by Tim Leach
‘No,’ the king said, the sound of his voice almost like regret. ‘I still do not understand. I do not think it means anything.’
‘A foolish story, master. Pay it no mind.’
Cambyses looked at him, and in those weak eyes Croesus saw something that he had never seen there before. Distrust. The way a man will look on another whom he suspects is cheating him, although he cannot prove it. He felt that he should speak, should find some way of countering the suspicion with a flattering word, but, caught in that gaze, found that he could not.
A new shadow entered the room, standing in the entrance and giving a soft clap of his hands to make himself known. The king freed Croesus from his gaze to address the newcomer.
‘What do you want?’
‘A visitor has come, and requests an urgent audience with you. A Hellene, named Phanes.’
Cambyses shook his head. ‘Who is this man?’
‘I have heard of him.’ It was Harpagus who spoke. ‘A mercenary general, now in service to the Egyptian Pharaoh.’
‘And? What message does he bring from Egypt?’
‘He requests a meeting with you in private.’
‘He seeks to interrupt me now? Take his message and get out.’
‘He says that he has urgent words for you, and you alone. Vital to your honour, and your safety. He says you may have him put to death if, after he has spoken, you consider his words of no importance.’
The king said nothing for a time. Croesus wondered which word it was that had caught his attention – honour, or safety. ‘We shall see about that,’ Cambyses said at last. ‘But, very well.’ He shoved his plate forward. ‘I have no appetite left.’ He waved a hand absently, the gesture encompassing the whole table. ‘Leave me. All of you.’
Croesus rose, and immediately felt hands on his back, those same careful servants coming forward out of the darkness to guide the guests away. Under the cover of scraping chairs and moving feet, Croesus permitted himself a sigh of relief, heard it echoed by many of the others as they went. He was grateful for the chance to slip away.
He saw almost none of the others as they left the dark chamber, guided by the servants. But, passing into light for a moment, he saw Nitetis hurry past him, her face pale, her eyes alive with fear, before she disappeared into the darkness and out into the palace. So brief had been the sight, so strange and powerful the fear on her face, that he assumed he had imagined it.
6
Cambyses sat quite still, in that too-bright chamber that was his private room. He thought about what Phanes had told him. He wished he were still in the dining chamber, where a retreat into darkness would have been possible, where his foolishness would not be so exposed. In his mind, he turned the words over, first one way, and then another, looking for some way out. There was none.
He looked up at Phanes, the hard-faced general who stood before him, seeking some sign of deception. Cambyses did not think he had many talents, but he had always been able to see through a lie. Perhaps in his heart, Cambyses thought, he had always known it to be true.
‘You may leave,’ Cambyses said. He paused. ‘I wish you had not told me what you have. But I suppose I must thank you for it. You will be well rewarded.’
If the king had seen the barest hint of a smile on the general’s face, he would have had him put to death that instant. Perhaps he would not have been able to wait for the executioner, and would have taken the man’s life with his own hands. But Phanes gave no such sign. Cambyses knew he would have to watch for that mockery, once the news had spread. He would spend his whole life looking for that trace of a smile, the hand that covered the beginnings of laughter.
Phanes bowed and left, and once he had gone, Cambyses allowed himself to cry.
After a time, when the hollowing sobs had eased a little, he told his bodyguards to leave him. He did so without raising his head – one hand still pressed to his eyes, the other pointing, stabbing at the door with two fingers.
The half dozen men glanced at one another. It was dangerous to leave Cambyses in such distress. They knew the suicide of a king would always be disbelieved, for such a death did not make sense. How could a king ever wish to die? What sadness could such a man of wealth and power possibly know? They would be blamed as assassins and put to death by whoever claimed the throne. Such things had happened many times before, and so they looked at their king, trying to find in him some desperate trace of the suicide. Then they looked to each other again, and in a conference of gazes reached some silent, mutual conclusion. They filed slowly from the room.
Cambyses crossed his arms and grasped his own shoulders, embracing himself. He began to rock gently back and forth, as though he were parent and weeping child all in one, and hoped to somehow lull himself to sleep.
There was no shame so complete as that of a king, he thought. An ordinary man may be tricked and fooled a hundred times in his life, make a thousand mistakes that he cannot repair, and yet none remember, and he may go to his death forgotten. But the foolishness of a king, that lasted for ever. For as long as they spoke his name, they would remember this humiliation.
He reached up his hands and extended his fingers towards his face. After a moment’s hesitation, he moved them closer still, pushed the points of the nails past the film of tears to rest on the surface of his eyes. He could feel every nick of the nails acutely, felt the unevenly cut edge of his left forefinger almost catching on the jelly of the eye. He sat quite still for a time, enjoying the closeness of it. A few pounds of pressure, a moment of pain, and his ruined eyes would be taken from him. He would no longer have to look on the world that hated him.
But no, he thought. Not yet. There was something else that he would do first.
In another part of the palace, Harpagus sat awake at his table.
The hour was late, but he had no intention of retiring to bed. He slept little, for dreams were no comfort to him. In them, he saw Cyrus disappearing into the Massagetae hoards, heard the screams of a son and wife forty years dead. So instead of sleep, he lit a fire, sat at his table, and read and wrote the night away.
He had lived his life amidst these papers. It was an indulgence in a world where to write was the rare mark of a learned man, and to have paper enough to write on at leisure the mark of a wealthy one. When he had entered the service of Cyrus, the Persian king had offered him a world of riches, the finest satrapies to rule, whatever reward he wanted. He had chosen paper, ink, a good horse and a good sword. In his years as a general to the Persian kings he had sought to reduce the world to paper and wax, a world that he could understand and control. Or that is what he had once believed. Now, he felt control slipping away from him. No matter how hard he worked, there was always more to do. His mind was growing old, or else the world had grown more complex. There must have been a time when he could have held all of it in paper, when it could be captured entirely. When a man could know everything that could be known. That time had passed, though, perhaps many years before. No one could ever understand the world now. No one ever would again.
His senses were not what they once had been, and it was some time before he noticed that someone had entered the chamber silently, the way the gods of the Hellenes were said to carve instant forms from the shadows and air. He looked up, and saw a young man of the court whom he recognized but could not name. One of the many eager young men who had replaced him at the side of the Persian king.
‘Why are you here?’ Harpagus said.
‘The king would like to speak to you.’
There was silence. Harpagus stared at his visitor, and that careful, blank face looked back at him.
‘I see.’ Harpagus felt his hands begin to shake, and put them on his lap beneath the table to hide them. ‘I do not think speaking is what he has in mind. Am I right?’
The other man did not reply.
‘What is your name?’ Harpagus said.
‘Prexaspes.’
‘Prexaspes. I know why you have come.’
&
nbsp; ‘You have had word?’
‘No. You have no traitors selling secrets. You have done your work well, and caught me with no warning.’ Harpagus looked away. ‘But I knew that, sooner or later, it would come to this. I suppose that I am surprised it took him this long.’
Outside the chamber he heard the familiar sound that had followed him all his life, the martial sound of metal against leather. ‘You could have come alone,’ Harpagus said. ‘Are you so afraid of an old man?’
‘Everyone is afraid of Harpagus. The terrible general, the scourge of Ionia.’
‘Do you mock me?’
‘No. You were a great man, in your day.’
‘In my day I was a killer of men. That is how they will remember me, is it not?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is too late to regret that.’ Harpagus paused for a moment. ‘I have done nothing.’
‘Are you begging for your life?’
‘Hardly. I thought you might be curious, that is all. It is not something that you forget, when you kill an innocent man.’
‘It does not matter. He believes you to be guilty. Eventually, you will tell him what he wants to hear.’
‘Yes. I suppose I will.’ With the admission, he felt his hands stop shaking, and he knew that he was not afraid any more.
He placed his hands on top of the table, felt the parchment like leaves beneath his fingers. A world was here in the abstract, in letters and numbers, but he wished he could make it come to life before him, like some magician from the old stories. To see mountains, and feel the sea washing over him. To walk through the streets of Ecbatana one last time. There was so much else that he should have done, he thought. I have wasted my life.
He looked up at Prexaspes. ‘He will come for you one of these days, you know. That is the fate of men like you and me. We do the worst of things for our kings. One day they look on us with fear, remembering what we have done in their name. Then they cast us aside.’
‘Perhaps.’ Prexaspes shrugged. ‘But I will live for a time as a great man.’
‘Take care of your family, will you? A king took mine from me, many years ago. He will take yours from you, if you anger him.’
‘I will keep them safe,’ Prexaspes said. He glanced at where a sword hung on the wall. ‘Perhaps I should leave you alone for a moment,’ he said.
Harpagus looked at the sword as well, the blade hacked and notched from countless battles fought for the Persian kings, its point and edge still keen. ‘No. I thank you for the courtesy. But no.’
‘You should. It will be . . .’ Prexaspes hesitated, and fell silent.
Harpagus felt his mouth twitch at the other man’s hesitance, the barest trace of a smile. ‘You will need a harder heart than that, for the work you have ahead.’
‘I am sure I will learn.’ Prexaspes lifted his chin, looked proudly at the other man. ‘You should accept my offer. It will not be a good death, that the king will give you.’
‘Yes, I know. But I would like to know how I can meet that death. I do not suppose I will meet it well. I have yet to see a man who can. But I would like to try. Perhaps that will be enough.’
‘As you wish.’ Prexaspes gestured towards the chamber door, like a man inviting a guest to his home. ‘Shall we go? Are you ready?’
Harpagus said nothing for a while. Then: ‘Will you let me write one letter?’
‘Of course. Take all the time you need.’ He paused, then said, ‘Who is it to?’
‘Croesus, of course,’ Harpagus said. Then, paying no more mind to his executioner, he bent down over his sea of papers and found an unmarked sheet of Egyptian papyrus.
He wrote the letter slowly, carefully. He did not rush, and he did not hesitate as he filled the paper with his small, crabbed hand. When he had finished he looked it over, satisfied that every thought he wanted to share had been marked down in ink, that there was nothing that remained unsaid. Then he picked it up from the table and held it out over the fire. The flames caught a corner, and in a moment had burned it to nothing. He blew the ash off his hand, and stood.
With the stiff motions of an old man, holding his crippled arm close against his body like a man cradling a child, he followed Prexaspes and silently left the room.
Croesus blinked against the darkness. The stone wall was cold against his back, and at first he thought this was what had woken him. He shared a corner of the room with Isocrates; a little luxury in the communal world of the slaves, a blanket draped between two columns giving the illusion of private ownership. If he rolled the wrong way in the night, he would wake shivering against the stone.
This time, he had not emerged from his dreams by chance. He felt a hand against his shoulder once more. His eyes adjusted, and he saw Isocrates kneeling beside him.
‘What is it?’ Croesus said. ‘Does the king want me?’
‘No.’
‘Is something wrong?’
There was a pause in the darkness. ‘I wanted to say goodbye.’
‘What?’
Isocrates looked down at the ground. ‘One of the others overheard the guards talking.’
‘What have you heard?’
Again, Isocrates said nothing for a time. Then: ‘There is going to be an execution tomorrow. Cambyses has ordered it.’
‘Who?’
‘Servants and slaves.’
‘How many?’
‘All of us, Croesus.’ Isocrates looked back at him. ‘All of us except you.’
Croesus remembered when he himself had been the condemned man. That unnatural creature whose mind and flesh cried out for life, who would think and hope until the final moment. He looked at his friend, and thought: a dead man is speaking.
‘Why?’ Croesus said at last.
‘There is no why. You know that.’ Isocrates hesitated. ‘I thought that you might have been told.’
‘I know nothing.’
Isocrates looked away again, his eyes dull. ‘I would like to know why, at least.’
‘Do not talk like that. You must run.’
‘Where would I go?’
Croesus closed his eyes, hoping to shut out the world he saw through them, as one can in a dream. But when he opened them again, Isocrates was still kneeling at his side, the look of defeat on his face like a death mask. From the rest of the room, as if in confirmation, he could hear the word being passed from one to another. He heard some men praying, others crying, others still issuing whispered denials, refusing to believe what every man knew to be true. A chamber filled with the condemned, with nothing to do but to wait for the dawn, and the death that would come with it.
‘What are you going to do?’ Croesus said.
‘I will try and get to the women’s quarters, to see Maia.’
‘If they catch you, they will . . .’ Croesus trailed off.
‘Croesus, I—’
Croesus stood and waved him into silence.
‘Wait for me here.’
‘Croesus—’
‘Wait here, I said. You have the rest of the night to get yourself killed. Give me a little time. Then you can do what you want.’
‘I did not wake you for this, Croesus.’
‘I know. Just wait.’
The other man nodded, tipped his head back against the wall, crossed his arms over his knees, and waited. Perhaps he would use the coldness of the stone to keep himself awake, not wanting to waste what few hours he had left in sleep.
Croesus turned away, picked his way through the hundred weeping, praying men, and pounded on the door to their chamber.
‘I wish to see the king.’
When he entered, Croesus at first thought he had been misguided, that through conspiracy or mistake the guard had taken him to some other, forgotten corner of the palace grounds.
The king’s private chamber was no longer a place of light. The torches had been taken down, the gaps in the walls covered with black cloth, so that not even the soft light of the moon and stars was permitted entry. Croesus coul
d not find the king in the shadows, but knew that he was there. The sweet smell of wine was in the air, and something moved within the room unseen, like some creature of myth, hiding in darkness, hating itself.
‘Why have you come here, Croesus?’ The king’s voice was clear.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you, master.’
‘Why have you come?’
‘I have heard . . .’
‘Yes, Croesus?’
Croesus stood silent for a moment longer, clasping and unclasping his hands. ‘Are the slaves to die?’ he said. ‘The servants too?’
‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘I am sorry for it.’ The king’s voice broke, and stifled sobs escaped the shadows.
Eventually, the voice recovered its strength, and spoke again. ‘But it is necessary. You agree, don’t you? It must be done.’
‘Master. Please tell me. What is wrong?’
A stamping sound, as the king stood, and strode out of the darkness. He moved so quickly that Croesus saw his grieving face for only a moment, before the world rang into half silence, upended, and Croesus lay on the ground, one hand to his bleeding ear, the other held up to ward off another blow.
‘You mock me! I know you do! You must have known!’
Croesus pressed his face to the floor, felt his hands shaking like a fever-struck man. ‘I know nothing.’
A hand rolled him over roughly, and Cambyses’s face was but a few inches from his own. The king’s eyes hunted over Croesus’s face, as if he were looking for a lie hiding in a treacherous fold of skin. Then Cambyses stood, a little of the tension ebbing from his body, like a bowstring half untensed, the arrow still nocked.
‘What you say is true,’ Cambyses said. ‘You would not have come and played the fool. You would not dare to do that, would you? You old coward.’
Croesus rolled over onto his knees. He did not yet dare to stand. ‘What has happened? Tell me. Please. So that I may help you.’
Cambyses walked back to his throne and leaned against it, one hand on each of its arms, his arched back facing Croesus.
‘My wife is not . . .’ Cambyses broke into sobs, and could not finish. It did not matter. In that moment, Croesus knew it all.
