Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015)

by Marcos Chicot

  She shook her head, overwhelmed. The surprises the night had offered were even more frightening when she considered the vast material resources available to the Sybarite.

  Glaucus could be the most powerful enemy we’ve ever had.

  They continued walking on the thick fabric that lined the streets in the aristocratic district. Since it was night, they hadn’t been able to ride to Glaucus’ palace. Akenon looked at Ariadne out of the corner of his eye. The silence surrounding them made the one that had descended between them more noticeable. Ariadne was absent and seemed sad. Akenon felt his heart contract. He wanted to hug her, but it was obvious she preferred to keep her distance.

  “Ariadne.” He lowered his voice so the soldiers wouldn’t hear. “I’m truly sorry about this afternoon. I have no right to make decisions on your behalf. Besides, I’d probably be dead now if you hadn’t come. I have to thank you for that.”

  Ariadne nodded without looking at him.

  “As for us…” continued Akenon, “do you want to talk about that?”

  Ariadne shook her head.

  “I can’t right now, Akenon.” She searched for the words to say something more, but was too confused and tired.

  “Very well,” Akenon replied, hurt. “Whenever you want to, all you have to do is say so.”

  Ariadne nodded silently. The emotional whirlwind of the past few hours had been excessive, and she still had a headache. Maybe she had made a mistake the previous night, allowing herself to be led so impetuously by her feelings. Maybe the stability and serenity bestowed by greater emotional reserve were preferable.

  Besides, I’m an expert at that.

  CHAPTER 67

  June 11th, 510 B.C.

  Cylon left his residence and walked hurriedly along the wide avenue. He had enjoyed the slave girl again that morning and it had made him late. The Council session was probably about to start.

  “Counselor Cylon, you’re a little late for such an important session at the Assembly.”

  Cylon turned to see who was addressing him. It was Kallo, the wily old merchant who had the best network of informers in Croton. What did he mean by “such an important session”? he wondered, slowing his pace so that Kallo could keep up with him.

  The merchant grated on his nerves, but was one of his best allies. In exchange for political protection and innumerable concessions, Kallo kept him informed of his enemies’ blunders. He furnished him with confidential information about the main public institutions in Croton, the security forces, and even the Pythagorean community.

  “Despite my lateness, dear Kallo, I have the good fortune to have your company.” He studied his face. Crafty Kallo seemed happy. That must mean he had procured some valuable information before anyone else.

  “You’re wondering what I’m referring to,” Kallo remarked. “Well, I have the best possible news about your nightmare of recent days.”

  Orestes! Cylon was all eyes and ears. That grand master had turned out to be a bitter surprise. He was taken aback by the skill with which Orestes had defended himself against his attacks and gained the trust of the majority of the Council. Much to his dismay, Cylon had had to admit he couldn’t defeat him on equal terms. That was why he had spent a couple of days devising other ways to get rid of him.

  “I see in your eyes, dear Cylon, that you know I’m talking about Orestes.” Kallo’s voice was smug and reflected a malicious cheer. He lived for moments like these. “You’re right, I’m going to talk to you about Orestes, and with this news I’m going to place in your hands the possibility of becoming king of the Council this very day.”

  “Speak, I beg you, Kallo.”

  “I think our friendship and mutual cooperation has yielded very satisfactory results for both of us, esteemed Cylon.” Cylon nodded, wishing the merchant would stop beating around the bush. “In honor of our alliance, and placing all my resources at your disposal, I have succeeded in finding out…” Kallo paused with a smile that was missing half its teeth.

  Say it once and for all, by Zeus!

  “…that the Pythagorean, Orestes, died last night.”

  “Yes, by Heracles, yes!” exclaimed Cylon, unable to contain himself.

  They were nearing the Council building. He looked toward it with a triumphant smile.

  “What’s more…” Kallo sought his attention again, and Cylon turned to him in surprise.

  Is there more?

  His companion continued talking. Cylon’s face revealed surprise, then incredulity and, finally, intense joy.

  The Council session began with Aristomachus reading a communiqué. From the dais, the grand master read the document without once lifting his eyes from the parchment. The effort he made to keep his voice steady and solemn was as obvious as it was futile. In the communiqué, he announced that until Pythagoras returned, he would be the new representative of the Pythagorean community. The reason for this change was Orestes’ death, of which he was informing them at the same time.

  Cylon kept his eyes closed during the reading of the communiqué, mentally planning his response, which would be devastating. He didn’t have to listen, as Kallo had summarized the contents of Aristomachus’ message which, to the rest of the councilors, came as a shocking piece of news.

  When Aristomachus finished reading and descended from the dais, Cylon stood, his face solemn. The Pythagoreans have just made a serious political blunder. He knew Aristomachus was totally incompetent as a politician, but Milo, who had also worked on the communiqué, hadn’t proved to be any more capable than Aristomachus.

  Cylon walked around the edge of the mosaic of Heracles on his way to the dais. The thousand counselors followed his steps with their eyes, not knowing what to expect. They were all wondering what he could possibly say after the latest tragedy to befall the Pythagoreans. Cylon suppressed a smile. In a few minutes, all the compassion now floating in the atmosphere would vanish. He’d open the eyes of those blind men, mercilessly unmasking the dark secrets of the accursed sect and the lies they had just flung in the faces of the city governors.

  He climbed the stairs and stood in silence at the top of the dais, slowly casting his gaze over the various factions of counselors. He possessed the remarkable ability to sense the emotional mood of each group and to control it and turn it in his favor. Especially when he was putting forward serious arguments, as he was now. The Pythagoreans, as he had known would happen, had just lied to the Council. They had said Orestes was murdered and there was no trace of the murderer, as in the previous deaths. Cylon knew they themselves had killed him, beating him cruelly and holding his head underwater in a tank until he stopped kicking.

  The Council is going to see clearly what kind of monsters it’s protecting.

  He nodded pensively, with a severe expression. Everyone was waiting, intrigued by his taking the dais, trying to guess what he would say. Cylon arranged his features so they would express the emotions he wanted his public to feel. He knew that audiences are skeptical of words, but tend to adopt the mood transmitted by facial expressions, tone of voice, and gestures. He continued to gaze at them, stoking the anger within himself, genuine indignation at the Pythagoreans’ despicable act. It was important that he be brimming with emotion before speaking, and when he tried he could manufacture it as expertly as the best actors in the theater.

  I’m angry, he told himself heatedly. Truly furious because the Pythagoreans have lied to the Council. All the counselors noticed he was fuming with irritation.

  Neither was Cylon going to forget that the Pythagoreans had killed Orestes after accusations of betrayal. He had already alerted them to the fact that Orestes was a thief deep down, a delinquent who had spent time in jail in his youth. Now his own men had killed him for being a traitor. That lowered Orestes as much as it did his killers. He closed his eyes, shaking his head vehemently. Pythagoras and Milo, his son-in-law and commander of the army, had sealed a pact before the entire Council guaranteeing the safety of the community, and promising to in
vestigate the murders. Now there was another murder, committed by the Pythagoreans themselves, and right under the very noses of Milo’s men! It was unacceptable, but the worst of it was that Milo himself had worked on the odious communiqué. He was as responsible for the death as he was for the lie.

  The Council could see Cylon was furious. So much so, he had to take several breaths to calm himself before starting his response. Finally, he managed to wipe from his face the righteous indignation overwhelming him. Now he displayed enormous sorrow, and sufficient determination to shoulder the task of putting an end to an unacceptable situation. He raised his hands and face skyward, his eyes closed, and everyone knew by the silent movement of his lips that he was piously praying to the gods.

  When he had finished, he stretched out his arms to them, his equals, looking from one side to the other, calling for the support and solidarity his words required.

  From their faces, he could tell he had managed to connect.

  He filled his lungs and roared in stentorian tones.

  “Councilors of Croton!”

  CHAPTER 68

  June 17th, 510 B.C.

  Ariadne and Akenon’s retinue skirted the city of Croton and made its way toward the community. There was still an hour left before sundown, but the sky was so cloudy it seemed like night. A cool, humid wind was blowing, scattering tiny drops of rain. Everyone was anxious to dismount and enjoy a bowl of hot soup.

  The soldiers and servants brightened when they caught sight of the community portico, where people were starting to gather to welcome them back. In contrast, Akenon and Ariadne were still as absorbed in their own thoughts as they had been for the past week, since visiting Glaucus.

  I thought I’d be happy to come back to the community, thought Ariadne. She had been trying for several days to overcome the sense of sadness that enveloped her like a cold wet blanket. She knew it was partially due to having brought up memories of the hours she had spent at the hands of her kidnappers. It was as if Akenon had given her the strength and support she needed to deal with the memories, and then suddenly she had had to face them alone. Her lack of experience with men had led her to make the mistake of coming out from behind the shell that had protected her for so many years. She had opened herself up to Akenon, holding nothing back, and it had become painfully obvious she wasn’t ready for that. The wisest thing was to put her shell back on and keep it securely in place. She needed to keep Akenon at a distance, while at the same time forcing herself to minimize the pain of missing him.

  Astride his large horse, Akenon discreetly observed Ariadne. The young woman’s skin glowed with moisture. She was only six feet from him, and at the same time completely out of his reach. They had spoken little, but enough for her to make it clear there could be nothing between them. Akenon sighed, missing the happiness of the outbound journey to Sybaris and the fiery passion he had discovered in Ariadne, but more than that, the pleasant friendship of the previous weeks. Are we going to lose that too?

  The gloomy atmosphere was in sharp contrast to the first few days of their trip, but it was a natural result of their disappointing six-day investigation in Sybaris. As for Glaucus, the visit to persuade him to withdraw the prize had been a failure, as well as dangerous. After that visit, he hadn’t replied to their messages requesting his help in finding clues to the whereabouts of the hooded man. Nor had anything useful been obtained from the endless questioning they had done everywhere in Sybaris. The main suspect in the murders of Cleomenides and Daaruk, as well as Atma, seemed to have vanished into thin air.

  They reached the portico and dismounted. Absorbed in his thoughts, Akenon at first didn’t register the strange silence of the welcoming committee.

  Suddenly, he noticed no one was talking, and everyone was avoiding his eyes.

  What the devil is going on?

  He looked for Milo, feeling a growing unease. When he saw him, the commander of the army lowered his head. Akenon’s chest felt hollow. He rushed to the enormous Crotonian and gripped his shoulders.

  “What happened, Milo? Talk to me!”

  CHAPTER 69

  June 17th, 510 B.C.

  Pythagoras was seated on a stool, his back against the wall, enjoying the coolness of his room. He was in a country house belonging to Mandrolytus, an aristocrat from Neapolis and a longtime supporter. They had been staying at his house since their arrival in the city. The aristocrat had been confident a Pythagorean community would be established in Neapolis. However, after just two days, Pythagoras had realized the city wasn’t ready. Mandrolytus’ disappointment was echoed by Evander’s, who already saw himself as leader of a new community.

  But this has been very positive for him, thought Pythagoras. He was satisfied with Evander’s development. In preparing to guide a community on his own, the youngest of his grand masters had taken a great leap forward in his ability to control his impetuous spirit. It might not be now, but in a few short years the influx of Roman Pythagoreanism would lead to the founding of a community in Neapolis. The city would become the strategic heart of the Croton-Rome axis.

  Rome, Rome, Rome.

  Pythagoras no longer had any doubt. In the years to come, the community would expand and gain strength hand in hand with Rome. The city of the Romans would be a powerful focal point of Pythagoreanism at the center of the Italian peninsula. From there, they’d extend their political influence and connect with the territories already under their control in the colonies of Magna Graecia. Pythagoreanism would be the scientific and moral doctrine guiding an area as vast as a small empire.

  Rome was experiencing radical political changes that were breathing new life into it. After two and a half centuries of monarchy, the last of the Etruscan Kings, Lucius Tarquinius the Proud, had been overthrown. Protracted social tensions had erupted when his son, Sextus Tarquinius, had raped Lucretia, the wife of one of the king’s nephews. Lucretia committed suicide after the rape and another nephew of the king’s, Lucius Junius Brutus, had headed a revolt, which had recently ended with the proclamation of the Republic.

  Grand master Hippocreon had a distant relative who was Lucius Junius Brutus’ sister-in-law. Through her, Brutus himself had requested a meeting with Pythagoras to ask his advice on what the first steps of the Republic should be. The Pythagorean aura of justice and cohesion had reached Rome. Brutus wanted to incorporate those principles into his new form of government.

  You’ll have my full support, Lucius Junius Brutus.

  Working on that project filled Pythagoras with satisfaction. His lifelong dream was rapidly taking shape. His ideas were beginning to cross borders and gain currency among peoples who were different from the Greeks.

  He half-closed his eyes, going over the strategy he would put into action.

  After a while, he got up from the stool and went to the window. A hundred yards away he saw Hippocreon, sitting in the shade of an almond tree. The Pythagorean project in Rome would require the wary master to devote more time to politics. Pythagoras needed him there as his right-hand man, as he himself was thinking of moving to Rome, at least for a time. He had spent months thinking about it, and they had to take advantage of this optimal opportunity while the new leaders of Rome were open to their ideas.

  In Croton, Orestes can be the leader, and he’ll no doubt do a superb job.

  The curtain covering the doorway to his room was pulled back, and one of the servants entered. Pythagoras moved away from the window. He was waiting for a reply from Brutus with details about their meeting.

  “Master, a messenger has just arrived.” The servant paused before continuing. “He’s come from the community in Croton.”

  From Croton!

  Pythagoras’ heart turned over.

  It could be anything, he told himself, though he wasn’t convinced. It was odd to receive a message from Croton so soon, but that didn’t necessarily imply it would be bad news.

  “Send him in. And tell Evander and Hippocreon to come here.”

  After
a few seconds, the messenger appeared. His breathing was agitated, his clothes and hair dusty from the road.

  “Greetings, master Pythagoras, I’ve been sent by General Milo.”

  Pythagoras quickly realized the herald was a member of the Crotonian army. From his greeting, he could also tell he was a Pythagorean initiate.

  “Greetings, brother. What news have you brought me?”

  The messenger took out a small parchment, wax-sealed with the pentacle symbol. Pythagoras took it and gestured to the soldier that he wanted to read it alone. As soon as the man left, he broke the seal, trying to steady himself.

  The brief message filled him with horror from the first line.

  Orestes has died…at the hands of other disciples who accused him of being a traitor.

  Pythagoras squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a tear roll down his cheek. He tried to regain his composure, but his grief kept growing.

  Another disciple, another friend, dead.

  His back to the door, he let himself fall onto the stool and wiped his face with his hand. He didn’t believe for one moment that Orestes was a traitor. The deep analysis he had performed on him eliminated any doubt. It had also revealed to him that his disciple needed only a small push to overcome his fear of politics and become a public figure at a level close to his own. He had appointed Orestes to represent him during this journey, taking for granted he would become a solid leader, which in turn would allow him to move to Rome for a while.

  He sat up straight and made an enormous effort to compose himself. Evander and Hippocreon must be about to arrive. He touched his beard to make sure there were no tears on it. This was not the time to grieve. Decisions needed to be made. He couldn’t get back in time for Orestes’ burial, but he had to return to control the political situation. The moment I finish my first meetings with Lucius Junius Brutus I’ll leave for Croton. He would try not to delay more than a week in Rome, hoping that by then he would have had time to plant a seed in Brutus’ soul. A month later he would try to return to Rome to water that seed and make sure it took root.