The Last King of Lydia by Tim Leach Page B

the boar were taken or not, his part in the drama would not be faulted.
    ‘Who will go with them?’ he said.
    A voice, familiar and strong, came from the crowd. Croesus recognised its sound and tone, but his mind refused to believe it at first. Then a man pushed to the front and advanced beyond the
others to stand alone, and the king could deny the truth no longer. It was Atys.
    His son had grown into a striking man, skilled with horse and spear, and yet Croesus could not help but see a child standing there. And he fancied that in his son’s eyes he could still see
a child’s desire, the desire to win his father’s pride.
    Croesus said nothing for a time, his face impassive. Several times he parted his lips to speak, but each time he swallowed his words. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘You shall not
go.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘It would not be fair to our people, to risk their future in this way.’
    ‘I will be protected by the very finest, travelling through the lands of our allies. There will be no danger.’
    The king shook his head. In the past, whatever challenge confronted him, the words had always come without effort, entire speeches conjured from nothing. Now, no matter how eloquently he tried
to shape his thoughts, they distilled themselves down to a single word.
    ‘No,’ he said again, not much above a whisper.
    ‘Why,’ said Atys, ‘then I shall sneak from the palace at night to join the hunters.’
    ‘My son—’
    Atys turned to the people who packed the hall. ‘What do you say, people of Lydia. I will be guided by your will. Shall I go with them?’ A roar broke out from the crowd, loud enough
to fill the throne room, and Atys turned to his father, triumphant. The crowd roared again, surging forwards past the guards towards the prince. They brushed the backs of their hands against his
hair, placed their fingertips to his forehead and the nape of his neck. A few were bold enough to clasp his hand, all hoping for a touch of their champion.
    Feeling the hunger of the crowd, knowing that now, truly, it could not be undone, Croesus descended the steps of his throne and advanced into the mob. The people parted before him, and he
embraced his son tightly.
    ‘Atys, my brave son, let me congratulate you.’ His voice dropped. ‘But in private.’
    ‘Father—’
    ‘What were you thinking?’
    ‘My father—’
    ‘No, don’t tell me. I know it all already.’ Croesus paused to breathe, his face white with anger. ‘You think it a sport to humiliate your father.’
    ‘I meant no disrespect.’
    ‘It was very clever. Cornering me like that. Very sharp.’ He lifted a finger and held it in front of his son’s face. ‘But don’t ever do it again. Ever.’
    Atys bowed his head and said nothing.
    ‘Why do this?’ Croesus said, his anger ebbing.
    ‘For glory, father. For the glory of it.’
    ‘Of course. Why else?’ Croesus hesitated. ‘I am afraid for you, Atys. I am afraid.’
    Atys nodded. ‘There will be danger. But the prize is worth the risk.’
    ‘You talk like an epic’s hero. This isn’t you. Talk like my son.’ He paused. ‘Stay here.’
    Atys said nothing for a moment, weighing his answer carefully, the way he had ever since he was a boy. ‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘when I was young, when we spoke in the
garden after you had seen that man from Athens? Solon was his name.’
    ‘Yes. I remember.’
    ‘I said I must have been the happiest of us all. Because I had you as a father.’
    ‘Atys—’
    ‘How can I become a king like you when you hide me away in the palace like a woman? When you make me run from the sight of iron because of some dream?’
    Croesus did not speak for some time. He had told his son of the dream, soon after iron had been banished from the palace, and as a boy Atys had believed it with the trust of a child for a father
who cannot be wrong. Now, as a man, he did not. ‘Do not mock my dream,’ Croesus said.
    ‘Then think it through. This