(Levantine Chronicle — Prelude)
Croesus still wears his crown,
the Pactolus still runs gold,
but eastward the horizon darkens.
Messengers ride from Sardis,
hooves drumbeat the spine of the world —
through Cilician gates,
past Tyre’s purple looms,
down the coast where cedars lean to the sea.
In Gaza’s dust they change horses,
in Pelusium’s shadow they bow to the Pharaoh.
Gold meets gold,
and the bargain is struck:
Lydia and Egypt,
two suns to hold back the rising east.
The Levant listens —
its markets thick with rumour,
its ports weighing the wind.
Phoenician oars dip in and out of the tide,
carrying news faster than any envoy.
In Yehud, the elders speak softly:
alliances are walls built far away,
but the armies that test them
march through your own fields.
The road is busy now —
grain for the Nile,
timber for the palaces of Sardis,
and in the other direction,
whispers of a king in Persia
who does not wait for spring to make war.
.