The Last King of Lydia by Tim Leach Read Free Book Online

his son. Sometimes, a hint of a smile worked its way on his face, when Gyges acted like any other child, absorbed in his own secret games and
invented world. Then the boy would turn away and hiss or moan, make the alien sounds that no other child made, and the king’s half-smile would twist in on itself – whether from pain or
disgust, Isocrates could not tell. For the most part, the king’s face was unreadable. Perhaps he was trying to pretend to himself that he too was watching another man’s son.
    A sound from the courtyard made Isocrates look back to Maia and Gyges. He saw her crouch down by one of the piles of rubbish that were scattered on the ground. It was not until she started
moving backwards, still crouched, that he saw she had found a stray dog hiding there. She coaxed it out with patient words and gestures, and it came forward warily, blinking at the sun.
    It was an ugly thing, its coat uneven with mange, its left ear little more than a ribbon of scarflesh from one fight too many. Maia led it past Gyges. The boy ignored it at first, but when it
drew close, he reached down and ran a shuddering hand through its coat, gentle and forceful in turn. At his touch, the dog turned back and licked at his hand, a brief moment of affection, before it
wandered away, sniffing at another pile of rubbish for some stray bone or hunk of rotten meat to chew on.
    Gyges smiled, a brief, brilliant smile, and gave a gasping noise that might have been his version of a laugh. With a motion as natural as it was unexpected, he reached out and took Maia’s
hand. She was too surprised to react or pull away, and Gyges passed a finger over her palm, once, before he started back, turned away, and wandered to the other side of the courtyard as though
nothing had happened. Isocrates looked up to the balcony, and saw that the king had averted his eyes from this sight.
    Taking his opportunity, Isocrates walked across the courtyard. Maia turned away from him as he approached, and curled one hand behind her back. Without slowing as he walked past, he reached out
to her and, for an instant, let his fingers pass over hers. A passing touch and he was gone, walking between the guards and through the doorway to another quarter of the palace. He wondered how
many days it would be before he could steal another touch from her.
    Before he went back into the palace and back to his duties, he risked a glance over his shoulder, to see if Croesus had seen him. But the king had gone.

4
    That night, Croesus dreamed with the clarity of a prophecy.
    He dreamed that he was born deep under the earth. He passed centuries in the still dark, feeling the slow expansion and contraction of the ground beneath him, listening to the discordant sounds
that echoed down from the surface as cities rose and fell, seas were born and died. He rested, and was at peace within the earth.
    But then light and air broke into his home. Bronze picks cut him away, loaded him onto carts, and took him from the place of his birth. He was a piece of iron, removed from his mountain tomb to
become a slave to men. He travelled for many days over mountains and hills, through small towns and villages where blacksmiths and tradesmen tried to buy him. His owners would not sell; he was of a
noble lineage, too good to be beaten into a horseshoe or part of a plough. Soon, the convoy crested a hill that was familiar to him from his waking life, and looked down on the city of Sardis.
    In the armourer’s forge, he sweltered in the fire. He turned red, then white with the heat, but he felt no pain, even as the hammer fell on him and pounded him flat. He felt his form
become sharper and sleeker. He was changing into something deadly, something beautiful.
    He had to await his destiny, hanging in an armoury deep within the palace. Somehow, the wait in the armoury, though it spanned only a few years, was far more painful than the centuries he had
slept in the earth. Could there be a worse fate