The Story of Croesus

In the kingdom of Lydia, in the heart of what is now Turkey, there once ruled a king whose name became synonymous with unimaginable wealth. This was Croesus, whose riches were so vast that even today, when we speak of someone who possesses great fortune, we say they are “rich as Croesus.”

King Croesus had inherited a prosperous kingdom from his father Alyattes, but through his own skill and ambition, he had expanded it far beyond anything his ancestors had achieved. His armies had conquered many neighboring territories, his trade routes stretched across the known world, and his treasury contained more gold and silver than had ever been accumulated by any single ruler in history.

The palace of Croesus in the capital city of Sardis was a wonder of the ancient world. Its halls were decorated with precious metals and gems, its gardens were filled with exotic plants from distant lands, and its rooms housed treasures that would have made the gods themselves envious. Visitors from across the Mediterranean came just to marvel at the splendor of his court.

But Croesus was not merely wealthy; he was also intelligent and cultured. He patronized the arts, supported philosophers and poets, and prided himself on being able to engage in learned discussions with the wisest men of his time. His court became a gathering place for scholars, artists, and thinkers from throughout the Greek world.

It was during one of these scholarly gatherings that Croesus received a visit that would change his understanding of life forever. The visitor was Solon of Athens, the great lawgiver and one of the Seven Sages of Greece, a man renowned throughout the civilized world for his wisdom and just character.

Solon had been traveling for several years, observing different societies and learning from various cultures. His reputation for wisdom was so great that rulers everywhere sought his counsel, and Croesus was eager to meet this legendary figure.

When Solon arrived at the palace, Croesus received him with great ceremony and spent several days showing off his treasures. He took the Athenian sage through room after room filled with gold, silver, precious jewels, rare artifacts, and priceless works of art.

“Well, Solon,” Croesus said at the end of their tour, his chest swelling with pride, “you have traveled widely and seen many lands and many rulers. Tell me truthfully—have you ever encountered any man more fortunate than I am?”

Croesus fully expected Solon to praise his wealth and declare him the most blessed of mortals. After all, what could be more obvious? He was the richest man in the world, ruler of a powerful kingdom, blessed with health, intelligence, and a loving family. Surely the gods had showered their greatest favors upon him.

But Solon’s response was not what the king expected.

“Your Majesty,” the sage said thoughtfully, “I have indeed seen great wealth and power in my travels. But the most fortunate man I have ever known was Tellus of Athens.”

Croesus was taken aback. “Tellus? But who was this Tellus? I have never heard of him. Surely he could not have possessed wealth to compare with mine?”

Solon shook his head. “Tellus was not wealthy in gold and silver, Your Majesty. But he lived in a prosperous and well-governed city, he had fine sons who grew to manhood and gave him grandchildren, and when war threatened Athens, he died gloriously in battle defending his homeland. His countrymen honored him with a magnificent funeral, and his name is remembered with respect and love. This, I believe, made him truly fortunate.”

Croesus frowned, finding this answer unsatisfying. “Very well, but surely I must rank second in good fortune? Who else could you possibly place above me?”

Again, Solon’s answer surprised him. “I would place Cleobis and Biton above you, Your Majesty. They were two young brothers from Argos who demonstrated such devotion to their mother that the gods themselves took notice.”

“What did they do that was so remarkable?” Croesus asked, his irritation growing.

“Their mother was a priestess of Hera,” Solon explained, “and on the day of a great festival, she needed to travel to the temple, but the oxen that were to pull her cart had not arrived. Rather than let their mother miss the ceremony, Cleobis and Biton harnessed themselves to the cart and pulled it several miles to the temple, with their mother riding behind them.”

“When they arrived, all the people praised them for their filial devotion, and their mother prayed to Hera to grant her sons the greatest blessing possible. That night, both young men died peacefully in their sleep in the temple. Hera had answered their mother’s prayer by giving them a perfect life followed by a perfect death, with their honor and virtue intact.”

By now, Croesus was thoroughly annoyed. “Solon,” he said, “do you think so little of my happiness that you do not even count me among the fortunate? You place common citizens and unknown young men above the richest king in the world?”

Solon looked at Croesus with compassion in his wise old eyes. “Your Majesty,” he said gently, “I see that you possess great wealth and power, and I hope that you will indeed prove to be among the most fortunate of men. But I have learned in my long life that no man can be called truly happy or fortunate until his death.”

“Why not?” Croesus demanded.

“Because,” Solon replied, “life is uncertain, and the gods are changeable in their favors. A man may prosper for seventy years and then face catastrophe in his seventy-first. Wealth can be lost, power can be overthrown, health can fail, loved ones can die. Until a man has lived his entire life and died with his honor and happiness intact, we cannot say that he was truly blessed by fortune.”

Croesus dismissed these words as the pessimistic ramblings of an old man who had perhaps seen too much of life’s darker side. What could possibly threaten his position? His kingdom was strong, his treasury was full, his family was healthy, and his reign was secure. Solon’s warnings seemed like unnecessary caution, perhaps even jealousy of his obvious good fortune.

“I thank you for your counsel, wise Solon,” Croesus said with barely concealed sarcasm, “but I think I can judge my own happiness well enough.”

Solon departed soon after, and Croesus put their conversation out of his mind. He returned to enjoying his wealth and power, confident that he was indeed the most fortunate of mortals and that Solon had simply been unable to recognize true prosperity when he saw it.

But the gods had been listening to this conversation, and they were not pleased with Croesus’s arrogance. It is dangerous for mortals to boast of their good fortune, for such pride attracts the attention of divine justice.

The first blow fell upon Croesus’s family. He had two sons: one was mute from birth, unable to speak despite the efforts of the best physicians and healers in the kingdom. The other, named Atys, was everything a father could hope for—handsome, intelligent, brave, and beloved by all who knew him.

Croesus doted upon Atys and had begun preparing him to inherit the throne. The young prince was skilled in all the arts of kingship: he could lead armies, negotiate with foreign ambassadors, judge legal disputes, and inspire loyalty in his subjects.

One night, Croesus had a prophetic dream that filled him with terror. He saw his beloved son Atys lying dead, killed by a weapon made of iron. The dream was so vivid and disturbing that the king woke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding with fear.

Determined to protect his son from the fate foretold in the dream, Croesus immediately took precautions. He removed all iron weapons from the palace, forbade Atys from participating in military campaigns, and surrounded the prince with guards whose duty was to ensure that no iron blade could come near him.

But fate, once set in motion by the gods, cannot be avoided by human precautions.

A great wild boar had appeared in the mountains near Sardis, a creature so large and fierce that it was terrorizing the local population. The people begged their king to organize a hunt to kill the monster before it could do more damage.

Atys, who had been raised as a warrior and hunter, was eager to lead the expedition against the boar. But Croesus, remembering his dream, absolutely refused to allow his son to participate.

“Father,” Atys pleaded, “what danger can there be in a boar hunt? The dream you described involved a weapon of iron, but we will be using hunting spears to kill a beast. How can this threaten me?”

Despite his son’s arguments, Croesus remained firm in his refusal. The hunting party would go out without the prince.

Among the courtiers at the palace was a man named Adrastus, a Phrygian prince who had fled to Croesus’s court after accidentally killing his own brother in a hunting accident. Croesus had purified him of the blood guilt and welcomed him as a guest, and Adrastus had become devoted to his host’s family out of gratitude.

When Adrastus learned that Atys was forbidden from joining the hunt, he approached Croesus with a proposal.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I understand your concern for Prince Atys’s safety. But perhaps I could serve as his guardian during the hunt? I am experienced in such expeditions, and I could ensure that no harm comes to him. It seems cruel to deny such a brave young man the chance to prove himself against this monster.”

Atys seized upon this suggestion eagerly. “Yes, father! If Adrastus accompanies me and takes responsibility for my safety, surely there can be no danger. Please, do not force me to remain behind like a child while other men risk their lives for our kingdom.”

Finally, worn down by his son’s pleas and trusting in Adrastus’s experience and devotion, Croesus reluctantly agreed. But he extracted a solemn promise from the Phrygian prince to guard Atys with his very life.

“I swear to you, Your Majesty,” Adrastus said, “that Prince Atys will return home safely, or I will die in his defense.”

The hunting party set out the next morning, with Atys finally able to participate in the kind of adventure he had been trained for since childhood. The young prince was in high spirits, excited to test his skills against the great boar and to prove himself worthy of his father’s trust.

They tracked the beast to its lair in a dense thicket high in the mountains. The boar, when cornered, proved to be even more formidable than the stories had suggested. It was enormous, with tusks like sword blades and eyes that burned with savage intelligence.

The hunt began well. The hunters surrounded the thicket and began driving the boar toward a clearing where they could engage it more safely. Atys, despite his father’s fears, proved himself to be skilled and brave, coordinating the hunters’ movements and maintaining perfect control of the situation.

But as the boar burst from cover, maddened by fear and rage, chaos erupted. The beast charged directly at Atys, who raised his spear to meet its attack. Other hunters hurled their own spears at the creature from various angles, trying to bring it down before it could reach the prince.

Adrastus, faithful to his promise to protect Atys, launched his own iron-tipped spear with all his strength, aiming for the boar’s heart. But in the confusion of the moment, with multiple hunters moving and the beast charging unpredictably, his aim was slightly off.

The spear missed the boar entirely and struck Prince Atys in the chest, piercing his heart and killing him instantly.

The prophetic dream had come true in the most tragic way possible. Despite all of Croesus’s precautions, his beloved son had been killed by an iron weapon, just as the gods had foretold. And the killer was not an enemy, but the very man who had sworn to protect the prince with his own life.

When news of the tragedy reached Sardis, Croesus was devastated beyond description. His grief was so profound that he could barely function as a king. For days, he shut himself away in his chambers, refusing to eat or see anyone, consumed by sorrow and self-recrimination.

Adrastus, overwhelmed by guilt and horror at what he had done, threw himself on Croesus’s mercy. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I have brought the greatest curse possible upon the house that showed me nothing but kindness. I am twice cursed—the killer of my own brother, and now the killer of your beloved son. I cannot live with this guilt.”

Before anyone could stop him, Adrastus took his own life on Atys’s grave, unable to bear the weight of his accidental crime.

The loss of his son changed Croesus profoundly. The king who had once been so confident in his good fortune now began to understand what Solon had meant about the uncertainty of human happiness. Wealth and power had not been able to protect what he valued most.

But the gods were not finished with Croesus yet. His sufferings had only begun.

Several years after Atys’s death, Croesus received disturbing reports about events in the east. A new power was rising in Persia under the leadership of a king named Cyrus, who had already conquered the Medes and was expanding his empire in all directions.

Croesus realized that Cyrus’s growing power posed a potential threat to Lydia. Should he wait for the Persians to attack him, or should he strike first while he still had the advantage of choosing the time and place of battle?

Before making such a momentous decision, Croesus decided to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphi, the most respected source of divine guidance in the Greek world. He sent magnificent gifts to the temple and asked the priestess what would happen if he went to war against Cyrus.

The oracle’s response was famously ambiguous: “If Croesus crosses the Halys River and attacks the Persians, he will destroy a mighty empire.”

Croesus interpreted this prophecy as a promise of victory. Surely the “mighty empire” that would be destroyed was the Persian Empire of Cyrus. Encouraged by what he saw as divine approval for his plans, he began preparing for war.

He also sought an alliance with Sparta, the most powerful military force in Greece, and they agreed to support him against the Persians. With Spartan allies and the blessing of Apollo’s oracle, Croesus felt confident that he could defeat Cyrus and eliminate the Persian threat.

The war began when Croesus crossed the Halys River, the traditional boundary between Lydia and the eastern kingdoms, and invaded Persian territory. Initially, his campaign went well. His armies won several battles against Persian forces, and it seemed that his interpretation of the oracle had been correct.

But Cyrus proved to be a far more formidable opponent than Croesus had anticipated. The Persian king was not only a brilliant military strategist but also a leader who inspired fanatical loyalty in his troops. Rather than being intimidated by the Lydian invasion, he saw it as an opportunity to expand his own empire westward.

Cyrus assembled a massive army and marched to meet Croesus in battle. The two forces met on the plains of Pteria, and the battle was fierce but inconclusive. As winter approached, Croesus decided to withdraw to Sardis to rest his troops and await the arrival of his Spartan allies before continuing the campaign in spring.

But Cyrus had no intention of allowing his enemy time to regroup and gather reinforcements. In a brilliant strategic move, he followed Croesus’s retreating army all the way to Sardis and immediately laid siege to the Lydian capital.

The siege of Sardis was shorter than anyone expected. Through a combination of military skill and treachery, Persian forces managed to scale the supposedly impregnable walls of the city. Within two weeks, Sardis had fallen, and Croesus himself was captured alive.

The once-mighty king found himself a prisoner, his kingdom conquered, his treasures looted, and his power completely destroyed. The oracle’s prophecy had indeed come true—a mighty empire had been destroyed when Croesus crossed the Halys River. But that empire had been his own, not Cyrus’s.

Cyrus ordered that Croesus be executed as an example to other rulers who might dare to challenge Persian power. A great pyre was built in the main square of Sardis, and the former king was chained to a stake at its top, surrounded by combustible materials.

As the flames were about to be lit, Croesus finally understood the full meaning of Solon’s words. He had lived to see his wealth stripped away, his kingdom conquered, his family destroyed, and his own life about to end in humiliation and agony. No man could indeed be called fortunate until his death—and Croesus’s death would be anything but fortunate.

“Solon! Solon! Solon!” he cried out, his voice carrying across the silent crowd that had gathered to watch his execution.

Cyrus, who was observing the proceedings, heard this cry and was curious about its meaning. He ordered that the flames be delayed and asked Croesus to explain who this Solon was and why he called upon his name in his final moments.

Through his tears, Croesus told the Persian king about his meeting with the Athenian sage and the conversation about human happiness and fortune. He explained how he had dismissed Solon’s wisdom in his arrogance, and how he now understood, too late, that the old man had been absolutely right.

“Solon told me that no man should be called happy until his death,” Croesus said. “I laughed at his caution, thinking myself blessed beyond all other mortals. But now I see that all my wealth and power were nothing more than gifts that could be taken away as easily as they were given. True fortune is not what we possess, but how we live and how we die.”

Cyrus was deeply moved by this story. The Persian king was not merely a conqueror but also a man of wisdom and philosophical inclination. He recognized the profound truth in Solon’s teaching and was struck by the tragic irony of Croesus’s situation.

Moreover, Cyrus began to reflect on his own position. He too was now at the height of power and success, master of a vast empire and seemingly blessed by the gods. But if Croesus, who had once seemed so secure in his fortune, could fall so far, what guarantee did any mortal have against the changing whims of fate?

“Release him,” Cyrus commanded his soldiers. “This man has learned wisdom through suffering, and that makes him more valuable alive than dead.”

Instead of executing Croesus, Cyrus made him a trusted advisor, recognizing that a man who had experienced both the heights of power and the depths of defeat would have unique insights to offer. Croesus served Cyrus faithfully for the rest of his life, using his hard-won wisdom to counsel moderation and humility.

The story of Croesus became one of the most famous cautionary tales in the ancient world, teaching several important lessons that remain relevant today.

First, it warns against the dangers of hubris—the excessive pride that leads mortals to believe they are beyond the reach of misfortune. Croesus’s arrogance in dismissing Solon’s counsel directly contributed to his downfall by making him overconfident in his decisions.

Second, it illustrates the fundamental uncertainty of human existence. No amount of wealth, power, or apparent security can guarantee against the reversal of fortune. The wise person remains humble and prepared for change, while the fool assumes that current good fortune will last forever.

Third, the tale demonstrates that true wisdom often comes through suffering. Croesus learned more about life from his defeats than he ever did from his victories, and this hard-won knowledge made him valuable as an advisor to others.

Finally, the story shows that even in the darkest moments, redemption is possible. Croesus’s honest acknowledgment of his mistakes and his willingness to learn from them earned him not only Cyrus’s mercy but also a new purpose in life.

The phrase “rich as Croesus” has survived for over two millennia, but perhaps we should remember not just his wealth, but also his wisdom—gained through the painful realization that no man can be called truly fortunate until his story has reached its end.