22 Croesus on the Pyre (§§86-91)

Cyrus placed fourteen Lydian children along with Croesus on the pyre. When Herodotus points out the coincidence of the reign of fourteen years, the siege of fourteen days, and the fourteen sacrificial victims, the passage has the tone of magical, mythic poetry,^[1] a tone the historian is actively cultivating here: he wants to stress the almost magical significance of his themes, which are now reaching their defining actuality.

Of the three possible motives that are attributed to Cyrus two—an offer­ ing of first fruits or the fulfillment of a vow—are unremarkable. The third, to see whether some god would save Croesus, is most peculiar.^[2] The motive is, in fact, hypothetically, not actually, attributed to Cyrus. It does perhaps play into Greek attitudes toward Oriental monarchs: it represents the kind of cruel game with which an Oriental monarch might mock his spoils. In truth, however, Cyrus is generally presented as a more kindly figure.

Herodotus reports what he was told (the passage is in indirect statement), yet we have to look at the details as chosen from his own selective principles. While Croesus was standing on the pyre, he remembered despite his great difficulty what Solon had said, and now for the first time he thinks that the words were said “with god,” how none of the living is prosperous (ὄλβιος). He sighs, and, exploding out of his calmly resigned demeanor, calls out the name “Solon” three times. The term ἥσυχία, indicating his calm, may of course refer only to Croesus’s silence on the pyre, but it could also hold deeper meanings. As we have seen, Croesus’s life is racked with anxiety; one quality we haven’t seen in him is calm. Yet here, on the pyre, facing imminent death, for the first time he is at peace. Perhaps he has achieved a state of resignation similar to that he exhibited in his last battle, when he faced his opponent’s sword, at the moment when his son with his first words saved him. It is a motif in Herodotus and ancient literature generally that death is a safe harbor, providing shelter after the stormy sea of life.

Yet Croesus, for all his outward calm, is not at peace: his active mind is turning over the events that have brought him to this point; he thinks of Solon and groans aloud. As Herodotus here focuses his story rather sympathetically on Croesus, identifying with him, we too remember Solon’s words. If we are Athenians of Herodotus’s day, we too will think of our recent prosperity and wonder about the peripeties to which it is heir. Cyrus, present to watch the spectacle of the burning victims, hears Croesus and orders his interpreters to ask the meaning of the king’s words. After more silence, at last Croesus tells his recollection about the conversation with Solon. Croesus tells only the parts of the story that moved him, how Solon had seen all of Croesus’s prosperity (ὄλβιον) but had made light of it, and how everything had come out as he had said, though Solon had spoken to him generally and though the comments had pertained to all humankind. It is not surprising that he should omit the names of the happiest and second happiest of men and all the reckoning of a human life—he is, after all, on the pyre. As it is, he speaks with sufficient operatic length even as the flames are rising around him. Still, Croesus stresses the general truth of the Solon’s teaching; the wisdom is very different from the specific oracles Croesus had received. As the flames increase, there is the question of whether this newfound awareness will do Croesus any good.^[3] What earthly good is wisdom acquired in the last two or three minutes of life? Dramatically, Croesus’s insights should (and do) stir up self-reflective thinking in Cyrus; outside the drama of the passage, they should stir up the same reflections in the listener.

As a result of the explanation, Cyrus changes his mind:

Cyrus, hearing from his interpreters the things Croesus had said, changing his mind and thinking that he himself was a human being giving another human being to the pyre, one who had been no less happy than himself (εὐδαιμονίῃ οὐκ ἐλάσσω), and besides, he feared some retribution and he reckoned how nothing of the things among humans was secure.

What a contrast with Croesus! Yet the contrast will decrease as the tale unfolds, and this moment of insight on Cyrus’s part will recede as the Persian king faces his own peripety and death.^[4] Now, however, he orders the fire extinguished and Croesus and the other sacrificial victims brought down from the pyre, but the fire has grown too big, and they are unable to quench it.

Solon had said that no day transpired exactly as predicted. How many unexpected events have happened on this day for Croesus! First, the reasonable expectation of death on the pyre; then, the remembrance of Solon; then, Cyrus’s change of heart; then, the inability to extinguish the fire; and now, the response of Apollo. For when Croesus saw that Cyrus had changed his mind, Croesus wept and prayed to Apollo to save him.^[5] Out of a windless, clear sky came a sudden burst of storm, which put out the flames. In Bacchylides’s version of the story (3.55), it is Zeus who sends the storm. In Herodotus’s recounting of the events, Apollo is the important deity. The change enables the gods to appear more consistent with principles of distributive justice, for it is to Apollo, not Zeus, that Croesus has been so very generous. As we shall see shortly, it is important for the theodicy that Apollo be involved in saving Croesus. Croesus’s prayer is the traditional type of pagan petitionary prayer: “If I ever did something for you, please do this for me.”

In Herodotus’s explanation of Cyrus’s response to the sudden storm we can see the historian’s religious views. Cyrus, he says, knew thus that Croesus was loved of god and a good man. That a prayer should so fortuitously be answered is perhaps a sign of Apollo’s affection for him, but how can he conclude that Croesus is a good man (ἀνὴρ ἀγαθός)? Has he forgotten how many different cities Croesus attacked that had done him no harm? Cyrus’s judgment is intended, I think, to remind us that his ethical principles are still those of a non-Greek. Croesus may not be a madman like many who have stained the pages of history, but can he really be judged “good”?^[6]

Cyrus asks Croesus who of mankind persuaded him to attack and be an enemy. In his response, Croesus uses the key words εὐδαιμονίη and κακοδαιμονίη; he says that he himself did these things, to Cyrus’s good fortune and his own bad fortune. Then, though he admits that he did these things, he says that the god of the Greeks is responsible. “No one,” he concludes, “is so mindless as to choose war over peace; in peace children bury their fathers, in war, fathers their children. But that these things should have come to pass in this way was dear to the gods.” He thus clearly states that he would not have been so foolish as to make war unless some divinity had stirred him to it. The claim does not accord with what we know of Croesus’s reign. The oracle of Delphi may have prompted him to invade Persia, but what of all the prior conquests? We have heard of no oracular participation in those decisions. Did not fathers bury their sons in those wars too? And why does he say “the god of the Greeks”? Is this not a further attempt to distance himself from the responsibility? And even if the “god of the Greeks” said that he would destroy a great empire and even if it had meant Persia, still it did not order him to do it. It is possible to be capable of destroying something without doing it. Croesus is being more than a little disingenuous.

Croesus’s anti-war argument takes on additional strangeness when one considers the Lydian monarch’s situation. He has buried his own son Atys; he did so in time of peace. The war with Cyrus, in effect, has given a new life of speech to Croesus’s other son. The argument against war, that it is somehow counter to nature, is not the whole truth in his case-at least insofar as it is natural for hunting accidents to happen. As Croesus makes his claim, it is a truism; other things being equal, no one prefers war to peace. But of course other things are never equal. What happens is that people prefer war to slavery or to living with the possessions they already have or to enduring injustice. In the case of Croesus, he greedily preferred war to contentment with his already vast empire.

Croesus concluded with the statement that what happened was according to the will of the gods (87). This seems at first glance like a philosophical acceptance of what cannot be changed, that what transpires must result from the will of the gods and is to be endured. But as the conclusion of his statement about fathers burying their sons shows, it appears as a very dubious claim. It would mean that the war has taken place because the gods wanted children to die and be buried by their fathers, and that this horror, this pain and suffering, was the will of the gods. It shoves into the back­ ground any kind of personal responsibility for what has happened. It is just like Agamemnon’s so-called apology to Achilles in Book Eighteen of the Iliad, when Agamemnon says that it was the goddess Ate who made him steal Briseis. But, of course, we, the historian’s audience, are able to see the sorry scheme of things entire: we know of Gyges’s ignoring and of Croesus’s misreading of the oracle; we know that all has come about because of the actions of men, not because of divine caprice.

There has been among scholars a tendency to see Croesus as an example of learning through suffering, of the Aeschylean principle pathei mathos.^[7] Yet despite the sensitivity with which these scholars have written, we need to distinguish the various types of persons who suffer. There is the suffering of those who are pure victims (as are most victims in war)-those people, for example, whom Croesus attacks after crossing the Halys, who have done nothing to deserve their fate. Then there are those like Oedipus and perhaps Creon, who in an honest and well-intentioned effort to do good deeds and act ethically unwittingly bring about their own doom. Then there are those whose nefarious schemes, prompted by greed and lust, go awry: these suffer just punishments. Croesus has been undeservedly elevated to the second category of sufferer, even when, I think, Herodotus has clearly placed him in the third.^[8] It is true that Croesus shows wisdom in his speech to Cyrus, though not as much as he has been credited with, but that wisdom does not indemnify him from his selfishness and greed. In fact, if anyone seems to learn from Croesus’s suffering, it would be Cyrus, who twice changes his mind (86.6: μεταγνόντα; 87.1: μετάγνωσιν) because of the lessons in Croesus’s life. And it is possible for Herodotus’s audience to learn from the example of Croesus without suffering. The value of history and literature is that we may learn from the bad experi­ences of others without ourselves suffering their trials and pains. The grim history of the world teaches us, however, that though it is possible to learn from the experiences of others, humankind in general learns wisdom neither from others’ nor its own misfortunes.

Cyrus frees Croesus from his chains, gives much thought to him, and, with his courtiers, looks on him in wonder (88). Croesus is for a long time silent, and the same phrase is used as earlier: he is at peace in thought with himself (ὁ δὲ συννοίῃ ἐχόμενος ἤσυχος ἤν. When he sees the Persians destroying Sardis, he deferentially asks Cyrus whether he may speak, and in the conversation that follows Cyrus points out that Croesus’s city is being plundered. “No, it is your city that they are destroying,” replies Croesus. Cyrus, impressed by this observation, asks for advice, and now Croesus begins to function as advisor to the great king. His speech of advice is a peculiar mixture of resignation, insult, warning, and practical advice. The whole makes a favorable impression on Cyrus, who then becomes very friendly to his captive.

Croesus starts by saying that the gods have offered him as Cyrus’s slave. It is not possible to know how much time has passed since the king came down from the pyre, but it cannot be very long since the city is just now being ravaged. What sudden humility Croesus manifests, to have been a few moments before a powerful king, now a humble slave! And yet his humility is combined with a sense of self-esteem, for he prefaces his remarks with a boast: “I must explain my thoughts to you, Cyrus, if I see further into the matter than others.” Yet this claim is splendidly democratic: it means that even a slave may have wisdom superior to that of a king, that intelligence is distinct from princely power. It does not seem possible that he would have admitted this before losing his kingdom.

Next he generalizes about the Persians, whom he calls contumelious (hybristic) by nature and poor (Πέρσαι φύσιν ἐόντες ὑβρισταὶ εἰσι ἀχρήματοι). One wonders whether he might be thinking about the contrast with himself: he has been contumelious and rich. The words seem chosen deliberately to establish the contrast. We know what contumelious wealth led to for Croesus; we can wonder what he will say the implications are for the Persians. Cyrus should expect, Croesus avers, that the Persian who collects the most plunder will rebel against him. The basis he has for this opinion is the experience of his own life with its assumption that the richest man must also be the most powerful and the happiest. Even if, as we may suspect, the experience on the pyre has shown him that wealth and happiness are not to be equated, he is aware of the corrosive effects of great wealth on the psyche of others: the man with the most plunder will not be content with his position; he will want more, and Cyrus will be the natural target.

Croesus’s practical advice is to place guards at the gates of Sardis in order to take as a dedication to Zeus one-tenth from the plunder the soldiers carry out. In this way, Croesus explains, Cyrus will not be hated for stealing their property; they will admit the practice to be just and will willingly give up the loot. As I read the advice, it is quite Machiavellian, for there is the implication that the plunder is really to go to Cyrus and not to Zeus. Cyrus thus will have by far the most booty (having a tenth of the booty of countless soldiers) and will be safe from anyone’s bold ambition—the incredible wealth apparently keeping others at bay. If Croesus really meant the booty to go to Zeus, I fail to see how it would have provided any safeguard to Cyrus, for the diminution of vast plunder by a tenth would not have the proper impoverishing and humbling effect. Yet the pretense of collecting for Zeus shows a deviously cynical manipulation of religion, not unlike Pisistratus’s dressing up Phya like Athena.

Cyrus approves of Croesus’s words and orders his men to do as recom­mended. Then, directly responding to Croesus’s claim that he is now a slave, Cyrus respectfully addresses him as a man and king ready to provide both useful words and deeds, and he offers him a gift. Croesus, who hitherto had been the most acquisitive and materialistic of men, now asks not for a thing but for permission to rebuke the “god of the Greeks.” He tells his story to Cyrus, accusing the god of ingratitude, of cheating him, and of inciting him with false expectations of success to make war on Persia. Cyrus assents and offers him anything else he wants besides. So Croesus sends some Lydians to Delphi with instructions to place his fetters on the threshold of the temple as the first fruits of “his conquest” and to ask the god whether he always behaves with so little gratitude (90).

This questioning of the oracle is crucial to the story and provides its fitting conclusion. There are very many unresolved elements: the oracle about the mule, Croesus’s continued lack of awareness about Gyges, Croe­sus’s ignorance of the oracle’s ambiguity, the mystery of the unexpected rainstorm that saved Croesus from burning, and the seeming ingratitude of the oracle, which, if it could do nothing for him, ought at least not to have led him astray, especially when he had been so generous to it. The histo­rian’s audience, having identified repeatedly with Croesus, is ­ uncomfortable, feeling that perhaps the cosmos is not so orderly, that there has been some divine caprice. In short, Herodotus has artfully created the need for a resolution. The story resembles an incomplete musical scale that must resolve with the tonic note.^[9]

The oracle’s response, like the response to Mycerinus in the Egyptian Book, clears up many of the seeming injustices and reassures us that the universe is a place of order.^[10] The response consists of three parts: a) a comment about fate and a recollection of the oracle pronounced to Gyges; b) the god’s kindly postponement of the decree upon Croesus and its rescue of him from the burning pyre; c) a defense of its oracles to Croesus.

A decreed fate, says the oracle, cannot be altered, even by a god. Here we see a difference from Homeric theology, where the gods’ yielding to fate seems voluntary. Thus Zeus, though he can save Sarpedon from Patro­clus, yields to Sarpedon’s destiny and allows him to die. There Zeus responds to Hera’s warning that if he intervenes, all the other gods will also intervene to save their favorites. Zeus, realizing the chaos that would result, is portrayed as suffering profoundly (he weeps tears of blood), but all the same he voluntarily allows fate to take its course. Later theology seems to make the gods subject to fate. Thus, in Euripides’s Hippolytus Artemis is unable to save her favorite; the most she can do is promise future vengeance on a favorite of Aphrodite. This kind of reminder of the power­ lessness of the gods toward fate would not be made except to imply that Apollo would have saved Croesus if he had been able.

The oracle says that Croesus has to pay for the offense of an ancestor, a claim the justice of which is not called into question.^[11] In summarizing the Candaules-Gyges story, the oracle puts the blame wholly upon the interposer and there is no mention at all of Candaules’s irrationality. The oracle refers to Gyges as a mere spear-bearer and refers to the woman’s trickery by which the deed was accomplished. From the divine point of view, then, legitimacy is rooted in bloodline, and the intellectual and moral lapses of an individual ruler do not appear to undermine his right to rule. The oracle also points out that the sovereignty was taken from the Heracleidae, who, as originating from Zeus, would be legitimate almost by definition.

The oracle next says modestly that Apollo did as much as he could for Croesus. The first of two benefits was postponing the fall of Sardis by three years. We have already discussed the value of this benefit, how these three years saw the death of Atys and the destruction of his empire. The oracle’s other boon, rescue from the pyre, is also of dubious value, especially given the view Herodotus attributes to Solon that death is better than life (1.31).^[12] What kind of life, after all, awaits Croesus? By his own words to Cyrus he considers himself a slave. And while he will have some respect during Cyrus’s life (though even this diminishes: Cyrus will not wholly follow his advice in the critical decisions concerning the Massagetae), he will be treated most ignominiously by Cambyses and have to run for his life fleeing the madness of that monarch (3.36). The last appearances of Croesus are as a minor character; Herodotus never again opens a window into his mind, though we can imagine that he must torture himself as he contrasts his former glory with his present condition.

Finally, the oracle blames Croesus for not understanding the pronounce­ments that he received. If he did not realize which empire he was going to destroy, he should have sent again to the oracle for clarification. There is here the semblance of reasonableness in the oracle’s position, but Croesus is hardly to be faulted for not having done as the oracle suggested. He did receive the supporting advice to seek allies, advice that makes no sense if he was to lose in any case; besides, if the oracle had given him a ­ straightforward oracle accurately telling him what would happen, it would have been violating its own job of seeing to it that fate was carried out. Croesus, says the oracle, also failed to understand the metaphor in referring to Cyrus as a mule born of a higher mother (a Mede and daughter of a king) and a lower father (a Persian and subject of the Medes). Here too, I think, Croesus is not to be faulted too much; he suffers the kind of misunderstanding that is much more evident in retrospect than in prospect.

We shall never know what Croesus may really have thought about the oracle’s last defense of itself. When he hears the response of the oracle, he acknowledges that the mistake was his own and not the god’s (ὁ δὲ άκούσας συνέγνω ἑωυτοῦ εἶναι τὴν ἁμαρτάδα καὶ οὐ τοῦ θεοῦ). Thus he seems to validate the oracle’s legalistic reasoning. It was, of course, surely a boon to the oracle to be metaphorical or legalistically literal according to its own advantage. As this has been characteristic of various religions through­ out the history of Western civilization, we should not perhaps judge Delphi too harshly.

We should keep in mind that the primary audience of the story is Herodotus’s contemporaries. An audience brought up on tragedy will recognize the tragic structure of the tale.^[13] It will see that like, say, the Oedipus of Sophocles, there is at first the growing anxiety about the world’s order and the god’s superintendency of that order. We see that Croesus’s position is in many ways like that of the Theban king. Oedipus wants incompatible things: on the one hand, he wants to be innocent of killing his father and marrying his mother; on the other hand, he wants the gods to declare the truth through their oracles. So Croesus wants first to avert his son’s death, then that predictions from the gods be true. In the end both see that the cosmos is a place of order, that justice triumphs and that the gods fulfill their responsibilities.^[14] It is perhaps a harsh justice, but Croesus’s attempt to place himself outside of human boundaries and to exempt himself from the principle of vicissitude was a subversive assault upon Moira.

There remains the question of whether Croesus was better off fallen or flourishing. As king he had wealth and power;^[15] as fallen king he had understanding of the patterns of justice that the gods uphold. In addition, while fallen he had knowledge that happiness does not consist of money but of a prospering state, healthy and good children, and a glorious death-a view considerably advanced over his vulgar materialism and a view well on its way to that worked out by Aristotle in the Ethics. In his new role as advisor to Cyrus he has a stature like Solon’s, which comes from wisdom and clear vision. There seems no doubt that these are the virtues Ηerodotus and the tradition of Western philosophy have cultivated. Thus, just as the outcome of story of Oedipus may in many ways be seen as positive, so may the story of Croesus.^[16]

These are lessons that could benefit the various poleis of Greece. If they cooperate and treat one another correctly, the gods will help them; if not, the gods will see that justice is done in the end, even if it requires several generations.