The Last King of Lydia Read Online Free PDF Page B

companions, Atys.’
    Atys opened his mouth to reply, but fell silent at a familiar sound. A scraping walk, bare feet dragging over the stones. The family fell quiet and still. They looked to the entrance to the
garden, and waited for Croesus’s second son to come into view.
    Gyges felt his way along the walls like a blind man. His wide eyes appeared to take up most of his head, which was, as always, covered in long, thick hair. He could only rarely be bathed,
depending on his unpredictable whims, and so his appearance was that of a wild man, or a prophet. But prophets spoke, and wild men howled. This son could do neither.
    When he looked into the boy’s eyes, Croesus was always grateful for his silence. They seemed to stare through walls, through people, as though they saw through to another place entirely. A
terrible place, judging by the fixed expression of horror on the boy’s face.
    The king would have preferred to have Gyges kept in some comfortable set of rooms, but his son would not stand to be confined. He would not shout, scream, or make any noise louder than a
whistling gasp, but he would pull at his hair, pound on the walls, tear out his fingernails in his attempts to prise open doors and windows if they were barred against him. He was surprisingly
strong, and had, on occasion, knocked down a guard or servant who had tried to restrain him. So now they let him go free in the palace, with only one slave, named Maia, tasked to follow him. It was
her company alone that he would accept.
    Gyges shuffled forward to the edge of the garden. He did not like to walk on anything but stone, and so stopped just before his feet touched earth, as spirits are said to be halted by the
shallowest trickle of running water. He stared at his family without apparent recognition. Then he reached out and pointed to Atys, let his hand fall, then raised it again and pointed at Danae. The
finger fell once more, and then seemed about to rise a second time. Gyges hesitated, and then instead raised his hand to his chest, the palm facing Croesus, the knuckles against his heart. He
turned and walked away, feet dragging against the stones until he was out of sight, Maia following silently in his wake.
    None of them spoke for a time. Danae picked at the gold leaf on her necklace. ‘A blessing or a curse, do you think?’ she said at last.
    ‘Neither,’ said Croesus. ‘He’s no prophet. He sees some other world. He should have been born in that world, not this one.’
    Danae did not argue with this. Looking at Gyges, she saw something – a creature worthy of pity, an accident of flesh, a warning from the Gods. But she did not see a son.
    In a private chamber in another part of the palace, Solon sat and massaged his aching feet. Isocrates stood in the corner of the room, waiting for the Athenian to ask for wine,
music, or simply to be left alone. But the guest made no requests, nor did he ask for his solitude. He was, perhaps, waiting to see when the slave would finally speak.
    ‘Gout?’ Isocrates said, after a time.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It is bad?’
    ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
    ‘You have tried remedies?’
    ‘Yes, many. None that worked.’
    ‘That’s because you haven’t tried my cure. Wait here.’
    ‘You don’t have to—’ But Isocrates had gone. Solon shifted on his chair, clenching folds of his robe in his fist and releasing them, in a distracted, rhythmic motion. It
was not long before the slave returned with a silver bowl in his hand, containing a dark red liquid. ‘Drink this,’ he said.
    Solon took a sip, and winced at the bitter taste. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Crocus root in wine.’
    ‘It tastes foul,’ he said as he drank it down. ‘But I am used to bitter medicine.’
    ‘Within a week or so, you will feel much better. I will give you some to take with you, and instruct your servants in how to find and prepare it.’
    ‘Oh, that won’t be necessary. Just give me a year’s supply – I am sure your master