He turned to the messenger. ‘This oracle, she is remarkable. Do you think that she would answer another question of mine?’
‘Such was the generosity of your gifts, I cannot think that she would refuse you.’
‘Good. Ask her for how long I will reign.’
The messenger nodded. ‘It shall be done. Is that all, my lord?’
Croesus hesitated, and Isocrates, who stood at the king’s side, looked at his master closely. It was the first time in months that he had seen Croesus show anything approaching doubt.
‘Ask her one more favour for me,’ Croesus said. ‘If the oracle will permit it.’
‘What should I ask?’
Croesus turned his head, and looked into the corner of the room. On the floor sat Gyges, idly running a piece of embroidered cloth through his hands. Since the day of the sacrifice, he had spent much of every day in Croesus’s company. He followed the king silently but paid no apparent attention to him, retreating to some isolated corner of the room, toying with some piece of jewellery or fabric, and plunging deeper into whatever world his mind inhabited. Croesus could not imagine what prompted this behaviour, what it might mean. Occasionally he wondered if it amounted to some kind of reprimand, or warning. But for the most part, he thought it signified nothing.
The king turned back to the messenger, licked his lips, then spoke again. ‘Ask her if my son will ever speak to me.’ With that, he rose from his throne and walked away, his head low, declining to meet the gaze of any other in the room. He beckoned to Isocrates to follow him.
‘Tell me about Athens and Sparta.’
‘Athens and Sparta?’
‘You heard the prophecy,’ Croesus said, reclining on a couch in his private chambers. ‘We must have allies for this war. Which is the stronger?’
‘Athens is divided,’ Isocrates said, after a moment’s thought. ‘They threw out their tyrant Pisistratus some years ago. But I’ve heard rebellion is coming. Pisistratus may return to power.’
‘So Athens is in chaos?’ Croesus said. He thought of Solon’s love for his city, and felt a stabbing, guilty pleasure. ‘What of Sparta?’
‘Not as wealthy as some nations, but they are great warriors. I can’t imagine you will find a more valuable ally, especially since their war against Tegea.’
‘Strong and stable? Men like you, Isocrates.’
‘Perhaps, master.’
‘You do not like the comparison?’
‘They worship war more than any other people I know. I do not think that is something to be proud of.’
‘That makes them ideal for our purpose.’
‘True, master. Shall I dispatch the emissaries?’
‘Yes, yes. Immediately.’ Croesus turned from Isocrates but the slave felt that he had not yet been dismissed. ‘What a slow business this is,’ the king said. ‘I think I might spend a lifetime at this. Sacrificing to oracles. Sending emissaries. Haggling with my nobles. Assembling the army. I am not sure I have the patience. Then again, Solon. .’ He hesitated, like a superstitious man who utters an unintended blasphemy.
‘Yes, master?’
‘Solon told me that he spent a lifetime trying to pass a dozen laws. Laws that were repealed a decade after he left his city. I suppose I should be grateful if I can build an empire in a few years.’ He stared out of a window, towards the east. ‘Still, I wish I could begin my work.’
‘Where you lead, we will follow,’ the Spartan ambassador said. ‘We have not forgotten your gift of gold for our temple. All we ask is that our sacrifices are not forgotten. Perhaps the wealth and strength of Lydia may come to the assistance of Sparta at some time in the future, when we have need of your help.’
‘Of course,’ Croesus responded lightly. The alliance between Sparta and Lydia had been sealed in writing a month before. The appearance of Lakrines, a flint-faced ambassador with close-cropped hair, clad in the red cloak of the Spartan nobility, was a mere formality, a ritual to be concluded. ‘Your two kings send a gift, I presume?’ Croesus said.
‘They do. But, there is a greater offering that our craftsmen are working on. A great bronze bowl — we have heard that you love bronze.’ Croesus flinched at this. He had forgotten how far that rumour had spread.
Lakrines bowed, and continued: ‘But we hope this small token will suffice for now.’ He gestured to one of his helots, who came forward, his eyes down, and presented a small wooden casket to Croesus.
The king opened the casket and surveyed its contents with little interest. Rough coins of gold and silver that, compared to the craftsmanship he was used to, were like the work of children. Paltry treasures that would occupy only a small shelf in one of Croesus’s treasuries, but he knew that they represented a small fortune to the Spartans. He flipped the lid of the casket shut and smiled politely at his visitor.
‘The king of Lydia thanks the kings of Sparta for their gifts, and expects that this is the beginning of a long and mutually prosperous alliance.’ He stifled a yawn with his hand. ‘You may leave us.’
The emissary bowed again, and Croesus waited until he had reached the entrance of the throne room before he spoke again. ‘Stop,’ the king said. ‘There is one last thing I wish to ask.’
The Spartan turned back. ‘Yes, King Croesus?’
Croesus steepled his fingers. ‘Would you mind explaining your insult to me?’
‘Insult?’
‘You had your helot present your gift to me, rather than offering it with your own hands.’ Croesus smiled thinly, and spread his hands wide. ‘I’m sure there is a reason for this. I just can’t think what it might be.’
‘Ah.’ Lakrines bowed low. ‘Forgive me. We misunderstand each other. I may not touch these coins.’
‘Some religious precept?’
‘Something like that. No citizen of Sparta values such things.’
‘Ah.’ Croesus smiled in amusement. ‘Interesting. Satisfy my curiosity. What is it you do value?’
The Spartan nodded. The question had been asked of him and answered many times. ‘We value the man to our right,’ he said. ‘That is all.’ He bowed again, and turned away before Croesus could question him further.
The king drummed his fingers together. ‘Isocrates?’ he said after a time.
‘Yes, master?’
‘Find out what he meant by that.’
In the days that followed, Isocrates immersed himself in the world of hoplites, shield walls and long spears. He learned about the great and weak kings of Sparta, the teachings of their renowned lawgiver, Lycurgus. He examined the tales that had made their way across land and over sea from Sparta to Lydia, each rumour growing and evolving along the way: stories of feral children who murdered slaves and stole their food, invincible warriors who stood ten feet tall, young women who had their hair cut off on the nights of their weddings. He had become expert at judging the tales of distant peoples, handling them the way a dealer in metals might approach a dubious piece of ore; weighing it, testing it, melting away impurities and discovering what value lay at its core.
Like a patient, studious child, the king sat quietly as Isocrates explained the phalanx, the rigid square that the Spartan warriors formed when they took to the battlefield, in which each man used his shield to protect the man who stood to his left. It was a battle formation dependent on the individual’s subsuming of himself into the whole, each man placing his life in the hands of the man on his right.
‘So that is the way wars are fought these days?’ Croesus said. ‘How disappointing.’
‘You prefer the old stories of single combat?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I always wondered what the rest of the army was doing while the two heroes spent hours battling each other.’