alleviate the maddening
boredom of shifting and polishing and ordering the endless mountains of coins.
When the silver bell rang, they knew to light the torches and be silent, until they could be certain he had gone. Even without sight, they always knew where he was; the king’s confident
footsteps identified him as one who bore the privilege of vision.
He approached a large, loose pile of gold coins. He thrust his hands into them, gently working his fingers into the heavy metal until his forearms were buried. It felt as though he held his
hands in a stream of cold water, and he sensed his burning blood cool.
The small pile of silver near his feet was a healthy slave. In the mound of gold next to it he saw a galleon; the larger mound that towered over it was a fleet. From one corner of the room,
where gold and silver mingled freely together like captains and spearmen, he could hear the marching feet of ten thousand soldiers.
On to even larger mounds, and he saw towns, cities, entire races of people locked into the gold and ordered at his command. He saw an empire, stretching across leagues and nations and rivers and
seas, all contained within a single, high-chambered room, and perceived by him alone.
He did not yet know what he would do with his wealth. The possibilities were overwhelming, each idea giving way to another as soon as he thought of acting on it. But he knew that, given time, he
could find the right use for it. All creation was there, waiting to spring into life. He only had to choose what form it would take, and he could shape a universe with his vision.
My father was right in one thing at least, Croesus thought as he stood amidst all his wealth, new worlds waiting to be born. This is worth more than love.
3
Two years after Atys died, word came that the empire of the Medes had fallen.
The conquest had been sudden, like some disaster of the earth or sea that is precisely managed by the Gods. An exhausted messenger arrived at the court of Sardis to bring word that a Persian
army was marching on Ecbatana, the capital of Media. Before Croesus could decide whether to send the man back alone or accompanied by the entire Lydian army, another messenger arrived with the news
that the Medes’ army had been destroyed and Astyages had been captured. Cyrus of Persia now sat on the throne of the Medes.
Cyrus. The name meant nothing to Croesus, but rumours soon followed the messengers. That he was of a Persian noble family was all that could be said with confidence – all else was the
stuff of folktales. Some said that Cyrus had been raised by wolves, that he fed only on the flesh of kings and drank only the waters of the river by which he had been born. Others claimed that wild
beasts formed the vanguard of his army, while immortal demons served as its elite warriors. Persian sorcerers were said to have destroyed the army of the Medes with lightning from the sky and
earthquakes that shook men to death; not a single blow was struck. Croesus soon gave up any attempt to identify the truth behind these wild tales. A new power had risen in the East. The only thing
that mattered was how to respond.
At the council of war, they began with numbers. The respective sizes of the Persian and Lydian armies, the cost of mercenaries, the yields of croplands, the wealth of mining regions. Above all,
they sought to calculate what Lydia stood to gain and lose. The fate of a dozen nations was reduced to numbers inked on parchment and etched in wax: a balance sheet for a war. It was only after
they had finished their calculations that they talked of what should be done.
It was unacceptable, one man said, for the Persians to rule an empire. The Hellenes to the west could be bargained with and understood – they were a civilized people. But there was no
negotiating with the Persians. Who knew how they would use their new-found power?
Others of the council were unconvinced by the case for war. Sandanis, the commander
boredom of shifting and polishing and ordering the endless mountains of coins.
When the silver bell rang, they knew to light the torches and be silent, until they could be certain he had gone. Even without sight, they always knew where he was; the king’s confident
footsteps identified him as one who bore the privilege of vision.
He approached a large, loose pile of gold coins. He thrust his hands into them, gently working his fingers into the heavy metal until his forearms were buried. It felt as though he held his
hands in a stream of cold water, and he sensed his burning blood cool.
The small pile of silver near his feet was a healthy slave. In the mound of gold next to it he saw a galleon; the larger mound that towered over it was a fleet. From one corner of the room,
where gold and silver mingled freely together like captains and spearmen, he could hear the marching feet of ten thousand soldiers.
On to even larger mounds, and he saw towns, cities, entire races of people locked into the gold and ordered at his command. He saw an empire, stretching across leagues and nations and rivers and
seas, all contained within a single, high-chambered room, and perceived by him alone.
He did not yet know what he would do with his wealth. The possibilities were overwhelming, each idea giving way to another as soon as he thought of acting on it. But he knew that, given time, he
could find the right use for it. All creation was there, waiting to spring into life. He only had to choose what form it would take, and he could shape a universe with his vision.
My father was right in one thing at least, Croesus thought as he stood amidst all his wealth, new worlds waiting to be born. This is worth more than love.
3
Two years after Atys died, word came that the empire of the Medes had fallen.
The conquest had been sudden, like some disaster of the earth or sea that is precisely managed by the Gods. An exhausted messenger arrived at the court of Sardis to bring word that a Persian
army was marching on Ecbatana, the capital of Media. Before Croesus could decide whether to send the man back alone or accompanied by the entire Lydian army, another messenger arrived with the news
that the Medes’ army had been destroyed and Astyages had been captured. Cyrus of Persia now sat on the throne of the Medes.
Cyrus. The name meant nothing to Croesus, but rumours soon followed the messengers. That he was of a Persian noble family was all that could be said with confidence – all else was the
stuff of folktales. Some said that Cyrus had been raised by wolves, that he fed only on the flesh of kings and drank only the waters of the river by which he had been born. Others claimed that wild
beasts formed the vanguard of his army, while immortal demons served as its elite warriors. Persian sorcerers were said to have destroyed the army of the Medes with lightning from the sky and
earthquakes that shook men to death; not a single blow was struck. Croesus soon gave up any attempt to identify the truth behind these wild tales. A new power had risen in the East. The only thing
that mattered was how to respond.
At the council of war, they began with numbers. The respective sizes of the Persian and Lydian armies, the cost of mercenaries, the yields of croplands, the wealth of mining regions. Above all,
they sought to calculate what Lydia stood to gain and lose. The fate of a dozen nations was reduced to numbers inked on parchment and etched in wax: a balance sheet for a war. It was only after
they had finished their calculations that they talked of what should be done.
It was unacceptable, one man said, for the Persians to rule an empire. The Hellenes to the west could be bargained with and understood – they were a civilized people. But there was no
negotiating with the Persians. Who knew how they would use their new-found power?
Others of the council were unconvinced by the case for war. Sandanis, the commander
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