Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015)

by Marcos Chicot

  Everything happened in an instant.

  A sharp clash of metal was heard, and Glaucus’ sword flew from his hands. He held his wrist and grimaced in pain. His soldiers rapidly unsheathed their swords and placed themselves in front of the muscular Egyptian who had disarmed their master.

  Glaucus turned to Akenon. His first instinct was to order him killed, but the Egyptian’s cold, determined look made him think twice. He seemed very confident about taking on his guards.

  Damned Akenon, you wouldn’t be so sure of yourself if I had Boreas with me.

  Glaucus clenched his teeth in fury and stared slowly around at the onlookers. Ariadne shivered when those eyes, filled with hatred and contempt, fell on her. Glaucus’ expression gradually metamorphosed into a malevolent sneer and he suddenly let out a loud, unpleasant laugh.

  A shiver ran down Ariadne’s spine when she remembered Glaucus’ laugh.

  I hope I never see him again.

  She walked a few yards from the central path and sat down on the ground, becoming yet another expectant shadow. In the hours to come, thousands of people would die. Whether they would be among them or not was in the hands of destiny.

  They might also make slaves of us. Ariadne clenched her jaw and crossed her arms protectively over her abdomen.

  The dawn air was cool and before long she had gooseflesh. She rubbed her arms to keep warm and hugged her legs. The nausea had passed. She wished the sun would rise and begin to warm the air, but there was still half an hour left before dawn.

  With the light growing along the horizon she began to be able to make out her surroundings. Resting her head on her knees, Ariadne surveyed the people around her. Suddenly she realized that ten steps across from her was Akenon. Tension was engraved on his face and he was frowning.

  What’s he thinking about? Ariadne wondered.

  She could also see he was carrying his sword. He was the only armed man in the community, now that the hoplites assigned to security had rejoined the army to fight the insurgents.

  She observed him without moving, and Akenon didn’t notice her sitting there. She looked at the northern road. As the sky continued to brighten, she thought of Glaucus’ expression when he had laughed at them.

  He seemed sure that everyone left in Croton was going to die.

  Boreas was on a hilltop, watching the final preparations for battle with interest. At his feet lay the plain where the combat would take place. The murmur of tense voices reached him along with the smell of wood smoke. The hill he stood on was part of a long stretch of high ground that demarcated one side of the plain. To the other side, half a mile from where he stood, was the sea.

  He had arrived with his master more than an hour ago in the dead of night. At that time, they had been able to make out only a few fires dotted around the Crotonian camp in front of them, and the more distant fires of the Sybarite camp. Little by little, the dawn light had revealed more details. Up to half an hour earlier, the Crotonians had looked as if they were sleeping peacefully, whereas the Sybarite camp was a hive of activity. The Crotonian soldiers had gotten quickly to their feet, obeying the orders shouted by their officers. The troops had eaten breakfast in a few minutes and then formed disciplined lines, preparing for the imminent battle.

  A well-trained army, thought Boreas sarcastically.

  One of the flanks of the Crotonian army reached the edge of his hill. Boreas could see the closest soldiers a little more than a hundred yards from him. The front line was a single row of cavalry. Directly behind was a regiment of hoplites, a third of the infantry, arranged in formation seven ranks deep. Among them, he could see several men with trumpets, double flutes, and other instruments. Boreas imagined their function was to transmit orders during the clamor of the battle. Next there was an open space ten steps wide, another third of the infantry, another open space and, finally, the remaining soldiers. This formation of the cavalry and the three infantry regiments extended from the base of the hill to the edge of the sea.

  With a front a half-mile wide, the Crotonian army looked impressive from where Boreas stood. He could also make out the Sybarite army a mile and a half to his left. They seemed less organized, but there were twice as many men. Besides, their cavalry front was several ranks deep.

  Boreas let his imagination run wild, dreaming he was in the thick of the battle. He’d give his tongue all over again if his master would allow him to fight. He would be surrounded by a mass of combatants half his weight and size who would barely reach his chest. There would be a never-ending sea of heads around him to crush. Killing gave him indescribable pleasure, but the thrill was always too ephemeral. In a battle like this one he could kill hundreds of men. He could mow them down for hours. He could…

  His mouth filled with saliva and he had to swallow. He looked at his master. The masked man had told him that if the situation were under control he’d allow Boreas to hunt down some of the Crotonians who tried to flee. That would have to suffice.

  At least I’ll make sure they die a slow death.

  The masked man was smiling under his metallic face.

  He could sense Boreas’ excitement beside him, but the giant was obedient. He wouldn’t act of his own accord as long as he was under orders, and right now the masked man’s orders were very clear: to protect him during that expedition. Being so close to the armies entailed a certain amount of risk. They might encounter a group of scouts from either side. Besides, if the battle went according to plan, he intended to join Tellus and take on a more high-profile role in their next steps against Croton. Reaching Tellus would be dangerous after the battle, with thousands of men drunk on blood and violence around them.

  Boreas will be my safe conduct.

  The Sybarites had behaved exactly as he wanted. What was unfolding was the consequence of the strings he had been pulling in Sybaris up to a week ago. After the battle the time would come to pull them again, but until then he would remain on the sidelines. As for the Crotonians, thanks to his influence over Cylon and his followers, he had succeeded in getting them to confront Sybaris.

  They’ve been really stupid. If, instead of abstaining, they had voted in favor of handing over the aristocrat refugees, they’d have kept the peace.

  A brief laugh escaped him. It was truly gratifying to be able to push so many people to suicide, from grand masters—Aristomachus had been so pathetic and predictable—to entire cities.

  But that wasn’t what was making him smile as he watched the two armies preparing for battle. What delighted him at that moment were the other strings he had pulled through Cylon. The Crotonian politician had arranged meetings for him with the corrupt hoplites in his employ, and through them he had managed to reach many more Crotonian soldiers.

  In total, one in five officers in the Crotonian army had received his gold.

  Damned Milo…

  Branco, the Spartan, was riding in semi-darkness, carrying out the final inspection of the Sybarite troops. He hadn’t slept all night because of Milo, and he was tired and bad-humored. Much as he disliked admitting it, the Crotonian general had shown notable military ingenuity. Using just a few men, he had managed to make the Sybarite camp get out of bed six or seven times throughout the night. At times it had seemed they were being attacked from one side, when suddenly they would detect hundreds of hoplites silently advancing toward the other end of their camp. They would think that was the real attack, and run chaotically to and fro, thinking they had been the victims of a diversionary maneuver, only to realize it was a new ruse.

  Thanks to Ares, they weren’t real attacks, because the camp was pandemonium the whole night long.

  Branco had been pacing the open corridor between the cavalry and the infantry for two minutes. He narrowed his eyes and momentarily imagined his name on everyone’s lips in Sparta, all over the Greek world, as the man who had defeated the legendary Milo of Croton and his powerful army. He half smiled and focused on the infantry positioned to his right. The men had dark circles under
their eyes, but they were also afraid, and that kept them on their toes.

  They’ll last a few hours yet before their lack of sleep catches up to them.

  In any case, he was certain the best thing was to launch the battle as soon as possible.

  Branco also recognized with grudging admiration General Milo’s ability to deploy his entire army at lightning speed. The previous day, they had appeared at the far end of the plain quite a while before he expected to see them. Nevertheless, he would never have planned the battle as Milo was doing. What he would have done was station his troops along the narrow pass that lay a few miles further south. With a smaller but more disciplined army the best thing was to avoid direct confrontation.

  Maybe he’s banking on the advantage of better discipline. He shook his head. It won’t be any use to them today.

  That battle was going to be different from any Branco had ever heard of. Cavalry had never been used as a fighting front, only to flank and harass. In spite of that, it was logical to attack with the cavalry in the current situation, given its unrivalled strength and his infantry’s dangerous lack of experience. On the other hand, in Milo’s case the reasonable thing to do would have been to avoid Branco’s attack and use his disciplined forces to launch sudden advances and retreats, which might have routed the Sybarite troops in the end.

  You may have won many wrestling championships, Milo, but you’re going to lose this battle.

  When Branco reached the end of the troops he found Tellus. The Sybarite leader was watching his men’s final moves from a slightly elevated position, twenty yards away from the troops. He rode a magnificent horse, wore full armor, and had a good sword. In spite of all that, Branco noticed his reticent expression, the same one he had seen on many men before their first battle.

  Chasing after a few fat rich men isn’t the same as facing an army, he thought with a twinge of contempt. Nonetheless, he tried to encourage him.

  “Everything is ready, Tellus. It’ll be a quick and easy victory.”

  He positioned his mount beside the Sybarite’s. They both faced the troops. At the front was the powerful cavalry. Four ranks deep, their best men were mounted on two thousand horses, fed and trained with loving care in the stables of the Sybarite aristocrats. The plain was a mile wide where they stood, but narrowed as it continued toward the south, where the hills crowded closer to the sea. This gave the plain a funnel shape that tapered as it approached the Crotonian position. For this reason, Branco had made the Sybarite front just over half a mile wide, the same as the Crotonian one. Otherwise, the troops would have had to squeeze together as they advanced, completely breaking their formation.

  “Are you sure they won’t attack?” Tellus asked, his voice less firm than he would have liked.

  “They won’t do it. They’ll be looking to fight in the narrow stretch to try and compensate for their smaller numbers.”

  “In that case, why don’t they retreat further?”

  “I suspect Milo considers that to be the ideal width for the number of troops he has. With less space he wouldn’t be able to make good use of his disciplined troops’ agility.”

  Reference to the Crotonian army’s points of superiority made Tellus uneasy, so Branco was quick to remind him of the tactics they had decided on.

  “In any case, we won’t give them time to deploy any strategy. We’ll advance in a block toward them, with the cavalry up front and infantry just behind, and when we’re a hundred yards away, all the troops will charge at once.” He winked at Tellus. “And then we’ll surprise them by showing that we can maneuver in battle too.”

  Branco was referring to the encirclement tactic with which they hoped to surprise the Crotonians. Their scouts had reconnoitered the area and concluded it wasn’t possible to surround the headland on one side, so they had come up with something different. They would wait for the first rank of cavalry to clash with the enemy. At that point, a hundred horses from each end of the third and fourth ranks would move laterally to overpower the Crotonian flanks. These troops would be busy defending themselves against the cavalry charge, and wouldn’t have time to react. Both on the hillside and on the beach, they would be overtaken by a flood of horses that would surround them and attack from behind. Their lines would be thrown into disarray and, even better, they wouldn’t be able to retreat.

  More than a victory, it would be an extermination.

  “Very well, then, by Zeus, let’s get going,” exclaimed Tellus suddenly.

  Branco let Tellus ride ahead. The Sybarite would position himself in the middle of the fourth rank of cavalry, the safest place in the whole formation. Besides, the Spartan mercenary and several of his men would protect him.

  A grateful man is always more generous, Branco reflected.

  As he took his place among the troops, the Spartan looked behind him. The thirty thousand Sybarites who made up the infantry occupied a strip of land fifty yards wide. They weren’t in strict formation like a professional army, but they were as alert and silent. Branco peered over his horse, trying to make out some of the men in the last row. He gestured firmly to them. The previous day he had spread the word, explaining clearly the role of that last row of infantry: they were to execute everyone who tried to retreat.

  He looked forward. Tellus was watching him, as if he were the leader of those men.

  Right now, I am, Branco thought, enjoying the intoxicating feeling of power.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the sun was about to rise. He raised his right hand and held it high. They didn’t have instruments to broadcast orders, nor troops capable of following them during battle. For that reason, he would give just two instructions. The first would be to begin the advance. The second, when they were within a hundred yards, would be to launch the attack.

  He lowered his arm.

  The plain began to vibrate.

  Seated on his horse, Milo frowned when he saw the Sybarite tide start to move. A moment later, the sound of their advance reached him.

  He was at the center of the front line of his army, among the cavalry, three of his generals on each side. Behind them, the infantry was so silent it might not have been there at all. No one in the cavalry spoke either. Viewing the enemy, Milo had the disquieting sensation of being alone in the middle of the plain.

  Five minutes earlier, he had received the latest report. The scout was barely twenty years old and clearly nervous.

  “They’re ready to advance, sir. They’ve arranged themselves into four rows of cavalry. Right behind them is their infantry in phalanx formation.”

  Milo nodded thoughtfully and then gestured to the soldier to take his position. The Sybarites were doing what he would do in their situation. They had a tremendous advantage thanks to their cavalry, but no military training. The best thing was to launch a devastating attack as soon as possible, using no strategy, just brute force.

  But even organizing that isn’t easy, and less so with civilians. He moved his head uneasily from one side to the other. That was another sign the Sybarites were getting military advice.

  He craned his neck on his horse to get a look at the farthest sections of his army. To his left, in tight formation, his troops covered the first few yards of the hillside. To his right there was a beach thirty yards wide. His troops had spread out on the pale sand until the last men were standing in the sea, up to their knees in water.

  It would be disastrous if they overpowered the flanks.

  He looked ahead of him again. The imposing Sybarite horses were half a mile away. They approached slowly, as if out for a stroll. There was no battle flag in sight, nor any visible leader. Milo, on the other hand, was unmistakable among his men. Not just because of his eye-catching brawn, but because of the two crowns he wore on his head. The laurel wreath represented his seven victories in the Pythian Games, and the olive wreath his six wins at the Olympic Games. He was proud to wear them, but they also served to increase discipline and morale among the troops. It reminded them that th
eir commander-in-chief was the greatest hero in the history of Croton, covered in glory like no other man.

  Despite Milo’s pride and prestige, at that moment most of his soldiers and officers feared he was leading them to their deaths. The enemy was less than half a mile away, and it was obvious the Sybarites planned to simply crush them with their numbers. They had all had nightmares about the two thousand Sybarite horses that grew larger with every conversation whispered around a campfire. The Crotonians looked at their own cavalry and regretted having just one row compared to the enemy army’s four. They saw the gaps between their horses and imagined the Sybarite beasts breaking through those spaces. Besides, why had Milo positioned so many men with trumpets and flutes instead of swords? Did he think issuing orders would lead to anything while the enemy rolled over them like a giant wave?

  The Sybarite army advanced inexorably as they watched in desperation. They couldn’t understand why their general had spread them out so much. Neither did they think a frontal assault made sense. If they had known Milo was going to plan the battle this way they would have mutinied.

  Their only option now was to try and survive.

  When the Sybarites were three hundred yards away, the sun’s first rays fell on them. Their front line came into sharper focus, like a vague fear that suddenly takes form. The Crotonians shuddered, fearing it was a sign that the gods were backing their enemies.

  They’re afraid, thought Milo, watching his generals from the corner of his eye. He returned his attention to the Sybarite army. Two hundred yards separated them, and now it was plain their horses were unusually large. They advanced slowly, to maintain formation and conserve the strength of their infantry.

  The image of master Pythagoras came to Milo’s mind, calming him. We’re doing the right thing. That was what mattered most, even though thousands of men would die that morning. Perhaps he would be among them.