“Father!” She pulled back, looking at him anxiously. “Are you all right?”
Pythagoras looked at her for a second, then nodded. Ariadne hugged him again.
“You’d better go outside,” he said after a while.
Ariadne stood back and looked at the corpse. Daaruk’s bloody face made the scene all the more gruesome. A thousand questions flooded her mind, but she also wanted to get out of there, so she hurriedly left the room, followed by Akenon.
He turned to Pythagoras as he went out.
“As far as I’m concerned, the body can be taken away.” He gestured at Daaruk. “He was killed with white mandrake, the same poison used on Cleomenides. I’ve checked, and it was only present in Daaruk’s cake.”
Pythagoras moved his head imperceptibly and continued to stare at his dead disciple. Akenon thought it was the first time he’d seen him looking his age.
Outside, Akenon updated Ariadne on the evening’s events. While they were talking, some teams came up to them and asked for instructions. Ariadne took these opportunities to try to recover from the shock seeing the dead body had caused in her. At first glance she had thought the bloody corpse was her father.
“We must question many people,” said Akenon when the last team had been dispatched. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a very long night.”
They began walking toward the schoolhouse. Distant murmurs of tense conversations floated on the night air. Suddenly, a prolonged shriek of agony shook the community.
Ariadne turned to Akenon in a panic.
“It’s coming from my father’s house!”
She turned and ran as fast as she could. Akenon unsheathed his sword and raced after her.
CHAPTER 30
April 23rd, 510 B.C.
The councilor Cylon was making his way through Croton’s teeming streets with a look of satisfaction on his face. He carried the end of his long purple tunic rolled around his left arm. His right arm was bare. The morning sun shone directly on his face. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth on his skin.
The weather is improving, just like my standing in the Council.
He knew that he would soon be joined on his walk to the morning session. Since his political weight had increased, many had begun fluttering around him, currying favor, allying themselves with him so they could benefit from his renewed influence.
“Cylon, good morning.”
The first.
He smiled obligingly and stopped to wait for Kallo, a gaunt, stooped, but wealthy merchant of about sixty. Kallo had the most enviable network of informers in all of Croton. He was an indispensable, though traitorous, ally, one of those contemptible, unscrupulous people who had so much to offer, and whom Pythagoras would never go near.
“I bring you a magnificent piece of news, which I don’t think has reached your ears yet.”
“If you say so, Kallo, I don’t doubt it.”
Kallo rubbed his hands in anticipation. It gave Cylon pleasure to see him so happy. The Pythagorean Council of Three Hundred had reprimanded Kallo on more than one occasion for having no qualms about resorting to piracy to rid himself of his competitors. Kallo being happy couldn’t be good for the Pythagoreans.
The corrupt merchant announced his sensational news without preamble.
“Last night, another of the most important masters in the Pythagorean community was murdered.”
“Who?!” Cylon indulged the fantasy for a moment that it might be Pythagoras himself.
“One of Pythagoras’ most trusted men: Daaruk.”
The foreigner, thought Cylon with contempt.
Pythagoras had the effrontery to refuse noble Crotonians admission to his School, but he accepted foreigners, women, and even slaves. It was an outrage that there had even been talk of this Daaruk eventually leading the brotherhood, by extension governing all of Croton through the Council of Three Hundred.
Though none of that matters now. The main thing was that the man was dead and Pythagoras had just lost another of his stalwart supporters.
What a shame Daaruk had no family among the nobility of Croton. It would have been perfect if Hippocreon had died, as several of his brothers are councilors.
In any case, Cylon couldn’t complain. It was magnificent to have a new murder in the community now that Pythagoras had assumed the role of the police. Now Pythagoras would come under public scrutiny, as would the Egyptian, Akenon, the fancy detective the arrogant philosopher had hired to apprehend Cleomenides’ murderer.
He put his right arm round Kallo’s shoulders and began to walk beside him.
“Tell me all the details,” he said, showing his incisors in a sinister grin.
As Kallo told him what had happened, Cylon half-closed his eyes, anticipating the impassioned speech he would make before the Council that morning.
The Three Hundred had better begin to be afraid.
CHAPTER 31
April 23rd, 510 B.C.
Ariadne rode beside Akenon, lost in her memories of the previous night.
He looked at her in concern from time to time. Her donkey trotted along instinctively, without guidance. Ariadne was unable to banish from her mind the gruesome scenes of the night before: the grand master Daaruk on the floor, his face covered with blood, and foam oozing from his mouth.
Only fate kept that body from being my father’s.
The second image torturing her was the one she had seen when she entered her father’s house again after hearing that harrowing cry. Curled beside Daaruk’s body was another man, his face pressed to the poisoned master’s chest. He wore the cropped hair of a slave, and his skin was even darker than Daaruk’s. He had lifted his head, his face contorted with grief and streaming with tears and his eyes had met Ariadne’s. He said something in a strange language, then he raised his arms to heaven, uttering that spine-chilling wail again.
The slave’s name was Atma. He had been bought by Daaruk’s parents when he was only three as a servant for their son. However, they had always treated him almost like another family member, to the point that Atma felt he had found parents and a brother in them, though he never forgot his station. He was five years younger than Daaruk, which made him six years old when the eleven-year-old Daaruk moved with his family to Croton from Shravasti, the capital of Kosala. His role was to serve and entertain Daaruk until he entered the Pythagorean community. Afterwards, he had entered the service of his master’s mother, though he visited Daaruk daily, showing that his devotion went far beyond the usual master-slave relation.
Five years earlier, an epidemic of fever in the region had been particularly hard on the infirm and the elderly, and both Daaruk’s parents had died within a week. Since then, Atma and Daaruk had had no other family, and their relationship had grown even closer. Fortunately, Atma had been able to pass the tests required to be admitted to the community, and had become an apprentice disciple. The norm was to spend three years as a silent apprentice and then try to reach the level of mathematician, but Atma had already spent five years as an apprentice and had no interest in rising to a higher level. All he wanted was to be close to Daaruk.
In the brotherhood, social norms were different from those outside the order. The only hierarchy was the levels reached within the School. Slaves remained slaves outside the community boundaries, but not inside. As a disciple, Atma could have lived in the same way as any other resident, but his main wish was to continue to serve Daaruk. Since Daaruk did not wish to use him as a personal servant, he entrusted him with tasks for the community. For some time now, Atma had worked as the community handyman, including buying the necessary materials for his repairs at the marketplace in Croton. The night of the murder, he had shopped in Croton until dark, returning half an hour before Daaruk’s death, which meant he was one of the few members of the community completely free from suspicion.
The first thing Atma had done when he returned from Croton was unload the mule. He took his leave of the servant who had accompanied him and went to th
e room he shared with three other disciples. No one was there, and he thought they must be finishing dinner. He had eaten something in Croton, and was tired, so he decided to lie down on his mat. He might even skip the reading that always followed the evening meal.
No sooner had he lain down than he heard a commotion nearby. He peered out at the inner courtyard and saw the Egyptian hurrying into the street, shoving two servants before him. They looked like Eudoros and Cabirides, but he couldn’t be sure. As they disappeared from view, he glimpsed a glint of metal in the Egyptian’s hands.
What the hell is he doing?
For a while, Atma stayed in his little room, pacing. In the few days since his arrival at the community, the Egyptian had dined with Pythagoras several times and once or twice with his master Daaruk, too.
Is he with him now?
He must calm himself. He sat on the mat and spent some time controlling his breathing and his heartbeat, as he had been taught in the community. When he opened his eyes, there seemed to be an orange glow coming from the courtyard. Atma left the room, abandoning his attempts to remain composed.
A group of men hurried by, torches in their hands. At the doors of another room there was another group. He ran to them.
“What’s happening?” A student at the apprentice level was not allowed to speak unless asked a question, but rules were the last thing on Atma’s mind just then.
The men turned to him. When they recognized him, some frowned while others looked at the ground. No one replied. Atma had heard the word dead as he approached them. He wavered for an instant, feeling more and more apprehensive, and left running in search of Daaruk.
Outside were more groups carrying torches. The thought flashed through his frightened mind that they were planning to set fire to the compound. He looked to his right. Fifty yards away, the Egyptian and Ariadne were deep in conversation near the door to Pythagoras’ house. He went toward them, but before he got there they moved away, oblivious to his presence.
He went into the house, crossed the little courtyard and entered the dining room. The veins on his neck were pumping so hard he felt he was suffocating. At first, the room seemed empty…but then he saw Pythagoras, sitting at the table, his face drained of color. Atma froze. He had never before seen any sign of vulnerability in that awe-inspiring man. Pythagoras looked at him, and Atma felt a chill run down his spine: there was a flicker of panic in the master’s golden eyes.
Then he saw him.
Slumped on the ground, Daaruk’s rigid body, blood and foaming saliva smeared on his beloved face.
Something broke inside Atma, and he fell on Daaruk, unaware that he was shouting.
Ariadne was so immersed in the scenes she was reliving that for a second she lost her balance. She had to put both hands on the donkey’s back to keep from falling. The abrupt movement jolted her out of her reverie. She suddenly realized Akenon had been riding beside her the whole time she’d been acting like a sleepwalker.
She sat upright on her donkey and pressed her jaws together. It was true there had been a time when she had been weak, but that was all behind her. She was proud of having overcome that, of being who she was. She threw a defiant look at Akenon, as if warning him not to think of her as a fragile woman just because she had had a moment of weakness. Akenon looked at her gravely in response to her aggressive expression, then smiled, a kind, understanding smile, a gesture of encouragement that held no hint of condescension. Ariadne felt a surge of warmth and turned away before it showed in her face, pressing her heels into the donkey’s flanks to urge the animal.
Akenon kept watching Ariadne. Was that a smile he had seen before she hid her face? He wasn’t sure. Now, all he could see was her back and her long, wavy hair, styled with a black ribbon around her forehead.
The path narrowed, and Akenon had to stay behind Ariadne. After a while, he sat up taller, trying to see what lay ahead of her.
They were arriving at their destination.
Before the previous night, Akenon had only seen Atma a couple of times. Even so, the slave’s cries and his face tortured with grief were imprinted on his soul. It was plain that Daaruk had been much more to Atma than his owner.
Akenon shivered as the memories flooded his mind.
There were still no clues as to the murderer’s identity, but Daaruk’s cause of death was clear, which was why, an hour after his death, they had decided to lift him off the floor, and place him on the table in Pythagoras’ dining room. The philosopher and Atma had kept vigil over the body while Akenon went to inspect Daaruk’s room. Since Ariadne wasn’t allowed enter the male living quarters, she had gone to the schoolhouse to start questioning the cooks.
Daaruk’s room was monk-like in its austerity. Even so, Akenon had had the strange impression that it was too tidy, as if someone had just given it a thorough cleaning. It looked more like the room of someone who had arrived a few days ago and intended to leave soon. Akenon had wondered if the rooms of the other candidates would leave him with the same impression.
It had taken him only a minute to search the room, finding nothing of note. When he returned to Pythagoras, he had discovered to his surprise that Atma owned quite a few more possessions than Daaruk. From his own room he had brought a box of wood and ivory, equipped with a lock and key, from which he had taken ointments and long, thin strips of cloth with strange symbols on them that Akenon didn’t recognize. Atma used them to wrap Daaruk’s chest and head, at the same time singsonging a hypnotic chant in an unfamiliar language.
Pythagoras hadn’t been pleased that Atma was carrying out funeral rituals that were alien to Pythagorean doctrine, but he had remained impassive. Apparently, Atma had been carefully instructed by Daaruk’s mother about the culture of their homeland. Pythagoras had decided to allow Atma to follow those cultural practices up to a point. The philosopher had had no idea at that moment that those cultural differences would quickly become radically pronounced or that Atma would show himself to be surprisingly inflexible in that respect.
Akenon remembered the fruitless questioning of the long night and the setting up of shifts for the patrols around the perimeter of the community. Thanks to the inevitable lack of experience of the improvised patrols, he had had to spend the whole night going back and forth, making sure the boundaries were impregnable. At dawn, they still had no clues. Knowing from experience that time would work against him, Akenon intensified his activity instead of resting. He spent most of the day organizing new interrogations and monitoring the lookout patrols. He had not slept in two days. Now, as a new night began, his eyelids felt heavy as lead while he tried to make out what lay in front of Ariadne.
Pythagoras’ daughter turned to him.
“We’re here.”
Akenon’s mount continued a few steps further, up a steep hill. At the top, the path widened, allowing him to draw up even with Ariadne. She had halted and was staring, wide-eyed, at what lay before her.
He looked in the same direction. At the bottom of a small slope, the river rushed downstream. On the near bank was what they had come in search of.
Akenon held his breath as he contemplated it.
CHAPTER 32
April 23rd, 510 B.C.
The man threw himself onto his horse, the swiftest in the city, and set off for the Pythagorean community at a gallop. In a few minutes he reached the gymnasium, skirted it, and headed straight for the main entrance without reducing his speed.
The three disciples guarding the portico were alarmed when they saw him approach. Raising a cloud of dust, an enormous steed flew toward them, its rider so large he made the horse look like a colt. Both his arms were bare, his muscles twice the size of an ordinary man’s.
When he neared them, they recognized him, which made them even more nervous. They had always known him to be calm, often with a swagger, and full of fun. Now his perspiring face was shaken. He seemed frightened, something they’d never seen in Milo of Croton, son-in-law of Pythagoras, six-time wrestling champion
at the Olympic Games, distinguished member of the Council of Three Hundred, and commander-in-chief of the Crotonian army.
“Where’s Pythagoras?” he asked without dismounting.
His horse turned in a circle, agitated by the gallop. The men retreated a few steps.
“In one of the schoolhouse classrooms,” one of them informed him. “With the masters.”
Milo spurred his horse and rode hastily through the portico into the community.
Pythagoras wasn’t expecting Milo just then. Surrounded by his most advanced disciples, he had closed his eyes. About thirty masters were listening to music played by one of them, the most proficient on the zither. Music served a higher function for them than mere esthetic enjoyment. Pythagoras had showed them how to use music to cure ailments of both body and mind. He used it often to heal, calm, and console. Through songs, dances, and melodies they learned to modulate emotions and purify the soul. Musical activities were common in their daily lives. That afternoon they were being used to unite them more than ever in the face of adversity, and to console them after the dramatic loss of another of their colleagues.
When Milo crossed the threshold into the room, Pythagoras sensed his presence and opened his eyes. He silently motioned for him to wait outside, wishing to protect the others from the anguish he had detected in his son-in-law’s eyes.
He went out to meet him, and they walked toward the garden in the dying light of late afternoon.
“Master,” said Milo as soon as they were alone, “I’ve come directly from the Council. We’ve been meeting for eight hours, and Cylon hasn’t stopped launching attacks against the School, against you, and against Akenon.”
Pythagoras nodded, encouraging him to continue. Cylon’s tirades were nothing new, but he had never seen Milo this worried, and that made him uneasy.
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 15