The Last King of Lydia by Tim Leach Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tim Leach
trying to feel for anything that felt familiar. He held each one up in turn to his ear, as though hoping that it might whisper its name to him. In his dream, each of the weapons had spoken with a
different voice, and the individual patterns of the iron had been as diverse and familiar to him as the faces of his own family. Now they all looked the same, had no voice of iron to mark them
apart. He spent the rest of the night crouched there, cradling the blades in his arms, trying to discover if one of them might be the weapon that would kill his son.
In the morning, a new decree was announced in the city. Croesus commanded that all iron weapons outside of the armouries were to be taken from the men’s quarters and hung up in the
women’s quarters. All the armouries were to have their guard doubled, and no weapons were to leave them without his permission. Soon after, the palace guards were rearmed with bronze weapons.
The guards complained to their captains when the soldiers of the city jeered at their inferior, effeminate weaponry, but the edict stood.
The fear was choking at first. For weeks afterwards, he would spend much of his free time in one armoury or another, touching each spear and sword and arrowhead in turn, trying to locate his
dream self, his iron double. But, gradually and inevitably, the fear receded. He had been granted a vision, and surely no vision would come without the ability to change that future. The Gods would
not be that cruel.
The absence of iron weapons soon became nothing more than another strange custom of the Lydian court. Rumour spread in the neighbouring countries that it was an aesthetic choice, that Croesus,
in his vanity and his love of glittering wealth, found bronze more pleasing to his eyes than iron. The king enjoyed this rumour, and began to spread it himself.
In time, he almost came to believe it.
5
The priest brought two sets of hands together, pronounced the old words, and they were married. The watching crowd cried out, and Croesus tried to give his voice to the
celebration. But no words came, only air – a soft sigh of relief.
Five years had passed, five years in which Lydia had grown stronger. Tribe and city, island and township – all people west of the Halys river soon came under the power of Croesus. Some
fought or endured siege for a time, others surrendered as soon as the flag of bull and lion was seen on the horizon. After the wars, the eastern tribes brought Croesus offerings of honey, necklaces
of gold beads, patterned silver bracelets. The Ionians gave him red wine in black and brown amphorae, the black the colour of Nubian skin, the brown the colour of wet earth, the deep red wine like
blood and water.
Five years of conquest and prosperity, and only now had his son chosen to take a wife.
He had made countless introductions to the daughters of the Lydian nobility, but his son, smiling shyly, had rejected each one. Croesus could have forced his son to respect his wishes, but found
he did not have the heart for it. He wanted more than anything for his son to be married, but, it seemed, was powerless to bring it to pass. The king waited, and each day he woke and prayed for his
son to fall in love.
He looked around the temple, at his family. Atys sat drinking wine with the other young men as they pledged countless toasts to the health of the new couple. Occasionally one of them would lean
in close to Atys to whisper something in his ear. Obscene suggestions, judging by the way Atys blushed and shook his head. Amongst them, drinking quietly, was Adrastus, the man who had thrown
himself on Croesus’s mercy five years before. Croesus remembered how the priests had poured pigs’ blood over Adrastus’s hands, reading the spooling gore as it ran down to the
floor and pronouncing the omens to be good, the blood guilt cleansed. The priests had received a gold statue four cubits high from Croesus in return. Good omens did not go unrewarded, and Adrastus
different voice, and the individual patterns of the iron had been as diverse and familiar to him as the faces of his own family. Now they all looked the same, had no voice of iron to mark them
apart. He spent the rest of the night crouched there, cradling the blades in his arms, trying to discover if one of them might be the weapon that would kill his son.
In the morning, a new decree was announced in the city. Croesus commanded that all iron weapons outside of the armouries were to be taken from the men’s quarters and hung up in the
women’s quarters. All the armouries were to have their guard doubled, and no weapons were to leave them without his permission. Soon after, the palace guards were rearmed with bronze weapons.
The guards complained to their captains when the soldiers of the city jeered at their inferior, effeminate weaponry, but the edict stood.
The fear was choking at first. For weeks afterwards, he would spend much of his free time in one armoury or another, touching each spear and sword and arrowhead in turn, trying to locate his
dream self, his iron double. But, gradually and inevitably, the fear receded. He had been granted a vision, and surely no vision would come without the ability to change that future. The Gods would
not be that cruel.
The absence of iron weapons soon became nothing more than another strange custom of the Lydian court. Rumour spread in the neighbouring countries that it was an aesthetic choice, that Croesus,
in his vanity and his love of glittering wealth, found bronze more pleasing to his eyes than iron. The king enjoyed this rumour, and began to spread it himself.
In time, he almost came to believe it.
5
The priest brought two sets of hands together, pronounced the old words, and they were married. The watching crowd cried out, and Croesus tried to give his voice to the
celebration. But no words came, only air – a soft sigh of relief.
Five years had passed, five years in which Lydia had grown stronger. Tribe and city, island and township – all people west of the Halys river soon came under the power of Croesus. Some
fought or endured siege for a time, others surrendered as soon as the flag of bull and lion was seen on the horizon. After the wars, the eastern tribes brought Croesus offerings of honey, necklaces
of gold beads, patterned silver bracelets. The Ionians gave him red wine in black and brown amphorae, the black the colour of Nubian skin, the brown the colour of wet earth, the deep red wine like
blood and water.
Five years of conquest and prosperity, and only now had his son chosen to take a wife.
He had made countless introductions to the daughters of the Lydian nobility, but his son, smiling shyly, had rejected each one. Croesus could have forced his son to respect his wishes, but found
he did not have the heart for it. He wanted more than anything for his son to be married, but, it seemed, was powerless to bring it to pass. The king waited, and each day he woke and prayed for his
son to fall in love.
He looked around the temple, at his family. Atys sat drinking wine with the other young men as they pledged countless toasts to the health of the new couple. Occasionally one of them would lean
in close to Atys to whisper something in his ear. Obscene suggestions, judging by the way Atys blushed and shook his head. Amongst them, drinking quietly, was Adrastus, the man who had thrown
himself on Croesus’s mercy five years before. Croesus remembered how the priests had poured pigs’ blood over Adrastus’s hands, reading the spooling gore as it ran down to the
floor and pronouncing the omens to be good, the blood guilt cleansed. The priests had received a gold statue four cubits high from Croesus in return. Good omens did not go unrewarded, and Adrastus