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

than to be moulded into something remarkable, only to waste away the years unused, to rust and break and be discarded? Occasionally his metallic
pulse would quicken as human hands took hold of him, but it was only to be cleaned and sharpened or paraded in ceremony. At night, when men slept but forged iron could talk freely, he and his
companions in the armoury spoke of the duels they would fight, the great battles that they would win, if only they were given the opportunity.
    He witnessed the coronation of his waking self as king of Lydia. Borne by a soldier on the walls of Sardis he watched the parade go past, watched as the new king waved to the cheering crowds and
smiled at the chanting of his name. As a man, that day had meant everything to him. As a weapon he felt only the hope that he might finally go to war. A new king always went to war.
    The wars came, but he remained in his armoury, growing older and weaker. As the years passed, some of his fellows descended into a senile madness, boasting of wars they had never fought,
claiming to have been the personal weapons of renowned warriors who had died centuries before. Some rusted, were taken away, and never returned. Croesus wondered if he would prefer that fate, to be
cast out to rust and dissolve back into the earth, rather than this eternity of waiting. But that was not his destiny.
    He was taken from the armoury, bundled with half a dozen of his fellows, covered with hide and strapped to the side of a pack animal. For days he jolted along the road, listening to the excited
chatter of his companions, roused from their stupor and going at last to war. He lived in darkness, shielded from the elements, waiting. He was reminded of his first days beneath the earth, and he
prayed that the journey would not end, that he would remain for ever in this same exquisite state of anticipation.
    But the battle came at last, the air alive with the screams of fearful men, the animal cries of the enemy, the sound of iron against iron, iron through skin, iron into bone. He circled the edges
of the conflict, waiting patiently. He felt the practised hand that gripped him with a dry palm, waiting to make a throw that would count.
    The entire world stood still. His master let him fly, and he felt the air roar, sensed a single figure growing large and filling his world.
    He struck deep, tasted blood. Buried in flesh and bone, he could feel the dying heart beat through him, and knew that the wound was mortal. His master’s hand gripped him once more, and
with a single motion he was pulled loose and hung suspended above the body of his enemy. He saw the face of the man he had killed.
    It was his son, Atys.
    Croesus woke. He sat alone, his wife far away in her own private quarters, and shook silently in his bedclothes until he found the strength to move. He went to a basin of water and washed his
face, swallowed a goblet of wine. He could still feel his son’s blood on his face, still taste it on his lips.
    He cried out for his guards. They entered the room in a moment, checking the corners, prodding the curtains with the tips of their spears, their hands running over Croesus to search for a hidden
wound. He waved them away. ‘Listen to me.’ He voice trailed off, and his eyes flickered across the bodies of his guards. He saw the iron daggers and iron short swords strapped to their
waists, the iron-headed spears they clutched in their hands. He thought of the thousands of iron weapons in Sardis, of a death waiting in every part of the palace.
    ‘Leave all your weapons here,’ he said. ‘Then go to my son and guard him with your lives.’
    They exchanged uncertain looks. ‘Guard your son without our weapons?’ one of them asked.
    ‘Yes,’ Croesus said, ‘exactly that. Go, now.’
    It was not for them to question the king further, and so they placed their weapons before him and left to obey their orders. Croesus sat on the stone floor and ran his hands over the blades,