Read The Last King of Lydia for Free Online

can afford to spare it. I don’t suppose I shall last much longer than
that.’
    Isocrates shrugged. ‘As you will. Though I imagine that the Gods will play a joke on you, and let you live longer; punishment for the arrogance of presuming to know when you will
die.’
    ‘Ah. But then I shall have tricked them into giving me a few more years of life, even if I must be uncomfortable . . .’ Solon paused, looking on the slave, and saw his arms were
strong and his stance confident – almost too much so, for a man in his position. He had the physical presence of a labourer or a wrestler, not a subtle man of the court. ‘You
don’t speak like most slaves I have met,’ he said.
    ‘Is that a complaint?’
    ‘It is an observation.’
    ‘I think you prefer honesty. I can flatter well enough, if it is necessary.’
    ‘So you are whatever others want you to be?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    ‘And do you spy on your guests for your king, after you have put them at their ease?’
    ‘Sometimes. Not this time. He doesn’t have much interest in you.’ Isocrates allowed himself a small smile. ‘Then again, I would say that, wouldn’t I?’
    Solon waved a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing that I would say to you that I would not say to him.’
    ‘What can I do for you? Would you like a massage? Shall I find someone to play music for you? We have a lyre player whose musicianship is quite exquisite.’
    ‘I have always found the Lydian lyre a little shrill for my tastes.’
    ‘Would you like a woman? Or a young man, if you prefer?’
    ‘I am almost eighty. A dried-up old man. I have very little to offer a woman these days. Or a man, for that matter. I think you mock me.’
    ‘Not at all. There is no predicting the appetites of an old man – they can be the most voracious of all. I once had to bring in half a dozen women in succession before a
seventy-year-old Thracian could be satisfied.’ Isocrates laughed at the memory. ‘He was an old goat.’
    ‘Well, I am not he,’ Solon said. ‘But I will accept a massage. This old body aches.’
    ‘Very well. That is a service I can perform myself.’
    Solon undressed and lay on a stone bench at one side of the chamber. As he began to massage the old man, Isocrates found him almost insubstantial, the slack flesh moving aside at the slightest
touch, presenting bone.
    Solon felt the hesitance of the hands working across his shoulders. ‘I suppose I feel like death, don’t I?’
    ‘Like a plucked chicken with not enough meat on it.’
    Solon laughed. ‘You are a good soul, Isocrates. I like you. Do you enjoy working for your master? Is he good to you? If not, perhaps I can buy you for myself.’
    ‘He is good to me, and to my wife.’
    ‘You have a wife?’
    ‘Yes. We met in this household.’
    ‘Unusual for a slave. Or is the custom different in Lydia?’
    ‘No. It is forbidden. But Croesus permitted it, as a reward for my services.’
    ‘And children? Have you been grateful enough to provide your master with more property?’
    ‘No.’
    The tone of his response was cold and final, and Solon chose not to press him further. ‘So, how did you come to rise to such a prominent position?’ he said instead. ‘Were you a
high-ranking man before you became a slave? Forgive me for saying so, but you do not look like one.’
    ‘No. I was a baker, when I was first taken as a slave. So was my wife. We met in the kitchens here.’
    ‘Ah. That makes sense. Your massage does have something of the kneading board about it. I feel like a particularly damp piece of dough beneath your fingers. How does a baker get from the
kitchens to the throne room?’
    Isocrates finished on Solon’s shoulders, and began to work his way down the Athenian’s back. ‘Perhaps you have heard about what happened at the succession of my
king?’
    ‘I heard something. There was a half-brother causing trouble, as I recall.’
    ‘That’s right. Pantaleon. Croesus was his