It was remarkable, he thought, that one could transform a king into a slave so quickly. He was even ashamed to find that there was now some comfort in the numbing simplicity of his life, the freedom from any kind of choice. But occasionally, at the edge of his mind, the feeling came that he was only buying time. He knew that there was no happiness in this way of life, and that life without happiness was no life at all. He took care not to follow that line of thought too far. When the army left Sardis and went in search of other lands to conquer, Croesus began to lose himself in repetition.
Each morning, waking with the dawn, he would at first lie still, enjoying a rare waking moment when his time was his own, waiting for the fear of being punished to outweigh the rebellious pleasure of stillness. He would listen to the muted, familiar sounds of the army waking around him, the soldiers and slaves readying themselves for a day’s back-breaking labour so that the army could drag itself forward just a few parasangs, could crawl its way across the land, heading to the west.
He would rise and check his feet as Isocrates had taught him, then unroll the small piece of cloth that served as his treasury, taking an inventory of the coins and tools and small luxuries that were all he owned. After accounting for all his possessions, he secreted them one by one into the hidden pockets he had stitched into his tunic. The servants stole from their masters when they were certain they could get away with it, and they stole from one another as a matter of habit.
Before he left the tent, he would look enviously at the other slaves. They had learned to sleep until the very last moment, in order to take as much rest as they could, rising just in time to hurry to their tasks. Perhaps, untroubled by dreams, it was easier for them to sleep that way. He wondered if he would ever manage to forget his dreams and sleep as they did.
Then he parted the cloth of the tent and emerged to another day of servitude.
He had lived this peripheral life, numb and inconsequential, for the better part of two years. He thought that twenty more might pass in such a way, until news came from the east that would place him at the centre of things once again.
Lydia had rebelled.
Croesus saw that Cyrus was not angry at the news. He had never seen the Persian king in a rage, and even now, a faint sense of frustration was all that was apparent, the frustration of a man facing a problem that was well within his powers, almost insultingly so, but that would take time and precious energy to solve.
‘Now,’ said the king, ‘explain to me again what has happened, Cyraxes. And perhaps, more importantly, how we have allowed it to happen.’
‘Pactyes-’
‘A man you recommended to me.’
‘Yes. He has declared himself ruler of Lydia, and bought himself an army. He is besieging our regent-’
‘Tabulus.’
‘Yes. He is under siege in Sardis.’
‘What did Pactyes use to buy his army?’
‘Gold.’
‘The gold that we gave him.’
Cyraxes bowed his head. ‘Yes.’
‘You see, Croesus? Your riches haunt me still.’ Cyrus looked back at his courtiers. ‘How did this happen?’
No one answered, and Cyrus divided his gaze equally between Harpagus and Cyraxes. ‘I should have known that there was something wrong,’ the king said eventually, ‘when you both agreed that he was the man to trust. It was unprecedented — an appointment without an argument. Now I see there is much to be said for precedent. But what is to be done now? Harpagus?’
‘His army won’t be able to resist ours. A single battle is all it will take to rout them.’
‘You are certain?’
‘Quite certain. A man like Pactyes assumes that loyalty can be bought.’
‘And it cannot?’
‘It can for a battle. Not for a war. His mercenaries cannot compare to our soldiers.’
‘Why?’
‘Your men don’t follow you for the gold,’ Harpagus said matter of factly. ‘They follow you because they love you.’
‘How kind of you to say so,’ Cyrus said. ‘Very well. Take half the army. You will travel faster that way.’ Cyrus held out a hand, and a servant handed him a skin of wine. He drank, and passed it back. ‘So, what do we do afterwards?’
Harpagus frowned. ‘What do you mean, sire?’
‘For such a practical man, Harpagus, you surprise me. What do we do about Lydia?’
Silence fell, and every one of the courtiers turned to look at Croesus, kneeling at the king’s side. Cyrus did not. ‘If they can rebel so soon after we have conquered them,’ he continued, ‘they will rise again. Unless we can discourage them in some way.’
Harpagus nodded. ‘I see. After we have defeated them, I would suggest we enslave them. We can repopulate the cities and towns with migrants from the east. Let the Lydians become a race of slaves.’
‘I have no love for slavery, Harpagus.’
The general looked pointedly at Croesus. ‘The Lydians do. Doesn’t that make it a fitting punishment?’
Cyrus nodded slowly. ‘Well, Croesus?’ he said.
‘Master?’
‘You have raised a proud people in a rich land, Croesus. That presents me with a problem.’
Croesus took a deep breath. ‘Master. I ask you not to do this.’
‘You can beg all you like, it won’t-’
‘Harpagus, quiet,’ Cyrus said. He turned back to Croesus. ‘I’m afraid he is right. Begging won’t do any good. I am open to an alternative, if you can convince me. But I don’t see one.’
Croesus opened his mouth to speak again. He hesitated. It had been so long since he had any influence over a life other than his own. He had forgotten what it was to have the fate of a nation depend on his words, and he found he no longer had a taste for it.
He must have been the greatest murderer that Lydia had ever seen. Tens of thousands killed in the war to the east, thousands more dead at the fall of Sardis. Who was he to plead for mercy, or restraint?
He thought of the generations who would be born and live in the country that had been his. Sons and daughters who would haggle and trade in the markets of Sardis, raise crops and hunt for gold on the banks of the Pactolus, playing in the water and dreaming of oceans that they would never see. Hearing stories of the Lydian kings, and above all of the fool Croesus, who had gambled their freedom for his vanity and lost. It was not the future he had wanted for his people, but it was a future, nonetheless. A future that was about to be taken from them.
He had been the last king of Lydia. Perhaps now his country would die with him, its people taken as slaves, taken to serve wherever their masters sent them, their stories forgotten, their language lost, their history turned into myth. An entire civilization conquered, and destroyed.
This was a last service he could perform for them — he could ensure that they might live free from kings and wars and slavery, for one more generation.
He looked up again, and began to speak.
3
‘What did you tell him?’ Maia asked.
Croesus smiled, and looked at her thoughtfully.
He wondered how many words he had spoken to her when she served him as a slave. He did not think they would number much more than a hundred, as if his son’s mute nature were somehow infectious. Then, she had been an invisible convenience. Now, on the rare occasions when they were both free from responsibility, they gathered to share their stories. She would recount the intricate politics of the field kitchens and supply wagons, he the petty debates of the court. They could not decide which of them lived in a more tangled network of alliance and betrayal.
She alone of all the slaves and servants seemed to wish to speak with him, and one night he had asked Isocrates why this might be. Isocrates had muttered something to the effect that she had always been fascinated by unusual creatures, and that a slave who was once a king certainly qualified as such. That was the only answer he would offer.