‘We’re up to ninety now,’ the craftsman said. ‘We’re hoping to reach a hundred and twenty by the time we’re finished.’
Croesus knelt down and spread his fingers across the ingot on top of the stack. ‘How much does each weigh?’
‘As much as a small man.’ The craftsman grinned, revealing a mouth full of yellowed teeth. ‘Or a large woman.’
Croesus nodded, his face impassive. ‘What else do you have?’
In another corner, two enormous bowls towered above them, each one fit for a Titan. One was made of gold, the other of a quarter-ton of silver.
‘Wine bowls?’ Croesus asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘The priests like something practical amongst their gifts, or so we’ve heard,’ the master craftsman said. ‘Statues and golden ornaments are all very well, but you cannot mix wine in them, can you? Perhaps the Gods like a drink as much as their priests do.’
‘I see. You expect them to use these? How much do they hold?’
‘Five thousand gallons each. Not the kind of quantity you’ll want to mix for your evening meal, but it should serve them well for bigger occasions. Festivals, and the like.’
Croesus nodded again. ‘Show me more.’
The king saw elaborate silverware, casks, goblets, jewel-studded brooches, elegant statues in gold and bronze and marble. There was no limit, he thought, to the different forms that his wealth could take. There were infinities of splendour, and he could spend a lifetime discovering them all.
He made his way to the centre of the room. A lion, cast in solid gold, stood proud and defiant, like a ruler surveying his kingdom. The likeness was perfect, as though the Midas of legend had crept into the hills and laid his hands upon a lion mid-roar. In the outlines of its frozen golden mane, its bared teeth and flat nose, Croesus fancied he could see some resemblance to that crude image he had seen long ago, stamped into the electrum of his father’s first coin. A faint smile crept to the king’s lips.
‘Are you pleased, my lord?’ the craftsman asked.
‘I have never heard of a greater offering,’ the king said. ‘It is magnificent, and I thank you. But there is one thing I haven’t seen. The second statue?’
‘Of course, my lord. Just this way.’
Away from the furnaces, almost lost in shadows, was another perfect likeness in gold, this time of a woman. Croesus circled it, counter clockwise then clockwise, studying it from every angle, paying particular attention to the familiar face. He reached forward and traced his hand across the cool golden skin, to see if his hands could find some fault that his eyes could not. He shook his head. ‘It is remarkable,’ he said. ‘Has she seen it?’
‘Who, my lord?’
‘Maia, of course.’ Croesus looked again at the statue. ‘You carved her in gold,’ he continued, ‘but have not shown it to her?’
‘No, my lord.’ He hesitated. ‘We did wonder, my lord, why you asked for a statue of a slave. Perhaps you could enlighten me? It would settle a wager.’
Croesus smiled, but did not look at the craftsman. He stared into the empty golden eyes of the statue. ‘She can’t have children,’ he said.
‘My lord?’
‘She can’t have children. She told me that once. So I thought I would give her immortality in some other way.’ Croesus shrugged. ‘A whim of your king. Pay it no mind. You have done very well.’
‘I’m sure there is plenty more we can do,’ the craftsman said. ‘What else, my lord? Name anything.’
‘No. This is perfect. Wait.’ Croesus thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘My wife has some very fine necklaces. I shall have them sent down to you immediately. They will be a fine addition to the offering.’
‘Your wife? Won’t-’ the craftsman began to say. He checked himself.
Croesus affected not to hear. ‘When will it all be finished?’ he asked.
‘Three weeks.’
‘Very good. We shall dispatch it all in a month.’
‘A month, my lord? Why the delay?’
The king’s smile broadened. ‘It will take another week to bring the animals into the city once your work is finished. A gift of this size requires an appropriate sacrifice to mark its departure, don’t you think?’
5
The main square in the lower city was vast, designed for great public occasions. But on this occasion, it was not large enough. The scale of the sacrifice was unprecedented.
Twelve thousand sheep, goats, bulls and pigs, each flanked by the head of a household, filled the square and packed every street that led into it. Even the rooftops were alive with women and children, for everyone in the city had come to bear witness.
Above them all, on the balcony of the palace, Croesus looked down on the streets of the lower city far beneath him. He inhaled the smell of Sardis, listened to the sounds that filtered, faint and distorted, from the streets below him. The air was thick with the earthy stink of the animals, the chatter of the people as they waited for the ritual to begin. There had been many arguments between neighbours as to where they would stand, who would be closest to the central square and claim the greater glory. Some had been settled with fistfights, others with quiet bribes to nearby soldiers or priests. The poorest stood cramped in the side streets and back alleys, the richer shopkeepers on the main thoroughfares, the nobility in the centre square itself. All waited for the king.
Croesus signalled, and the soldier beside him blew a single, long note from the bullhorn that was slung round his neck. The chattering roar of the people ceased. Each of the twelve thousand men gripped the hair of the animal at his side and looked up to the king. They did not wait for him to speak, for he was too distant for them to hear him. They awaited a sign.
Croesus glanced over to the other side of the balcony. The goat, its coat pure white, ruminated calmly next to him. Sensing the king’s gaze, it inclined its head to face him. Its black rectangular pupils passed over Croesus with little interest, until it caught sight of a roll of parchment thrust into his belt. It lunged forward, its lips parted and snuffling for the paper, but Croesus pushed its questing nose away, letting his fingers trail down through its coarse wisp of beard. He took a silver cup of water from the edge of the balcony and raised it high in the air as a signal to those who waited below.
In the square and the streets beneath the citadel, each man took a cup of water, lifted it high, and poured it over the head of the beast in front of him. Each animal, feeling the water running over its head, instinctively nodded as if in unwitting agreement, giving its consent for the sacrifice. Croesus lifted his curved knife. Twelve thousand blades shone an answer back to him.
Then the knives fell, digging and cutting and sawing, and waves of blood poured out like an onrushing tide. The air was filled with the screams of the dying animals as they slumped to their knees and the blood boiled up through their mouths. A moment later the sound was drowned out as the people of Sardis roared in celebration.
The king’s hands trembled, and a priest stood nearby to second his attempt if he faltered. But he had been well instructed and made no mistake. He reached forward and opened the animal’s throat with a single cut.
The goat gave a single barked bleat, of confusion more than pain. It dropped its head and choked, then fell to its knees. It moaned mournfully, shivered and rested its head on its forelegs. It watched its own hot blood spread out around it like a crimson blanket. Its eyes grew dim, and then half closed, a tiny glint of gold visible through the thin slit of the eyelids. It lay still, and waited to die.
Croesus blinked back sudden tears. He put his hands into a basin of water, watched the tendrils of blood eddying into the water like smoke through the air. He shook his head, and smiled uncertainly at his wife. ‘Well, it is finished.’ She said nothing in response, and Croesus turned to his slaves. ‘Prepare this’ — he gestured at the carcass — ‘for my evening meal. Minus the Gods’ share, of course.’