‘Your thoughts?’ Croesus said.
‘Of war with Persia?’
Croesus shook his head, and nodded at the empty chairs. ‘Of them.’
Isocrates shrugged. ‘Divided. They will follow where you lead.’
‘Yes. Or where the Gods lead.’
‘That is true, master.’
‘We must have a prophecy to guide us. To which of the oracles should we turn? Abae?’
‘The prophet at Abae is a stubborn old man, master. He doesn’t like foreigners. If you were a Hellene, I might recommend it, but as a Lydian. .’
‘Ah. That is unfortunate. You know much of these matters?’
‘I rely on the opinions of men who are wiser than I, master.’
‘Well, what do these wiser men have to say of Dodona?’
‘I have yet to hear him give a favourable word for war. He lost both his sons in battle many years ago.’ Isocrates hesitated for a moment. ‘He would give you a prophecy to prevent a war, not to begin one.’
‘What about Ammon, in Libya? Astyages always swore by him.’
‘I wouldn’t trust a Libyan on a matter like this.’
‘Prejudice from you, Isocrates?’
‘Forgive me, master. But I think prophecy is a matter best left to the Hellenes.’
‘Perhaps you are right. Look at what happened to Astyages, after all. I imagine you have objections to Trophonius at Lebadaea as well?’
‘Athens has bought him out. He will not give a good word to any other city or nation.’
‘Well, it appears our choice is made for us. Delphi it is.’
‘The Pythia does give the best prophecies.’ He tried to smile. ‘I hesitate to say it, to you of all people, master, but you know it will cost you dearly?’
‘Do not be concerned with that. What else needs to be done?’
Isocrates thought for a moment. ‘We will need to offer a reason,’ he said. ‘As to why we’ve favoured Delphi, over the others.’
‘Their feelings will be hurt? I wouldn’t have thought they would be so sensitive.’
‘It doesn’t pay to anger a priest. They don’t mind if gods ignore them. Just when men do.’
‘Very well,’ Croesus smiled. ‘Make something up, will you?’
‘Me, master?’
‘Who else? Use your imagination. I’m sure you’ll come up with something fitting.’
The story spread quickly.
None could say exactly where it had come from. Some said it had begun at the dining tables of Lydian high society, where a noble close to the heart of the palace had first told the story to impress another man’s wife. Others claimed that it was first told in the market squares of the lower city, where the storytellers had gathered to share the rumours of the day. It seemed to appear in many different places at the same moment, as though it were some singular vision that the entire city had dreamed together.
First, the story said, the messengers left the city. None who listened to the tale had mentioned these messengers before, and yet now everyone seemed to remember watching them go, a dozen riders heading from the city half a year earlier, each with two horses, each bearing the mark of a king’s messenger. The more men spoke, the more they found themselves agreeing on what these men had looked like, what they had worn, how well they had ridden their mounts.
The messengers left the city together, riding west to Smyrna. There, so the storytellers said, the group divided, one man taking a ship south towards Ammon, the others sailing west to Hellas. These divided again as soon as they touched the shore, scattering across the land, to Abae, Dodona, Lebadaea, and Delphi. They each came to the oracles with gold enough to ask a simple question, but they did not seek the favour of the Gods at once. They waited, counting the days carefully. They waited for the date on which they had all agreed.
A hundred days after their departure, the messengers went in supplication to the prophets and asked the same question of them all. A simple question that did not request that the Gods bless a union, end a feud, save a blighted crop, or otherwise shape the fate of nations. They only desired to know what was it that Croesus, king of Lydia, might be doing at that moment.
On the hundredth day, as this question was being asked in half a dozen different places on the other side of the world, Croesus retired to his chambers, dismissing every courtier and slave who tried to accompany him. Alone, he lit the coals beneath a bronze mixing bowl and poured oil into it. He cracked the shell of a tortoise and cut the meat into pieces. He skinned and gutted a small lamb and, for hours, he mixed the strange, alien stew together. When it was done, he offered the greater portion to the Gods and ate the rest himself.
Each of the oracles responded in their own way. Most spoke in riddles, metaphor and myth. Only one was different, and soon, the words from Delphi, from the Pythia on her sacred tripod, were repeated in every corner of Sardis.
The messengers could not have offered bribes for this information, for they had not known what Croesus would do. Only Croesus and the Gods had known. Croesus, the Gods, and the priestess of Delphi.
4
‘Well.’ Croesus shook his head. ‘I said use your imagination. I never thought you would go that far.’
‘Are you displeased, master?’ the slave asked.
‘Far from it. The story is so absurd that no one would think you had invented it. You are full of surprises. Though you do realize that I will have to retell it a hundred times before the year is out? Your revenge on me, I suppose, for making you think on your feet like that. Someone is sure to ask me to actually butcher a lamb or a turtle one of these days. Do I look like a butcher to you?’ He laughed. ‘But you have done well. The people now believe in Delphi. We must make sure that the oracle gives them something worth listening to.’
‘What do we do now, master?’
‘We prepare an offering,’ Croesus said, ‘that not even a God could refuse.’
Often, in the months that followed, Croesus travelled to the great wooden doors of the furnace room. There, he listened to the sound of the chisels, the roaring, hungry fires, the barked instructions that the metal workers and sculptors gave to the slaves who worked in the room day and night. He listened each day, sometimes for hours, but he did not go inside. He tried to busy himself with other matters. He met with his general, Sandanis, to discuss the preparation of the army. He discussed the changeable attitudes of the nobles with Isocrates. He entertained the rulers of the subdued Ionian nations, gauging the price of their loyalty. Each night, he dreamed of what lay behind the foundry doors.
At last, when the work was only days from completion, he gave in to his desire. He summoned his master craftsman, and asked to be shown the gifts.
Croesus felt the sweat break out across his skin when the doors of the foundry were opened. The air was thick and heavy with heat; the furnaces had been burning for months without being extinguished. The workers wore only loincloths which clung close to their bodies with the sweat, and even the light tunic that Croesus wore felt like an encumbrance in the burning air. The fire gave light to the windowless room, illuminating pools of sharp colour surrounded by shadows; in the low red glow he watched gold and silver bubbling in pools, pouring through gates and into moulds. Everywhere he looked, the king saw his wealth being transformed for the Gods.
‘Show me the gifts,’ he said.
The master craftsman bowed. He led the king to a far corner, where heavy gold ingots were stacked one on top of the other. Each was a cubit long, half a cubit wide.