The Last King of Lydia by Tim Leach

time when we don’t know them at all. You must have known him better as a
man than I did. I wish I could have known him as you did.’ Croesus blinked, and did not understand why he still could not see. It was not until he put a hand to his face that he realized he
was weeping.
    She looked up at him, and he saw pity in her eyes. He took her hand. He felt her tense, but she did not pull away. He leaned forward, and kissed the top of her head. He felt her relax slightly
at the fatherly gesture. Then, with his other hand, he tipped up her chin and kissed her mouth.
    She submitted to the kiss, but when he tried to take another, she turned her head away.
    ‘I can’t,’ she said.
    He said nothing.
    ‘Please. Let me go.’
    ‘You owe me a son.’
    ‘Let me go. Please, my lord.’ She stood, hesitant, and looked again at the door.
    He stood up and seized her arms. She twisted out of his hands and he felt a sudden anger at how easily she escaped him. He seized her again, gripping tighter this time until she cried out in
pain. He shook her, once, like a dog shaking a rat, and she turned her face away and closed her eyes.
    He put one hand to her robe. He had the idea that he should tear it loose, that this was what he should do next. He tugged hard, but the heavy fabric held firm, and he merely spun her around and
pulled her off balance. Then he hit her, an open-handed slap to the face; he regretted it at once. It wasn’t necessary.
    He put his hands into the folds of her clothes, searching for the place where he could loosen the fabric, his eyes firmly fixed on her body, away from her face. He tugged, frustrated, until at
last the stubborn folds began to come away. Inside her robe, he felt his hand touch cold skin.
    Now he had to get her to the floor. She stood rigid, unresisting but not acquiescent, and he pressed a hand on her shoulder and a hand on her throat to push her down. She fell awkwardly; the
harsh slap of skin against stone echoed through the chamber. She sobbed once, and from the door she heard the creak of leather and metal. One of the guards outside, shifting uneasily from one foot
to another. Only a few feet away, unable and unwilling to help her.
    Croesus knelt beside her, raised his hands to her again and opened her robe. He went quite still. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He stared at her body, his eyes hidden from her.
Hesitant, fearful of what she might provoke, she placed her hands on his shoulders, and pushed them back until she could see his face.
    He did not meet her gaze. She felt his hands trembling.
    ‘Croesus?’ she said softly.
    Slowly, he lay down beside her and bowed his head, his shoulders shaking. She breathed heavily, her arms limp by her side. She pulled her robe to her. Then, slowly, she rolled to her side and
embraced him on the ground, holding his head against her stomach.
    He wept against her empty body, the tomb of his hopes. The place he wished to bury another son, but could not.
    On top of Atys’s barrow, two guards sat in the dust and cast dice for pieces of copper beside the embers of the fire. When the sun rose, the priests would come to bury
the ashes deep within the barrow. It would be placed in a hidden chamber, away from the centre, in an attempt to mislead the swarms of grave robbers who visited the barrows like jackals in the
night, mining for the gifts of the dead. Until the morning came, the guards were to watch over the casket, to ensure that no thief came to take the treasures from it.
    Some time after midnight, they heard a sound in the darkness. Someone was walking towards them. They did not get to their feet to issue a challenge. A robber would not be so careless. Before
night had fallen, they had seen the figure up on the hills. They knew who was coming, and when Adrastus came into the light of the fire, they did nothing more than nod once at him before returning
to their game.
    Adrastus stared at the casket. He thought of the moment when the