Akenon cursed himself for not having detained and questioned him when he had the chance, though he knew deep down there was no point in reproaching himself. Atma had been in Croton at the time of Daaruk’s murder and during the hours before it. It would have been impossible for him to poison the cake. There had been no reason to suspect him…until he’d disappeared.
He didn’t enjoy being alone out in the open, searching for a potential murderer who might even have accomplices, but he had no other option. There was still no sign of the hoplites, the heavy infantry soldiers Milo was going to supply him with. He couldn’t afford to give Atma further advantage by waiting in the community for the soldiers to arrive, not after the head start he had already given him by not going after him the night before, the minute he learned he hadn’t returned to the community. But Akenon had been so tired he wouldn’t have been able to stay alert. It would have been suicidal to go out alone in the middle of the night under those conditions, or with the help of harmless Pythagoreans, to pursue a man suspected of several murders.
I hope that delaying the search a few hours won’t have negative consequences.
He spent a few minutes inspecting the damp, sandy ground in the area. There was no clear trail he could follow. Probably Atma had kept his feet in the water as he ran away, in which case there would be no trace of him until the spot at which he’d left the river. And if he had chosen to wade out of the river in a rocky area, there would be no footprints. Akenon looked up and down the river, and began to walk along the bank toward the sea. If Atma had gone inland it would be almost impossible to find him. The best choice was to scour the ground where it would be easiest to spot his trail.
And in the process, I might find the remains of the funeral pyre.
In one hand he held the reins of the only horse in the community. It was a chalky-white mare, with a grey mane and tail, older, but still strong. Akenon had chosen it instead of a donkey so he could go after Atma as quickly as possible in case he found any clues.
In a number of places, the river bent sharply. Each time, he hoped the boat might have gotten stuck there, but no luck. There was no trace of it. He kept riding, thinking of the candidates to the succession.
The four that remain of the original six, he reminded himself bitterly. Pythagoras had only to finish Hippocreon’s analysis and then analyze Aristomachus to be able to eliminate them as suspects as well.
Suddenly he saw it.
The boat had drifted out of the central current when it hit against some rocks, and had run aground on roots very close to the riverbank. Akenon hastened his pace. What he saw was no longer the structure of the night before, which had risen six feet above water level. The part of the raft closest to the water hadn’t burned, but its edges had disappeared. Inside, from what Akenon could see, there was only a small pile of smoking ash.
Could the body have fallen into the water?
With growing unease, he quickly neared the boat, still watching the ground for signs that Atma had passed by there.
Maybe he came this way before me and took away Daaruk’s remains.
He released the mare’s reins and craned his neck the last few yards, trying to discern the contents of the raft.
Ariadne was worried as she approached a group of men coming out of the community gardens.
“Evander, have you seen Akenon?”
The muscular master stopped, wiping perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. Every morning he led a group of disciples in exercise routines. They did Doric dances, which to them were sacred.
“No, I haven’t.” Evander scanned the grounds, looking for Akenon, and suddenly remembered something. “He must be retrieving Daaruk’s ashes. Your father asked him to do that yesterday.”
Ariadne forced a smile.
“Thank you, Evander.”
She continued toward the entrance to the community. Three men were patrolling outside the portico. Ariadne’s overriding thought was that an armed murderer would certainly not regard them as any type of obstacle.
“Greetings, brothers.”
“Greetings, Ariadne.”
“Have you seen Akenon?”
“He left on the mare, headed north, half an hour before dawn.”
Ariadne puzzled over this for a moment, then suddenly understood what had happened. She began to get angry.
“Do you know if Atma came back last night?”
“We’ve been patrolling since two hours before sunrise, and he hasn’t come through here on our watch.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
Ariadne turned around and rushed to Atma’s room. She was almost certain she’d discover he hadn’t spent the night in the community. Akenon must have found out before her. That’s why he left without telling me.
She could understand Akenon wanting to go alone, but that didn’t stop her being furious with him.
The roots on which the boat had run aground were a couple of yards from the bank. As soon as he put his feet in the water, Akenon realized it was considerably deeper than he had anticipated. He stopped and looked for a way to get closer. In the end, he had to circle around the raft, avoiding the roots.
With the water at his waist, he put a hand on the burnt edge and leaned forward to look inside. Suddenly, he was overcome with intense nausea and had to plant his legs firmly in the riverbed so as not to fall. He held on to the edge of the boat with both hands and rested his forehead on one arm. By Osiris, what’s wrong with me? He shut his eyes tightly. His breathing came faster and his head filled with images in quick succession.
All he could do was watch them.
They were from his past, fourteen or fifteen years ago. Carthage was going through a long drought that was starting to wreak havoc among the people. In the past year and a half the population had been decimated, and almost half the domestic animals had died. As an extreme measure to end the drought, it was decided that the molk ritual should be performed: immolation in honor of the god Moloch.
Fifty babies under six months old would be sacrificed.
In order not to offend the god with an unjust act, or incite rebellion in some sectors of society, the infants were to be chosen at random from among the entire population. At once, the buying and selling of babies began. Wealthy families who had been selected to give up their offspring bought babies from the poor, and gave them to the priests instead of their own children. Even though it was illegal and sacrilegious, the necessary bribes were paid to make sure the operation would be successful. The first babies were exchanged for small fortunes, but word spread quickly, and some families who were dying of hunger sold their children for only a few coins.
Although the supply exceeded the demand for babies, there were several kidnappings. Some children were wrenched from their mother’s arms in broad daylight. Akenon was hired to find the only son of a small merchant family. Their son had been born four months earlier, after fourteen years of marriage, when the parents had given up hope of ever having children. They tried to protect the infant, keeping him inside the house at all times, but he was eventually kidnapped with the help of the cook, as Akenon discovered after questioning all the servants. Following that lead, he found the aristocratic family that had bought the child. He tried to talk to them, but they refused to receive him. He gathered more evidence and went to one of the magistrates who supervised the selection and transport of the babies. Only a few hours were left before the immolation. The magistrate listened to Akenon with interest and told him to be present that evening at the location where the great sacrifice was to take place.
At dusk, Akenon left the city and walked with hundreds of Carthaginians to a mammoth construction. It was rectangular, with high stone walls and no roof. Akenon had never been there. He went through one of its doors and saw, with horror, the inside of the enclosure consecrated to Moloch.
On a marble platform rose a bronze statue of the god. The fearsome Moloch was seated cross-legged on the platform. Even seated, he was five t
imes taller than a man. Up to the neck, his body was human, but he had a ram’s head. Between his curved horns a gold crown glinted. His arms were pressed to his sides, with forearms extended and palms up. Moloch’s lower abdomen was open, like the hearth of an enormous fireplace. He had been fed for hours already, and there was a layer of glowing embers inside him more than three feet deep. Akenon saw two priests get as close to the statue as the infernal heat allowed. They threw a couple of baskets of aromatic herbs into the fire. Instantly, they caught fire, generating a thick smoke that rose up through the hollow body, escaping through the eyes and open jaws of the ram god.
Moloch was hungry.
In front of the god was the main altar, covered in pristine linen. Soon it would be stained with the blood of fifty infants. After slitting their throats, the priests would place the infants in Moloch’s eager hands. From the god’s back hung two thick chains that passed through the articulated elbows to the hands. When a baby was placed in them, several priests would pull the chains, making the god’s hands move to his open mouth.
The infants would fall into the blazing entrails of Moloch.
I hope I can leave before the immolation begins, thought Akenon, averting his eyes.
He began pushing his way through the crowd. Hundreds of drums and trumpets produced a continuous din with the aim of drowning out the babies’ shrill cries. Most people appeared to be bewitched. Their eyes were glued to Moloch as they swayed to the rhythm of the drums.
The sweet smell of incense reached Akenon and he wrinkled his nose. Soon a very different smell would pervade the air.
In the front rows of the audience sat the parents who had donated their children for the good of Carthage. Some seemed calm while others did their best to hold back tears. Any sign of grief when giving a child to Moloch was considered an affront to the god. It was forbidden and the offender was subject to severe punishment.
Many Carthaginians looked hopeful. They prayed fervently, hands clasped and heads bowed, or stretched their arms toward the god and acclaimed him at the top of their lungs. The city had suffered greatly, and maybe Moloch would take pity on them in view of the devotion and sacrifice of his servants.
The magistrates were busy giving instructions. The babies began to pass from the hands of the public custodians to those of the priests, their small bodies writhing as if they knew what was about to befall them.
The ceremonial knife shone on the high altar.
Twenty yards away, barely visible amid the shadows of the western wall, Akenon caught sight of the magistrate who had heard his case. He was looking at him and signaled to him the moment they made eye contact, then disappeared behind some small wooden bleachers. Akenon followed. The moment he entered the shadows, he felt a strong blow to the back of his head, and collapsed. A second assailant crouched over his body and stabbed him in the back at the level of his heart.
That he was wearing a thick leather jacket, and the murderer wasn’t a professional were the two factors that saved his life. The leather counteracted some of the impact of the blow and the knife slipped down his ribs, managing only to slash the flesh on his back.
When he regained consciousness, he was drenched in sticky blood and was having trouble breathing. After several agonizing attempts, he managed to stand up and get out from under the bleachers. It was late, the sacrifice was over and there was no one left in the enclosure. The voracious god Moloch was digesting the fifty babies in solitude. One by one, their throats had been slit and their bodies flung into the red-hot abdomen, where their charred remains now smoldered.
Akenon moved forward in the darkness, dragging his feet. He climbed atop the platform, leaving a trail of blood. The smell made him retch. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to go closer, remembering that his clients were at home, eagerly waiting for him to appear with their son.
Up close, Moloch was colossal. He was still giving off a huge amount of heat. Akenon peered at the contents of the enormous bronze belly, but he was dazed and couldn’t focus properly. All he could make out was a hazy outline bathed in ghostly reddish waves. Gradually, his vision cleared and the indistinct lumps became little hands, legs, heads…
Akenon swayed on his feet, feeling he would go mad. A little face was turned toward him as if pleading for help.
Could that be my clients’ baby? he wondered, falling to his knees. Two streams of tears ran down his horrified face.
A minute later, weak from loss of blood, he fainted at Moloch’s feet.
The day after the sacrifice, Akenon woke up in his clients’ house. They had sent two servants to the enclosure, and when they found him unconscious, they had brought him to their house to care for him. He told them he had been unable to save their son. Although they had already imagined the outcome, they collapsed with heart-rending cries at Akenon’s confirmation.
Akenon left the house as soon as he could stand up, and sought out Eshdek, the most powerful Phoenician he knew, and for whom he had worked on a couple of cases. He wanted revenge. Eshdek tried hard to convince him to forget his grievance. The child was already dead. The only thing he could do for Akenon was place him under his protection to prevent the corrupt magistrate from finishing the job.
A few weeks later, that magistrate died of natural causes. Akenon was able to put behind him his repeated thoughts of revenge, but he would never forget the half-charred bodies of those babies.
The image faded, and he found himself again up to his waist in water, bent over, his head leaning on the edge of the boat. He blinked several times, dazed, then took a deep breath in an attempt to dispel the bitter flavor of his memories.
When he finally peered inside the boat, everything was black: ashes, the odd tip of a half-burnt branch…and the unmistakable remains of a human being. He looked at them for a while without touching them, and suddenly noticed something of a different color.
What’s this? he wondered, reaching out.
He brushed it lightly, apprehensively, and the glitter of gold appeared. It was Daaruk’s ring, still fitted to a finger that had lost most of its flesh. His eyes moved up the finger and he saw that the charred bones of Daaruk’s hand disappeared at the wrist under the debris of a few branches. Carefully, he removed the branches and could make out the rest of the arm, unconnected to the shoulder socket. It appeared that at some point during the night, the weight of the corpse had caused the middle section of the wooden frame to fall in as it burned. Presumably a few branches had then fallen on the corpse, which was already quite burnt, making it harder now to distinguish the wooden debris from the human remains.
He waded out of the river and took a blanket he had packed in his saddlebag. Before returning to the boat he examined the ground again.
Atma hasn’t been here.
He went back into the water, spread the blanket on the stern of the boat, and began placing the human remains on it. As he lifted a femur, he saw some shreds of burnt flesh hanging off the bone.
I’m sure I don’t have to be too meticulous about it, he thought, sickened.
He had started with the lower part of the body. When he reached the hands, he reflected a moment, then carefully pulled off the gold ring and turned it in his fingers. The heat had deformed it slightly, but the pentacle symbol was intact. He tested its weight for a moment in his palm, looking at Daaruk’s remains on the blanket.
Finally, he put the ring away inside his tunic.
When he got back to the community, Akenon dismounted, distractedly greeting the team that patrolled the entrance. He crossed the portico, leading the mare by the reins. In the distance, he saw Ariadne walking toward him, fury written all over her face.
Well, well, it looks like I’m due for a reprimand.
When she was a few steps away, Akenon stopped and was about to raise his hand in a conciliatory gesture. When he moved it, inside his tunic, he realized he was still holding Daaruk’s gold ring.
Gold, the most common motive for committing a crime, he suddenly thought
.
Immediately, ideas associated themselves in his brain. He could almost hear the click as the pieces fell into place.
Ariadne reached him.
“Just what…”
Akenon cut her off with a peremptory gesture.
“Quick, come with me!” he exclaimed as he leapt onto the mare’s back.
He held out a hand to Ariadne, who looked up at him, disconcerted.
“We must go to Croton right now,” urged Akenon. “We may be on the verge of catching Daaruk’s killer.”
Ariadne grabbed Akenon’s forearm firmly and swung herself up behind him. Akenon spurred the mare. They met Evander at the entrance. Akenon pulled up on the reins.
“Evander, give this to Pythagoras.” From his saddlebag, he drew a small bundle, carefully packaged. “They’re Daaruk’s remains.”
Evander held the bundle apprehensively. Before he could reply, Ariadne and Akenon galloped away toward Croton.
CHAPTER 39
April 24th, 510 B.C.
Atma left the imposing stone building and said goodbye to the two enormous guards who stood sentry at the entrance. They glanced at him and looked away without a word. They weren’t Pythagoreans, so to them Atma was nothing more than a slave.
I might be a slave, but I’m rich.
He suppressed a smile. He couldn’t consider himself safe until he had left the city. After that he would let his hair grow and settle down in another area. Then no one would think of him as anything other than a respectable citizen.
Although it was quite early, there was already plenty of movement in the city’s main streets as Atma walked through them. He touched his chest, missing the document he had guarded so zealously. It had just been exchanged for something better, though. He turned right and kept walking, keeping his head down. It was absurd, but it seemed to him that everyone could guess the contents of the heavy bundle he was carrying over his right shoulder.
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 18