“Kallo, that vile rat, has been helping him through his network of informers. Cylon was the only councilor who knew right away that Daaruk had been murdered, and he’s used that information to his advantage. I have to say, master, I’ve never felt such strong opposition in the Council.”
“I suppose you’re referring to members outside the Three Hundred.”
“Not only outside the Three Hundred! Today he got applause from nearly half the marginalized seven hundred, as he calls the members of the Council of a Thousand who don’t belong to the Three Hundred, but apart from that, several of the Three Hundred showed signs of agreeing with some of his devious arguments. That’s never happened before, and it could herald a schism that our worst enemy is more than capable of using to his advantage.”
Pythagoras paused beside the small pond, reflecting for a few moments.
“These are precarious political times,” he conceded gravely, “but the degree of opposition you saw today doesn’t reflect the fundamental opinions of the Council. Certainly, Cylon is very good at stirring up negative emotions, especially when he has new arguments. For that reason, we must do two things, starting now. First, regain the goodwill of the Council. I don’t think there’ll be any problem with the Three Hundred. They are initiates, and that places them above Cylon’s far-reaching influence. Tomorrow I’ll go to the Council to address the seven hundred Cylon calls marginalized. Don’t forget, they were originally in agreement about the Three Hundred governing them. You’ll see that, deep down, they’re still in agreement. Don’t worry about that.”
Milo nodded, much relieved. Pythagoras’ presence and the strength of his arguments always calmed him.
“The second thing we need to do, whatever the cost,” Pythagoras continued, “is avoid more deaths. Apart from being dreadful tragedies, they are dangerous political weapons. Which reminds me, Akenon wanted to talk to you about that. He wishes you to appoint fifteen or twenty soldiers you trust implicitly to guard the community and take on other potentially dangerous missions. Since last night, we have teams of disciples patrolling the community. They volunteered, but they wouldn’t be able to do much more than raise the alarm. We don’t even have swords and, as you well know, that mustn’t change for the resident disciples.” He sighed before concluding. “Akenon also wants men specifically assigned as bodyguards for me and each of the grand masters.”
Milo looked at him inquisitively. Pythagoras had always opposed the idea of armed men patrolling the compound.
“I know this will disrupt the spirit of the School,” said Pythagoras answering Milo’s look, “but, given the circumstances, our priority has to be to prevent further atrocities and catch the murderer.”
Milo nodded with military gravitas, and Pythagoras broached another unpleasant subject.
“This morning all the residents paid homage to Daaruk. I was hoping that those of you outside could do the same this evening and tomorrow, but…Atma took the body away a couple of hours ago.”
Milo could barely hide his surprise. Rules and customs dictated that the corpse be washed, anointed, and laid out, that homage be paid it for one day, and that it then be buried. The burial would be followed by the funeral banquet. What was this about Atma taking the body away? Where? What for? How was it possible that he had been permitted to remove the body?
Pythagoras sighed heavily, shaking his head in a rare display of annoyance. Milo restrained himself from asking further questions, not daring to delve deeper in what was obviously a sensitive subject.
“I’ll speak to Akenon, master. Where can I find him?”
Pythagoras looked toward the northern path before answering.
“Akenon left an hour ago with Ariadne. They went in search of Atma.”
CHAPTER 33
April 23rd, 510 B.C.
Atma wiped the perspiration from his brow with the edge of his tunic, then stood back to assess the progress of his preparations. He had only a vague memory of the one time he had seen this ceremony performed. He had been five years old, on the banks of the Ganges River. Several men and women had spent a full day completing the arduous task he was now doing without anyone’s help.
Atma couldn’t remember exactly what had taken place during that single childhood experience, but he knew the ceremonial procedure perfectly thanks to the detailed and repeated teachings he had received from Daaruk’s mother, whom he had always regarded as his own. She had never renounced the culture of her birth, and had done her best to make sure Daaruk and Atma kept it alive in their hearts. As Daaruk soon joined the Pythagorean community, his mother focused on Atma, and devoted thousands of hours to teaching him her beliefs, language, and rituals.
But I never imagined I’d be performing the funeral rite, thought Atma sadly. And even less that I’d be doing it for my beloved Daaruk.
The previous night, after keeping vigil over the body with Pythagoras for a while, he had suddenly remembered what he had to do. It was as if a voice from the beyond had spoken to him, pulling him out of a deep sleep, urging him to make haste. Without a word, he left the philosopher’s house and went to his room, making sure before entering that no one had followed him. He had locked himself inside, moved the bed and dug frantically until he unearthed two documents. They would be essential in the ensuing hours. He had looked at them for a moment before hiding them under his tunic.
These are the key to my future.
The documents closely guarded their contents with a wax seal, which in both cases displayed the same esoteric symbol: a small pentagon with a five-pointed star inscribed in it.
Next, Atma hurried through the community to the storeroom next to the stables. It was a large, simple construction with adobe walls, narrow windows, and a sand floor. As the person responsible for repairs and the purchase of materials for the community, Atma knew for certain he’d find what he needed there.
The problem will be getting it out of the community.
He scanned the room, knowing he would attract attention sooner or later. Before that happened, he needed to do as much as possible.
The remains of a small fishing boat that hadn’t been used for years were leaning against a wall. It had been taken to the storeroom to be repaired in the future, but had been forgotten. The community had more than enough money to buy the fish it consumed. Atma examined the battered boat and decided it would serve his purpose. He also selected a tall ceramic vessel with a lid that contained a mixture of oils used as fuel for the lamps. Lastly, he added rope, cloth, and other materials, and went out to the stables.
Remembering this now by the river, he submerged a thick piece of cloth in the vessel he had at his feet, then he climbed onto the wooden structure he had prepared. Daaruk’s body lay on the upper part. Atma began to daub the corpse with a viscous substance. Daaruk seemed calm, and Atma wept again as he stroked his face.
Last night no one had objected to him going into the stables. However, when he came out pulling a mule he had hooked up to a cart, two groups of men had come running.
“Stop! Where are you going?”
When they had realized it was Atma, they were disconcerted but continued to block his path.
“I have to prepare everything for Daaruk’s funeral ceremony.”
“What ceremony?” They looked at him in surprise. “Pythagoras will take care of that, and there’s no need for a cart.”
“This is suspicious,” a third man intervened. “The best thing would be to take him to Akenon or Pythagoras and let him explain himself to them.”
Atma released the reins.
“Take me to Pythagoras.”
The improvised guards escorted him as if he were under arrest. When they reached the philosopher, Atma stepped forward and spoke before anyone else.
“Pythagoras, I must make preparations to take care of Daaruk’s body.” He extracted one of the documents from his tunic, taking extreme care not to make the terrible mistake of showing the other one. “Here you can see Daaruk’s wishes on th
e matter.”
Pythagoras, sitting next to Daaruk’s body, stood and took the document, gazing at it in surprise. It was folded so that its contents could not be read without breaking the wax seal.
“Yes, it’s Daaruk’s,” he said in a low voice after examining the raised symbol on the seal. He looked at Atma. “Shall I open it?”
Atma agreed and Pythagoras broke the seal. He unfolded the document and began to read, his expression changing quickly from curiosity to incredulity.
When he reached the end, he felt like cursing, but managed to restrain himself. He sat down and stared at the floor, deep in thought.
“Atma,” he said sorrowfully, “leave me for five minutes.”
He turned to the others.
“Go outside, all of you.”
Atma hesitated a few seconds. Pythagoras wouldn’t be able to object. Atma knew the contents of the document perfectly well, and knew there was no possibility of misinterpreting it. Finally, he decided to follow the rest of the men and exited the room.
Pythagoras was perplexed. In the document, Daaruk stated that in the event of his death, he wanted his body to be handled according to the customs of his birthplace, and Atma should be the one to arrange everything. Pythagoras knew what that meant: something Pythagorean doctrine vehemently opposed.
Cremation.
He shook his head slowly. Cremation wasn’t an unusual practice among Greeks, but in the brotherhood they followed a different procedure, the only one compatible with their beliefs: they buried their dead.
After much thought, Pythagoras decided to respect Daaruk’s wishes. The only condition he would impose was that Atma not take the body away until the following morning. That way, they could carry out the ceremony of paying homage to the deceased during the night.
Atma agreed. That won’t disrupt my plans. He loaded the cart with all the materials he needed and left the community without anyone stopping him.
The river was a mile away. He walked the distance, the mule swaying heavily behind him. Once there, he unloaded the cart and used the boat as a base for the funeral pyre. He spent the night building the frame. It was a clear night and the moon shone brightly enough to make lighting a bonfire unnecessary.
When the sun appeared on the horizon, Atma continued working without rest. By mid-morning, the wooden structure rose three feet above the boat. Then he went back to fetch Daaruk’s body, praying that Pythagoras wouldn’t have changed his mind.
The stares he got as he crossed the compound were more bewildered than disapproving.
I don’t care what they think.
It was obvious he no longer had a future in the brotherhood, but he had only entered it because of Daaruk. Now it made no sense to continue pretending he was interested in Pythagoreanism. In fact, if everything went as planned, this would be the last time he set foot in the community.
He had spent many hours at his arduous task and could feel the effects of lack of sleep, so he asked Pythagoras to give him a servant to help him transfer the body. Committed to fulfilling Daaruk’s frustrating final wishes, Pythagoras assigned the stable boy. The young man gave a start when he found out, but obeyed without protest. Between him and Atma they placed Daaruk on the cart. Atma took advantage to collect more wood, and they made their way to the river.
The servant was anxious to return as soon as they had finished unloading.
“Light a bonfire, and then you can take the mule and the cart,” Atma told him. “I’ll walk back when I’m finished.”
The stable boy nodded, did as he was asked, and left hastily, anxious to get back to the community to perform a purification ritual after having been in contact with death.
That afternoon, Atma prepared Daaruk’s body. After undressing it, he washed every inch of his skin, then dressed him in the same tunic and cloth strips he had used at Pythagoras’ house. Throughout the process he sang psalms in his native language. Then he laid the body on the pyre and daubed it meticulously with the viscous substance.
He was immersed in this task when he realized that Akenon and Ariadne had found him. They were behind him, at the edge of the woods, and for now they were simply watching him.
Please gods, I hope they let me finish.
Atma had a small knife in his tunic, but had no experience using it as a weapon. He tried to be quick about daubing the body. His hands became clumsy and unsure, and he had to pause in an attempt to calm himself.
Half an hour, he thought, anguished. I just need to be left alone for half an hour.
He looked behind him, holding his breath.
Akenon was coming toward him.
CHAPTER 34
April 23rd, 510 B.C.
The Pythagoreans usually devoted some time to solitary meditation before sunset. That evening, Pythagoras decided to meditate in the room where Daaruk had died. All the community members had come by to pay homage to the foreign master…until Atma had taken the body. Pythagoras’ mind was filled with grief and questions. What most disturbed him was the knowledge that one of his closest disciples, with whom he had had almost daily contact for more than twenty years, had been a stranger to him in very important ways.
Daaruk would be the first initiate in the brotherhood to be cremated instead of buried. Pythagoras found it incomprehensible that Daaruk’s family’s beliefs and customs had taken precedence over the doctrine.
Did he do it out of respect for his family, or because of his own convictions?
His eyes scanned the table, stopping at the spot where the ill-fated disciple had been dining before falling to the ground. He regretted not having had time to analyze Daaruk’s innermost thoughts more deeply. It had been the first time he had so exhaustively analyzed the candidates to his succession. That kind of examination was extreme, perhaps bordering on aggressive, and could only be justified under exceptional circumstances such as the current situation. The goal of the analysis had been to eliminate any involvement on the part of the disciples in Cleomenides’ murder, but since his scrutiny was so detailed, Pythagoras would not have missed a secret of the magnitude Daaruk was hiding.
During the meal, he had finished his analysis of Evander and Orestes, eliminating both as suspects. Moreover, Orestes had clearly stood out as the best candidate to succeed him. The future of the School could be safe in his hands.
Thinking of Evander and Orestes reminded him of a journey he had taken fifteen years earlier. He had visited the communities in Taranto and Metapontum, and planned to travel through the Daunia region afterwards. He usually arranged for some of his most outstanding disciples to accompany him on those journeys so they could gain political experience, indispensable in the future directors of the brotherhood. On that occasion, Evander, Orestes, and Daaruk had gone with him. The first two had been with him for ten years, and had already been masters for three or four years. Daaruk had only spent five years in the brotherhood and had achieved the level of master in an unusually short time. That had been his first trip with Pythagoras.
They had stopped for a rest at the top of a hill. Their donkeys grazed peacefully a short distance away. Pythagoras was sitting on a rock, and the three disciples had gathered in front of him. Congregated behind them, as usual, were dozens of men and women from the surrounding areas.
“Master,” said a man sitting at the back of the group, “why do you say we shouldn’t make animal sacrifices? Will we not be displeasing the gods if we don’t?”
Pythagoras answered with his strong, clear voice.
“Men and animals share the same soul. We are all part of the one divine current of life that permeates the universe. Whenever possible, we should try not to kill animals, whether for sacrifice or food. The gods,” he said, smiling, “are honored with a heartfelt sacrifice, even if the ceremony is done with grains of wheat, aromatic herbs, or representations of animals made of paste.”
Daaruk looked at Pythagoras, unblinking, eagerly absorbing every word. Evander and Orestes had attended many similar talks, but they w
ere new to Daaruk. Besides, when he had achieved the level of master, he had begun to receive instruction in some of the deeper aspects of the doctrine, and the more knowledge he acquired, the more he felt he needed.
“Can I not feed my children meat?” a woman asked, worried.
“You not only can, you must,” replied Pythagoras, with a reassuring smile. “The restriction on meat-eating mustn’t affect your children’s growth. Wisdom is usually found somewhere between the two extremes, at the point where a benefit can be obtained without causing harm.”
Daaruk nodded to himself. The master insisted on not killing animals gratuitously, but he wasn’t completely opposed to using them as nourishment. Certainly, at the highest levels of the School meat was hardly ever consumed, but that was largely due to the fact that it stimulated the baser instincts and clouded awareness. A vegetarian diet served to elevate the spirit and aided clearer, more precise thinking.
Pythagoras continued talking to the people who had gathered. He told them that through their immortal souls they could communicate with animals just as they did with people. Then he raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes. The congregation watched him, awed as much by the energy he radiated as by his words. They didn’t understand everything he said, but they felt that, just as the clouds part to reveal the heavens, those great truths pierced the darkness of their confused spirits. After a while, they saw that the master had started to whistle a melody, still looking skyward, as if he were imitating the lowest notes of a wind instrument. Everyone felt comforted.
Suddenly, someone screamed. A shadow was falling rapidly over Pythagoras. The master stretched out one arm and all those present gasped in astonishment. An enormous eagle landed on Pythagoras’ forearm. Its claws with their curved, sharp talons closed round his skin using only enough pressure for the bird to stay upright. The master whispered softly, stroking the eagle’s neck. The bird lowered its head, enjoying the caress. A minute later, as people held their breath, the eagle brushed its beak against Pythagoras’ shoulder and took flight with a powerful flap of its wings.
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 16