By Theseustoo.

Two generals, Mazares and Artaphernes, the Prince of the Paretacenae, were becoming concerned with what was now beginning to look like very slow progress in their siege of Sardis. Recently their spies had reported that Croesus had sent for his allies; this merely confirmed what he had already calculated would be Croesus’ logical next move. Realising that their own provisions would not be enough to outlast a lengthy winter siege; and anticipating that Croesus’ allies would arrive in force with the spring, the staff officers had decided to meet with Cyrus to discuss what could be done to resolve the impasse.

“Your Majesty,” Harpagus asserted insistently, “we must do something soon; we cannot afford a lengthy siege… Croesus only has to wait until his allies arrive in the spring and we will be forced to retreat… we have already been sitting here outside these walls for thirteen days…”

Referring to a map on the table, Cyrus responded:

“I know Harpagus…” he said with a heavy sigh, “but these walls seem impregnable. The only place where there are no walls is to the rear of the city, here…” he pointed to the map, “where it faces Mount Tmolus; and there is such a sheer precipice there that Croesus doesn’t even need to guard it!”

Cyrus’ voice sounded the way he had begun to feel; bleak, verging on hopeless; he was unusually bereft of ideas and several long moments passed by in uncomfortable silence. Seeing the frustration on his officers’ faces at their own equal incapacity, he could only sympathize with them. Indeed their frustration was really just a reflection of his own. Suddenly, more for the sake of lifting his officers’ flagging morale than because of anything he truly felt, Cyrus smiled optimistically and said, “Have the heralds ride around the camp with the following proclamation: They are to prepare to assault the city once more! I will reward the first man who mounts these walls.”

It was a possibility, thought Harpagus, though a desperate one. But if nothing else it gave the officers a straw to grasp at; and who knows? Perhaps it may even work, he thought. Harpagus also realised that for the sake of the other officers’ confidence in their king, he must not look even the least bit doubtful at Cyrus’ chosen course of action, but must support it unhesitatingly and without question.

“At once, your majesty!” He said obediently, with a sharp salute to his king. Then he and the other officers marched off to obey the king’s orders; the tiny spark of optimism which Cyrus’ plan had kindled in them clinging fiercely to life with this tiniest breath of oxygen. Cyrus’ reputation for generosity was such that even these most hardened of warriors realized that a promised reward from Cyrus would set a man up in grand style for the rest of his life; a man might willingly risk his life for such a reward. This, thought Harpagus, beginning to feel a little more optimistic himself, might well be enough to make his men brave enough to surmount even these high and reputedly impregnable walls; in spite of the constant presence of Croesus’ very highly trained guards and lethally accurate archers, who constantly rained showers of arrows on anyone who came within bowshot.

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The latest Persian assault was far more enthusiastic than any previous attempt, but again it failed. In spite of the cries of encouragement from their officers and even in spite of Cyrus’ promise of a lavish reward for the first man to mount the walls, the men were easily repulsed by the lethal missile fire of Croesus’ archers even before they could place their ladders against the walls; driven back by dense showers of arrows which fell on them like a monsoon rain.

Despite their shields and all their training, dozens of men were killed and dozens more were grievously wounded by the Lydians’ lethal arrows as they approached the walls once more. Then still more were killed and even more wounded when they were forced to turn their backs and run; a most ignominious retreat. It quickly became clear that such an approach was futile; the officers mercifully called the retreat very quickly, rather than risk losing too many more personnel in what was very obviously a futile assault.

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Cyrus called his generals together once again to discuss their most recent failed assault on the walls and although the generals Artaphernes and Mazares both arrived promptly, Harpagus, must unusually, was inexplicably late. This was, Cyrus thought, most unlike Harpagus. However, he did not have much time to worry about it before he was obliged to concentrate on what was being said to him, as Mazares was speaking to him, “It’s impossible even to get near the walls, my lord! The archers on top of the walls rain down arrows on our heads the moment we try any approach…”

“Hmmmm…“ Cyrus mused as he consulted his maps once more. He knew all too well that he could not afford to let his generals’ morale flag as this could put the whole expedition at serious risk. Something, he knew, must be done to give them hope.

“Mazares,” he said, with determined optimism, “If the gods will it, we will find a way!”

Yet although he stared intensely at the maps on the table in front of him, he knew that it would make no difference whatsoever; he would find no weaknesses there which were not there on any of the thousand and one times he’d already searched these maps; with equally little success. Suddenly the door of the War Room was opened by the guards and Harpagus strode purposefully into the room; followed by a somewhat bewildered young spearman.

“Your majesty,” Harpagus began breathlessly, too excited to even excuse himself or apologize for his lateness, “This man, Hyroeades, claims he has spotted a weakness in the city’s defences!”

“Well then, Hyroeades,” Cyrus said, closely examining the bewildered soldier, “…if this weakness indeed leads to the capture of the city, the reward will be yours!”

Emboldened by this encouragement from his king, the young spearman spoke up eagerly, “Your majesty, the cliffs only look sheer! I saw a man drop his helmet and run down the cliff to get it! He had no trouble getting down the cliff… or up it either! And I remember the path he took!”

Cyrus was overjoyed, “The gods must be with us Harpagus!” he said, “This is just what we need. We shall climb the cliffs during the night; and attack at first light! But remember, Croesus must be taken alive, even if he offers resistance! I wish to test his reputation as a holy man!”

“Yes Lord!” Harpagus responded enthusiastically. As an afterthought he added, “When Croesus’ allies hear that we are safely within Sardis’ impregnable walls, they probably won’t even bother to come; it will be too late already; and our position here in Sardis far too strong!”

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Under cover of darkness Cyrus sent a detachment, led by Harpagus and guided by Hyroeades, to circle around the city to the base of the cliffs below Sardis, opposite Mt Tmolus, where Hyroeades had spotted the secret path. With their feet muffled by rags they had climbed up the cliff in the pre-dawn gloom and gathered silently just below the summit, where they found no guards; and oh, so silently, they had entered the city. Communicating with hand-signals the detachment silently slipped through the shadows to suddenly emerge behind startled guards who hardly had time to wonder what was happening before their throats were slit and their bodies dragged into the deepest shadows.

Once the guards were taken care of, Hyroeades had the honour of opening the city gates, where he waved a burning branch which he had taken from one of the guards’ braziers, as a signal to Cyrus, who was waiting with another force to rush immediately through the gates, just as Croesus’ men began to emerge from their barracks, only to find their city had been captured while they slept. Some of these soldiers tried to resist but it was futile; the enemy was already within the walls and their sacred city was taken.

Croesus was absolutely devastated by the shock; he was found wandering the halls of his palace in a daze of despair. Recognizing his utter defeat, and realizing his own folly, he no longer cared to live and offered no resistance. Just as one of Cyrus’ men was about to separate his head from his neck, not yet realising who this dazed captive was, a gangly young lad of perhaps sixteen years, suddenly yelled at him, “Man, do not kill Croesus!”

At this Croesus suddenly looked up in pained surprise; his second son had spoken for the first time in his entire, hitherto mute existence. In this too, the oracle had been correct after all… If only he’d been clever enough, the former king thought to himself, to understand the clues he had been given.

He realized now that the Fates had evidently not wanted him to understand the prophecy; so, resigned to his fate, the now-deposed king refrained from punishing himself for his own ignorance and inability; in any case to do so would be futile and would serve no purpose whatsoever. For now, he knew he must learn to adapt to his new situation; and this must begin with an acceptance of his fate; to die, if Cyrus should demand his life as a punishment for his impetuous invasion of Pteria, or perhaps to live, should the Great King choose it, as Cyrus’ slave. Without offering any resistance he allowed himself and his son to be taken away and enchained, to be brought before their new king so that he could decide what should be done with them.

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