.
Croesus had kept finding reasons to postpone the day when the coins would enter circulation and replace the electrum coins that had so fascinated his father. Soon, every merchant and tradesmen in Lydia would tally his life in these ovals of gold and silver, each one marked with the lion and bull. But, for now, the coins remained within this sealed chamber. They belonged to him alone.
The room was still, near silent. He could hear the crackling of the torches, the occasional thud as a sack of coins arrived down one of the steep tunnels that led from the mints above ground. Soft beneath these other sounds were the shuffling, hesitant footsteps of the money counters.
They were all blind. These slaves lived within the treasury, in a small antechamber separate from the coins. Food and water reached them through the same shafts where the coins came from above. They would never be permitted to leave. They would grow old and die in a world of gold.
Croesus had no idea what they spoke about to pass the long days, what couplings occurred down here in the darkness, what half-remembered poems were recited, the imaginative journeys that they went on together to escape their closed world, the petty fights and squabbles that broke out over the few luxuries they were allowed. He could only imagine what they did to alleviate the maddening boredom of shifting and polishing and ordering the endless mountains of coins.
When the silver bell rang, they knew to light the torches and be silent, until they could be certain he had gone. Even without sight, they always knew where he was; the king’s confident footsteps identified him as one who bore the privilege of vision.
He approached a large, loose pile of gold coins. He thrust his hands into them, gently working his fingers into the heavy metal until his forearms were buried. It felt as though he held his hands in a stream of cold water, and he sensed his burning blood cool.
The small pile of silver near his feet was a healthy slave. In the mound of gold next to it he saw a galleon; the larger mound that towered over it was a fleet. From one corner of the room, where gold and silver mingled freely together like captains and spearmen, he could hear the marching feet of ten thousand soldiers.
On to even larger mounds, and he saw towns, cities, entire races of people locked into the gold and ordered at his command. He saw an empire, stretching across leagues and nations and rivers and seas, all contained within a single, high-chambered room, and perceived by him alone.
He did not yet know what he would do with his wealth. The possibilities were overwhelming, each idea giving way to another as soon as he thought of acting on it. But he knew that, given time, he could find the right use for it. All creation was there, waiting to spring into life. He only had to choose what form it would take, and he could shape a universe with his vision.
My father was right in one thing at least, Croesus thought as he stood amidst all his wealth, new worlds waiting to be born. This is worth more than love.
3
Two years after Atys died, word came that the empire of the Medes had fallen.
The conquest had been sudden, like some disaster of the earth or sea that is precisely managed by the Gods. An exhausted messenger arrived at the court of Sardis to bring word that a Persian army was marching on Ecbatana, the capital of Media. Before Croesus could decide whether to send the man back alone or accompanied by the entire Lydian army, another messenger arrived with the news that the Medes’ army had been destroyed and Astyages had been captured. Cyrus of Persia now sat on the throne of the Medes.
Cyrus. The name meant nothing to Croesus, but rumours soon followed the messengers. That he was of a Persian noble family was all that could be said with confidence — all else was the stuff of folktales. Some said that Cyrus had been raised by wolves, that he fed only on the flesh of kings and drank only the waters of the river by which he had been born. Others claimed that wild beasts formed the vanguard of his army, while immortal demons served as its elite warriors. Persian sorcerers were said to have destroyed the army of the Medes with lightning from the sky and earthquakes that shook men to death; not a single blow was struck. Croesus soon gave up any attempt to identify the truth behind these wild tales. A new power had risen in the East. The only thing that mattered was how to respond.
At the council of war, they began with numbers. The respective sizes of the Persian and Lydian armies, the cost of mercenaries, the yields of croplands, the wealth of mining regions. Above all, they sought to calculate what Lydia stood to gain and lose. The fate of a dozen nations was reduced to numbers inked on parchment and etched in wax: a balance sheet for a war. It was only after they had finished their calculations that they talked of what should be done.
It was unacceptable, one man said, for the Persians to rule an empire. The Hellenes to the west could be bargained with and understood — they were a civilized people. But there was no negotiating with the Persians. Who knew how they would use their new-found power?
Others of the council were unconvinced by the case for war. Sandanis, the commander of the army, was the leader of this faction. An old man now, with the loose-skinned and weary features of a soldier who had spent a lifetime fighting enemies abroad and politicians at home, he had led the army even in the days of Croesus’s father. Repeatedly and forcefully, he argued that Lydia had grown strong through trade and good governance; why risk it all on war with the East? What did events so far away have to do with the Lydian empire?
It was only after the discussion had continued for some time, growing increasingly heated, that the men around the table realized that the king had yet to speak.
One by one, they fell silent and turned to face their ruler. ‘Forgive us,’ said one of the young noblemen. ‘We have spoken at great length, and not waited to hear you, as we should have done.’ He coughed apologetically. ‘What, may we ask, do you think?’
What did he think? Croesus almost laughed. How could so grave a decision be made on the basis of doubt and suspicion, but nothing more? He could feel the excitement around the table at the thought of war, but he found himself unmoved by it. It mattered little to him who ruled over the lands to the east — Astyages had been his brother king in name only. Given a little more time, another year or so, he believed he would find the right way to use his wealth.
And yet, for all this, when he came to speak, he could not find the words for peace. ‘I thank you all for your counsel,’ he said. ‘What an embarrassment of riches you have given me; enough to put those of my treasuries to shame!’ Laughter broke out around the table. ‘I have no hunger for war,’ Croesus continued, the words coming easily now, ‘but will the Persian be satisfied with his new-won kingdom? I think not.’ He looked across at Sandanis. ‘Do not worry,’ Croesus said. ‘I will not be rash. We shall consult with the oracles, and with our allies. I have detained you all too long from your own affairs.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘You may leave.’
The king drummed his fingers on the marble table, smiling and nodding as each of the noblemen departed the council chamber. He sat in silence for a time after they had gone. He turned to Isocrates.