Free The Last King of Lydia by Tim Leach Page A

eyes empty of hope.
    North-west of Sardis, another city rose from the plains. At dawn or dusk, a lost traveller might have mistaken this place for Sardis itself. He would see towering shapes
looming ahead of him, a human order imposed on nature’s formless aspect. It was only on drawing closer that the traveller would realize that he had been mistaken, that he had arrived instead
at a silent city of the dead.
    A hundred barrows rose from the ground, each white stone tomb covered with a great mound of clay, as if a god had reached from the sky, lifted earth with the palm of his titanic hand, and
scattered it over the barrow to honour the dead. The finest Lydian stonework was to be found buried in these great barrows. In this land, the living passed their lives in crude houses of reed and
mud brick, the dead lay in flawless marble. What honour was there in building a great house that would change hands with every generation; that would become the prize of some other man, some other
king? It was the last home, the one place that truly belonged to only one man, that was most worthy of a great architect’s craft.
    One tomb towered above the rest – the tomb of Alyattes, Croesus’s father. There were those who came from distant lands to stand in the shadow of this great barrow, to marvel at what
men had learned to build. Beside this great tomb, as was the custom, lay the tomb for the next royal burial, in the shadow of Alyattes’s, a respectful fraction of the size. Croesus had
commissioned it long ago, thinking that it would be his own resting place. He had never thought he would use it to bury his son.
    The funeral procession gathered by the barrow, in a semicircle to the west, facing the setting sun. Looking over the mourners, Croesus could see only a sickly reflection of those who had
gathered at the wedding a short time before. Every member of the Lydian nobility was there, some in sympathy, others out of duty or ambition. Danae and Iva clung to each other, the mother and the
widow both exhausted by their grief, only together finding the strength to stand. His eyes fell last on Gyges, who had followed them all the way from the city. For once, Croesus did not care what
impression his troubled son might make in the eyes of others, but the boy remained still and silent throughout the ritual. Croesus wondered if this was his way of showing grief, if here at last was
something of their world that Gyges could understand.
    The priests came forward and made their sacrifices. They lifted the viscera in their hands, weighing them, smelling them, tasting them, and they declared that the auguries were good. They knelt
on the ground, and began to chant. They faced west, waiting for the sun to fall from the sky.
    As the sun touched the horizon, the chants grew louder, more forceful. From the base of the barrow, six slaves began to walk up the side of the mound, bearing a casket on their shoulders. They
marched towards the mourners, the setting sun at their backs, and laid the casket down. One by one, the nobles came forward to place their gifts in the casket. Last of all, the hunters came forward
and laid down their notched and broken weapons.
    The sun sank fully below the horizon, and the slaves came forward again, bearing torches in their hands, as if they had caught some last spark from the fading sun. Just as they reached the bier,
as they were about to bend down and set their torches to the wood of the casket, a voice rang out, calling for them to halt. The voice of the king.
    The priests eyed him with uncertainty as he walked to the casket, fearful that the king might commit some sudden blasphemy. Croesus passed the torchbearers, and knelt. He reached into the pile
of hunter’s weapons, shuddering as his hand brushed against the casket, and drew out one of the weapons in particular. A spear. He stood and raised the weapon, gripping it tight enough to
feel his pulse echo through the wood and return to his hand,