Free The Last King of Lydia by Tim Leach

dogs followed, tearing and ripping at ankles and flanks, and for a moment, Adrastus thought the boar would surely stumble and fall to the ground under their weight.
    But the boar stood firm. It shook the spears from its skin, twisting them loose against trees and hooking them out of its flesh. It turned first on the dogs at its side, crushing them beneath
its hooves, spearing them on its tusks, breaking their backs against the trees. It moved slowly at first, then with gathering speed, as if performing some terrible dance repeated over and over at
greater pace, each killing blow coming quicker than the last.
    Atys watched, without fear, as the boar tore the life from the dogs. He held the spear high, the shaft balanced against his shoulder to conserve his strength, waiting for a break in the pattern,
a second of stillness to see his weapon home.
    It came at last – a moment’s hesitation, as the boar looked up from the dogs and towards the men, as it fixed its tiny black eyes on Adrastus. Atys let his spear fly, saw it split a
leg open like a rotten log. The boar dropped to the ground and screamed.
    From the other side of the clearing Adrastus marked the point high on the proud chest where a muscle of hate beat strongly, put there by the Gods to test the world of men. He lifted his spear
and drew it back, then cast it into the air with a single turn of his body.
    It seemed as though the boar watched the spear come, as though it had always been waiting to greet that piece of iron. It twisted aside and dropped its shoulder, one final movement of the dance,
and let the weapon pass.
    The spear sang through the air, its flight still strong and true, and found a different home in flesh.
    They sent a messenger riding ahead with their two best horses to bring the news to Sardis. The hunters followed slowly, weighed with grief and marching in silence. The corpse
was wrapped in hides, preserved with what spices they had. At the tail of the defeated party, Adrastus walked alone.
    When they reached the sight of home, none of the party raised a cheer or made a sound. They could see the gathering at the gate to the city, the tall bronze spears of the royal guard glittering
in the sun, and knew that Croesus was there to meet them.
    On the day the messenger had come to him, Croesus did not weep. He had seemed puzzled, his mouth slightly open, like an actor in a play who hears a line that is not his cue, yet is still
expected to speak, to respond appropriately to the unknown and unknowable. Waiting, as in a nightmare where death is inevitable yet endlessly deferred. Hoping that the messenger was mistaken, that
some other man’s son had been taken, not his. Now the hunters returned with a corpse, not a miracle, the end of hope lashed tightly to the back of a horse.
    Adrastus came forward when they reached the gates, the hunters parting before him. He took his dagger and cut the body loose, took the stiff, heavy weight in his arms and walked to the
gates.
    He stood before the king, and waited.
    Croesus said nothing. He made a small motion with his hand, and Isocrates and another slave came forward to take the body away. The king looked back at Adrastus, inclined his head questioningly.
Adrastus gave the dagger in his hand to Croesus, knelt and offered up his throat. The king’s hand gripped the dagger, went white. He placed his left hand on top of the kneeling man’s
head.
    Adrastus waited for the fingers to curl into his hair to hold his head back, for the blade to bite at his throat. He heard the dagger fall to the ground, felt the fingers moving gently over his
face. The touch of a father.
    ‘It’s not your fault, Adrastus,’ he said. ‘It is my fault.’ He leaned forward and kissed Adrastus on the forehead, as he used to kiss his son. ‘You are
welcome to stay in the city. I hope you do. But I shan’t see you again. You understand that, don’t you? I cannot stand to look on you.’
    Adrastus watched him go, his