‘He taught me that the Gods hate the fortunate,’ Croesus shouted over the rising roar of the fire, ‘and that I would die unhappy!’
Cyrus watched as Croesus threw his head back against the stake and bared his teeth. The fire had yet to touch him, but it would not be long before some straying lick of flame touched off the oil on his robe. The smoke grew heavier and hid Croesus from view. Occasionally, Cyrus still caught a glimpse of movement through the thickening air, as Croesus writhed against the stake. Cyrus sat, his chin resting against the palm of his hand, and listened to the hoarse screams of the dying king.
Cyrus had sat through many executions. Some swift, most slow. He knew the worst was about to come, the point at which the condemned man was beyond all chance of reprieve, was certain to die but not yet dead. It was a terrible thing, to watch a man in those last moments, when there truly was no hope.
‘Put it out,’ he said.
Six men stepped forward, pouring sand and water. The fire, which had seemed so powerful and irresistible, was extinguished in a matter of moments. The guards came forward to free the prisoner, but were driven back by the heat of the embers. They waited, their cloaks wrapped across their faces.
Eventually, one of the soldiers leaned forward and poked at the ashes with the shaft of his spear. Seeing the embers fade to red and grey, he stepped carefully over the pyre, the half-burned logs breaking underfoot. Seeing Croesus slumped forward, he raised the prisoner’s head and rolled open his eyes. The soldier nodded, as if in satisfaction, and unlocked the chain that held Croesus to the stake.
Croesus cried out as his weight came down on his feet, and curled up against the wooden chair. He looked up at the soldier who had freed him. ‘I can’t walk,’ he said. The guard frowned. Irritably, Croesus jabbed at his feet with a finger. The soldier nodded in understanding, and, passing his spear to one of his companions, he knelt and picked Croesus up, one arm under the crook of his legs, the other around his back. The Lydian closed his eyes against the shame of it, and put his arms around the Persian’s neck, letting himself be carried down and placed on the cold ground.
Cyrus walked down the stairs and across the courtyard towards his defeated enemy. His pace was unhurried, like a man taking an idle stroll at dusk to enjoy the last of the daylight. He stood over Croesus for a time, his entourage of advisors, slaves and bodyguards gathered behind him. The two kings looked at each other in silence.
‘So,’ Cyrus eventually said, in gently accented Lydian, ‘tell me about Solon.’
Croesus stared at Cyrus and then at his interpreter. Then he shook his head. ‘Why?’
‘Because I am curious.’ Cyrus glanced at the pyre, still pouring smoke into the air. ‘When they first lit the pyre, you had the face of a man hurrying towards death. When you said that name, it seemed to me that you changed your mind.’
Croesus looked at the ground. He spoke slowly. ‘He was an Athenian who came to my court. I had been on the throne a year. I had my wealth, and my family. So I asked him if I was the happiest man he had ever met.’
‘And?’
‘He said no one was happy until they were dead. Until then, you are just lucky. He claimed that it was only when he had seen a man’s entire life, and the way he met his death, that he could say whether or not that man had lived a happy life.’ Croesus shrugged. ‘I thought he was a fool.’
‘I see,’ said Cyrus. ‘That is all?’
‘Yes. I thought of him, up there. I thought of what he had said to me, and thought what an awful thing it was to die, having wasted your life.’
‘Your life has been a waste, then?’
‘Yes.’
There was silence for a time. Behind him, Cyrus’s entourage began to fidget and shiver in the cold. The general, Harpagus, tried to catch his king’s eye, to seek some direction or order, but Cyrus seemed to be in no hurry to do or say anything.
Eventually, Croesus looked up and asked, ‘What are your men doing in the city?’
‘I should think they are taking everything you own.’
‘No. I own nothing now,’ Croesus said, absently. ‘They are robbing you.’
Cyrus laughed. ‘True enough. I hadn’t thought of that. What should I do?’
Croesus looked up at the king, expecting to see a mocking smile on the other man’s face, but Cyrus seemed quite serious. ‘You cannot simply take it from them,’ Croesus said. ‘They might rebel against you. And you can’t let them pillage as they please. One of them might grow rich and powerful enough to be dangerous to you.’
‘A conundrum.’
‘Yes. So put some men you trust at each gate of the city, and as your men leave with their treasure, demand that they donate a tenth to the Gods who have given them victory. That is what I would do. They can’t argue with giving a share to the Gods.’
‘And should I take this gold that they surrender at the gates for myself?’
‘That is your decision. I don’t know how pious you are.’
Cyrus smiled, a fractional lift of one corner of his mouth. ‘You chose poorly in going to war against me,’ he said. ‘But, still, I think you are wise.’
Croesus shook his head. ‘You are wrong. No wise man chooses war.’ He looked away. ‘In times of peace, sons bury their fathers. In times of war, fathers bury their sons.’
‘Perhaps your war has taught you something, then. You could be of use to me.’
‘As a slave?’
‘We Persians aren’t as fond as you are of taking slaves. But there are exceptions. You are a danger to me as a free man.’ The Persian paused. ‘Perhaps one day you will earn your freedom again.’
Croesus said nothing in response. Cyrus continued: ‘I will grant you a boon of your choosing.’
‘Why?’
‘It is the custom. I even granted Astyages a boon when he entered my service.’
Croesus looked up sharply, and Cyrus nodded to him. ‘Yes, when I overthrew your brother king, I spared his life, despite all he had done to my people. He too became my slave.’
‘I don’t see him with you today. Did he displease you? I don’t think I will last long in this court of yours. I would rather die now, than have you keep me like a dog and murder me on a whim.’
‘You are mistaken. He did not die by my hand, but by his own.’ Cyrus shrugged. ‘I gave him no reason. So long as you are loyal to me, Croesus, you shall live. Come, what favour can I grant you?’
Croesus thought. He thought of his treasury, that all those years before had once contained an infinity of desires. He had never thought he would be reduced to one command, to have the power to perform just a single action before his freedom was taken. And yet, now it was offered to him, there was only one thing he found that he wanted.
‘Let my wife be spared slavery,’ he said eventually. ‘And take good care of my son.’
‘You would like her by your side, I presume?’
‘No. Let her go to the temples, or marry again if that is what she wants. I want her to be free. That is all I ask.’
Cyrus nodded, and conferred with his advisors. One of them glanced uneasily at Croesus, shook his head, and leaned in to whisper a message to the Persian king. Croesus watched, and covered his face with his hands.
‘I will take care of your son, Croesus. Your wife is dead,’ Cyrus said.
‘How?’ Croesus said, without raising his head.
‘She jumped from the palace walls as the city was being taken.’
‘Yes,’ said Croesus slowly. ‘She would choose that.’ He shut his eyes against the tears, but they still flowed through.
Cyrus paused. ‘Have an hour. Then you may request another boon.’ The Persian king looked Croesus over. ‘Did the fire hurt you?
Croesus reached a hand towards his burned feet. ‘Yes, a little,’ he said.
‘Who was your personal slave?’
‘He is called Isocrates. I don’t know if he survived the fighting.’
Cyrus smiled. ‘Slaves are great survivors; they tend to outlive their masters in a time of war. That is how they became slaves in the first place — by living when they should have died. I shall see if he can be found.’