I hope to be by your side if you have to confront them.
He sustained his mental effort, redirecting his concentration to his main disciples. Nothing came to him, which worried him. He had tried hard to help his favorites reach far higher levels than average mortals. He had endeavored to make them grand masters, shepherds, as he himself had been, for a humanity that had lost its way. And he had succeeded, but by doing so he had also made them resistant to his ability to see what lay within them. He could discern little when he searched the depths of their gaze or the resonance of their voices. He had assumed that with the unparalleled perception his mind gave him at moments like these, he would be able to penetrate beyond the layers the teachings and training had developed in them, but now he wasn’t sure. Were they hiding nothing, or was he simply incapable of detecting it? He had released them long ago from his influence so they could make their own advances.
Maybe one of them has reached greater heights than I imagined.
He was growing weaker. He wouldn’t be able to continue much longer.
His thoughts focused on Ariadne. A strong wave of love for her came over him. This was followed by guilt, though there was nothing he could have done to prevent what happened to her as a teenager. It was what had made her aloof, not wanting to be around others, not even her own mother. The only solution to keep her from abandoning her studies was for him to guide her personally, in violation of the rule that Theano was in charge of instructing the women in the School. Ariadne had immersed herself in the doctrine obsessively, as if it was the only thing that eased her inner turmoil. He had tried to balance that excess, but had ended up giving in, fascinated by the incredible pace of his daughter’s progress. Then he broke another of his rules: he allowed her access to increasingly higher knowledge far too quickly, when she was too young. He even began to think she might succeed him one day. But Ariadne changed again. She gained confidence and became a full-grown adult. She stopped living exclusively in the world of ideas. It soon became clear she was no longer as interested in the doctrine, and there were even many moral codes with which she didn’t agree. He had to accept that she would not succeed him, and respect her independence. Although she now worked for the community, she felt caged within its confines, and requested any work that involved travel. Perhaps, unconsciously, she was trying to escape the past.
His strength began to fail and his mental vision flickered.
One last attempt. Gritting his teeth in the Temple of the Muses, Pythagoras shifted his concentration toward several of the councilors opposed to his School. His exceptional perception revealed antagonism, even flashes of hatred. Stronger than he had imagined.
He was unable to continue. The power of his mind decreased until it was once again within the ordinary limits of consciousness.
Pythagoras opened his eyes, dazed. The sacred fire was still performing its ever-changing dance. Doubled over and panting, he stumbled forward and leaned against Hestia’s pedestal. At the last second he had seen something more. All the perceptions had ignited in a terrifying flash.
No! Gods, no!
He had glimpsed the future. A blurred image of what would be if events followed their course. A scene of blood and fire.
Of horrific, infinite suffering.
CHAPTER 21
April 18th, 510 B.C.
Cylon was too agitated to sleep.
My revenge is much closer.
He remembered for the thousandth time the incident that had left its mark on his life thirty years ago. He had been young and wealthy, one of the preeminent members of the Council of a Thousand, the only governing body in Croton at that time. He was approaching the recently established Pythagorean community, mounted on a magnificent horse, surrounded by family, friends and slaves. He wanted everyone to witness his imminent moment of glory.
Pythagoras had arrived in Croton a few months earlier, empty-handed. They had given him land, materials, and laborers to undertake the work needed for his project. There was no doubt that Pythagoras had impressed them, not only by his divine appearance—many said he was Apollo himself—but especially by his ideas and his way of expressing them. With his strong, sincere voice, he outlined theories that astounded the most erudite among them. If anyone questioned something he’d said, the master would expound such wise, lofty arguments that everyone was left awestruck. He made them feel as if before his arrival they had led empty, primitive lives, as lacking in meaning as they were laden with suffering and conflict. He showed them a new path, one he had already traveled, and promised to guide them along the way, helping each to advance according to his own potential.
Young Cylon had dismounted at the entrance to the community. At that time, there were only a few stones indicating where the columns for the portico would be placed. He passed between them on foot, as a mark of respect, and walked toward the master, who was waiting with a group of newly admitted disciples.
Soon I’ll be one of you. The best of you, thought Cylon, looking at them arrogantly.
Being admitted to the community had become a sign of distinction. A fashion, possibly fleeting, of which Cylon wanted to be the foremost representative.
Pythagoras greeted him, bowing his head. Cylon waited for his entourage to gather behind him so no one would miss a single detail. This would also give everyone in the community time to take note of his special presence and hear Pythagoras’ acknowledgment of his many merits. That was how it would be. His tutors had always been generous in their praise of him. You have extraordinary abilities, Cylon. You’re the most gifted, Cylon. You’re sharp, witty, astute, awesome… And now Pythagoras would assert it publicly, before hundreds of Crotonians.
Silence descended on the group. A solitary gust of wind whirled through the community, lifting the rich purple tunic Cylon was wearing, fastened with golden clasps. He had received the magnificent garment that very morning, from a Phoenician ship newly arrived from Tyre. It made him stand out all the more from everyone else.
“Come with me.” Pythagoras made as if to start walking, but Cylon stopped him with a quick response.
“No.” It sounded more commanding than he had intended, so he tempered his words. “If you don’t mind, master, I’d rather you gave your reply in front of my beloved fellow citizens.” He spread his arms, turning left and right, encompassing all those in attendance. He was a magnificent orator, used to flattering his audience during public speeches.
“All the same,” replied Pythagoras, unperturbed, “it’s better if we speak in private.”
Cylon was surprised. What did Pythagoras think he was doing? After all, he was no more than a foreigner living off the generosity of Cylon and his compatriots, yet he thought fit to contradict him in front of everyone! Sensing that the atmosphere was turning sour, he stared at the master.
Pythagoras did not react. He appeared relaxed, while simultaneously managing to convey dignity and strength. His eyes were a shade darker than his long, golden hair. He was very tall, barefoot, and dressed in a simple tunic of resplendent white linen. All these things created an image of austerity and honesty, which Cylon began to sense was false.
Both men stood silent, facing each other as the tension rose minute by minute. Pythagoras’ disciples and the committee accompanying Cylon began to shift uneasily. Each group remained behind its leader, like two armies readying for battle.
“We’ll talk here,” Cylon declared. “Give me your answer, master Pythagoras.”
What was Pythagoras’ game, dragging his feet, wanting to take him aside? Was he planning to blackmail him? Wangle more out of him than he had already been given by splendid Croton? Cylon would make it perfectly clear he would not be intimidated.
He stood tall while he waited for the master to yield.
“Very well,” Pythagoras finally conceded. He filled his lungs, expelled the breath through his nose with an air of resignation, and continued. “In spite of your undisputable merits, based on the tests you’ve completed, you cannot be my
disciple.”
Both groups of spectators gasped in unison. All eyes fixed on young Cylon. His face flushed and he tried to speak, but the words deserted him and he stammered pitifully. After the first stunned moment, his impulse was to seize his sword and run it through this upstart who had dared refuse him in public, but he managed to contain himself, barely. He narrowed his eyes to slits through which a look of infinite hatred could be glimpsed.
“You will regret this,” he muttered hoarsely. “I swear it.”
Thirty years had passed since that moment, but every day, Cylon still regretted not having killed Pythagoras on the spot. His hatred had continued to grow, in direct proportion to Pythagoras’ growing reputation and power.
Because of you, I’m just a second-rate governor now, thought Cylon, reclining on his bed, his throat filled with bile.
Only a few years after that public humiliation, Pythagoras had persuaded the Council of a Thousand to establish the Council of Three Hundred. It would consist of those members of the Thousand who had been accepted and tutored by Pythagoras. It seemed incredible that the majority of the Thousand who were not to be part of the Three Hundred had agreed, despite the intense campaign Cylon had mounted against the new council. How could they have been so stupid, so unworthy and pathetic as to subordinate themselves to the adoring followers of the conceited fool? From that moment on, the Council of a Thousand consisted of the Three Hundred who governed Croton according to the doctrine of their damned messiah, and the other seven hundred who attended the council simply as witnesses to that historical aberration.
But something has changed. Undeniably so. I felt it today.
He had always enjoyed moderate backing from a few dozen councilors who were among the marginalized seven hundred. This wasn’t enough to achieve anything, but he had kept those embers of rebellion alive, waiting for his opportunity.
A very long wait that may be coming to an end.
He was still an excellent orator, and in today’s session he had made a greater effort than usual. He had sown doubt and discord and had managed to provoke applause from more than two hundred councilors for his diatribe against Pythagoras. About a third of the marginalized seven hundred had clearly shown they were behind him. Among the Three Hundred, there had been no outspoken signs of support, but there had been unmistakable nodding of heads.
Pythagoras, you’ve made a grave mistake handing over police matters to an outsider.
Cylon had now garnered more support than ever before, and was enjoying it. Even so, he knew he was still far from having the political strength necessary to carry out his revenge. Something was needed to tip the scales sufficiently.
I need more deaths.
CHAPTER 22
April 19th, 510 B.C.
“Ariadne,” said a child’s voice, “will you comb my hair?”
Cassandra was looking at Ariadne with her wide, almond-shaped eyes. Barely seven years old, she radiated the pure innocence of her age.
She looks like a little doll, thought Ariadne, smiling.
She stroked one of her velvety cheeks and took the comb. It was a simple, wooden object with two opposing rows of teeth. Cassandra sat on a stone with a happy burst of laughter. Ariadne bent toward her, ran the back of her hand down the girl’s long, wavy, chestnut hair, and began combing it.
They were in the community garden, taking advantage of the morning sunshine during a recess between two junior classes. These weren’t her students, but she was helping to watch them, delighted to get to spend some time with children. She felt more at ease with them than with adults.
She took another quick glance toward the other end of the compound and finally she spotted him.
“Cassandra, I have to go now. This afternoon I’ll comb your hair again, all right?”
“All right.”
The child jumped up, took her comb from Ariadne, and ran off to ask one of her teachers to comb her hair. It seemed she didn’t care who combed it, and Ariadne felt childish at being disappointed.
She stood up and crossed the compound resolutely in Akenon’s direction. The Egyptian was gazing into the distance as if searching for something. He stood out like a piece of bark against the snow because of the way he dressed. He was the only person in the community, and probably in all of Croton, wearing pants. The Greeks dressed exclusively in tunics, short cloaks called chlamyses, or capes of varying lengths and colors depending on the weather, their age, and their social status. Underwear was not generally worn. Moreover, the fabrics most commonly used were linen, wool, and hemp, whereas Akenon’s short tunic was made of tanned leather.
“Good morning.”
Akenon’s face lit up when he saw Ariadne.
“I heard you accepted the case,” she continued. “In Sybaris you seemed sure you’d decline it. It seems your resolve isn’t very strong,” she added in an ironic tone.
Well, well, ever with the sharp tongue. Akenon smiled without replying. He could think of a couple of gibes to continue kidding with her, but knowing she was Pythagoras’ daughter made him hold his tongue out of shyness and respect.
Ariadne took the initiative.
“You see…” She bit her lip, wondering whether she should say what was on her mind. She hated this kind of situation. “I’d like to be part of the investigation.”
She crossed her arms, awaiting his reply. She had several arguments ready for him, but reading Akenon’s face, she knew none of them would work, and resorted to staring at him defiantly.
Akenon hadn’t expected this. He hesitated before reacting.
“Ariadne, I’m sorry…I always work alone and…” He stopped talking when he saw the stern expression on her face. Until now he had only known the Ariadne who made a joke of everything.
She nodded, her jaw clenched. Akenon opened his mouth to soften his rejection, but Ariadne turned abruptly without replying and strode off.
It doesn’t matter what you say, Akenon. Before the day is out you’ll be the one begging me.
The infernal vision of the night before still burned Pythagoras’ retinas.
He had spent half an hour pacing alone through the sacred woods, searching among its hundred-year-old trees for the serenity of spirit he needed to continue guiding his disciples. He was now in control of himself, but couldn’t forget what had passed before him.
Darkness, impenetrable and cruel, brooded over the world.
The grand master made an effort to regain his hope for a bright future.
The course of destiny can be altered.
From the entryway to the compound, Akenon observed Pythagoras. Again, he was impressed even though it was only a few hours since they had been together.
The master was returning from the same woods where they had walked the previous afternoon. His pace had the agility of youth and the aplomb of an exceptional man. From what he knew of Greek mythology, Akenon thought that if in his earlier years he had been compared to Apollo, he now had to be on par with Zeus, king of the gods of Olympus.
It was obvious that many of those around him looked at Pythagoras with adoration.
He has a legion of unconditional supporters. The most loyal army in the world.
Akenon went through the portico, hastening his steps so his path would cross the master’s, who was walking away from him in the direction of Croton. He caught up with him five hundred yards from the compound,.
“Good morning, Pythagoras.”
The imposing old man turned around, coming out of his reverie.
“Greetings, Akenon.”
As he approached, Akenon had thought he could perceive a worried look on the venerable face, but now he saw only a warm smile that gave him a strange sense of peace.
“Let’s walk together.” The master motioned kindly for Akenon to join him. “I’m going to the gymnasium. We have the custom here of strolling along its colonnades while discussing various topics.”
Akenon looked down the path. Half a mile away he saw a large building, whi
ch had already caught his attention the previous day. It was a rectangular construction measuring about five hundred feet by one hundred. In fact, its perimeter had been designed as a racing track, and was as big as two stadiums. Its walls were encircled by a columned walkway along which people were strolling.
Pythagoras followed his gaze.
“I don’t think you have gymnasiums in Carthage.”
“Actually,” replied Akenon, “I’m not sure I know what a gymnasium is.”
“It’s an enclosed area for doing exercise or training. Usually, it has a floor of flattened earth the length of a stadium, and another used as an arena, for wrestling. Javelin and discus throwing are often practiced there too.”
Akenon had seen drawings of these sports on some Greek vessels, but had never seen them in real life. His curiosity was piqued.
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 10