Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015)

by Marcos Chicot

  Without stopping, Milo looked back. He was already two hundred yards ahead of the main mass of Sybarites. He noticed some of them escaping over the hills. It was impossible to control them all with the horses he had available at the moment. He signaled to the line of cavalry advancing along the seashore, and they changed direction, heading for a halfway point where they would bisect the plain.

  The two lines of cavalry met and turned to face the enemy that was still running toward them. Many who were closer to the hills changed direction to join those fleeing over the hillside. As soon as the Crotonian infantry arrived they would form a human barricade through which no one else would be able to escape.

  The Sybarites stopped running when they reached the line of horses. Looking behind them, their eyes wild with terror, they saw more of their comrades running toward them, exhausted, the Crotonian infantry on their heels. They turned back to the cavalrymen, whose swords were unsheathed, sensing death was inevitable.

  Milo stepped forward on his horse and raised his sword. Sybarites and Crotonians stood in tense silence, so attentive the sound of the waves could be heard.

  “Prisoners, drop your weapons and get down!” He pointed to the ground in front of the first Sybarites. “On the ground!”

  The Sybarites hesitated a moment; however, the word prisoner had sparked a ray of hope in them. Those in front of Milo lay down without taking their eyes off the horses.

  Milo turned and pointed to several of his men.

  “Ride toward the sea. Go up the line making sure the Sybarites understand that if they surrender, their lives will be spared. Make it equally clear to our own cavalry.”

  “Yes, sir!” The riders trotted away, shouting their instructions as they passed between the line of cavalry and the Sybarites.

  Milo pointed to the other side.

  “You, toward the hills. Give the same message.” He turned to a third group of riders. “And you, come with me.”

  Milo moved forward. The terrified Sybarites could see from the ground that the Crotonian general was coming down on them with his sword raised. They rolled to the sides in a desperate attempt to avoid the attack, but Milo did no more than cross the Sybarite lines until he reached his first infantry soldiers. There, he divided his group of cavalrymen, and rode between the two armies giving the order to take prisoners. He had to go up and down twice before managing to stop the slaughter of the Sybarites.

  They finally succeeded in rounding up some ten thousand men. Five or six thousand must have escaped, Milo thought. He looked at both sides of the plain, suddenly realizing the anguish the people in Croton must be enduring. He called a few messengers and sent them to the Council and the community to convey the news of their resounding victory, including the extermination of the fearful Sybarite cavalry.

  When the messengers left, Milo ordered his generals to assemble and rode quickly to the northern part of the plain. He was satisfied so many prisoners had been taken. They’ll help put pressure on the city of Sybaris. The thirty thousand men who so foolishly had decided to play at war were far more than the city could afford to lose. Without the return of at least those ten thousand prisoners, there would be no hope for Sybaris.

  A few minutes later, he met with five of his generals. They remained on their horses, since time was at a premium.

  “What happened to Telemachus?” he asked about the only general missing.

  “He died, sir,” replied General Polydamantus. “His horse fell during the clash with the Sybarite cavalry. From the ground, he killed several enemies, but in the end…”

  Polydamantus’ lips tightened and he fell silent. Telemachus was a cousin of his. Milo sighed and shook his head. At the beginning of the battle he had thought that the idea of making the horses dance to music might not work. He knew that in that case they would all die. However, once the Sybarite cavalry had been neutralized, he had expected few losses. He had hoped none of his veteran generals would be among the dead.

  We’ll pay him homage, but that will have to wait.

  “What’s the situation?”

  Polydamantus replied again. He was famous, and deservedly so, for being able to calculate the number of soldiers in an army with just a glance.

  “In the cavalry we’ve lost about two hundred horses and a hundred riders. There are some wounded among those, but most are dead. In the infantry, fewer than a thousand casualties. Maybe eight hundred. One-third dead and the rest wounded.”

  Milo looked at the ground, frowning. The figures were good compared to what could have happened, but he considered them mediocre given how the battle had unfolded.

  “Very well,” he said finally, “this is what we’ll do: half of the first infantry regiment will make camp around the prisoners. The remaining infantry will march toward Sybaris. We’ll go ahead with the cavalry to try and cut off whoever escaped. I estimate there were about six thousand.” He looked at Polydamantus, who nodded. “I hope we can capture at least half of them. To that end, the third infantry regiment will advance at a forced march, and we’ll follow the same procedure we did here: we’ll detain them with the cavalry, and then the infantry will arrive to surround them. If possible without casualties.”

  He paused and his generals nodded.

  “If we manage to take prisoners, we’ll send them back here with an escort to keep them all together. Then we’ll camp close enough to Sybaris to make them tremble. Tonight they won’t sleep, and tomorrow they’ll be more willing to talk.”

  He looked northward. On the hills across the river, a few men could be seen running away. The Sybarite horses, on the other hand, were already out of sight.

  “The cavalry who escaped will warn them, but the city no longer has the resources to confront us.” Milo glanced at the sun. “I want to get to Sybaris before nightfall. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 110

  July 23rd, 510 B.C.

  Behind the black mask, a pair of eyes coldly observed the plain. The hooded man hadn’t moved since the battle had begun. He was breathing calmly, his hands resting on his legs, the reins of his mount hanging loose. The sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky. It was going to be a warm day. In a few hours, the breeze, now mild and sweet, would carry the heavy stench of rotting bodies.

  From the foot of his hill to the seashore, the masked man contemplated the same panorama: a dense strip of dead men and horses, blood-soaked earth, and soldiers helping the wounded. There were also Sybarite horses that had survived. The Crotonian soldiers were herding them to one side to deal with them later. After all, in their military campaign against Sybaris, animals that started dancing to the sound of trumpets were useless.

  It was a really ingenious strategy...probably thought up by Pythagoras. The old man is still capable of some good ideas. I mustn’t underestimate him.

  The masked man looked north. Half a mile down the plain dotted with corpses, a circle of Crotonian soldiers surrounded thousands of Sybarite prisoners. Beyond the river, the bulk of the Crotonian army was advancing toward Sybaris at a forced march.

  “Let’s go back to the hideout,” he whispered, turning to Boreas.

  The giant looked at the battle scene for a few more seconds, then turned and followed his master.

  As they descended the other side of the hill, the masked man reflected unhurriedly on his next moves. Although the scenario which at first had seemed most improbable—the Crotonian army’s victory—had just materialized, it was actually bringing him closer to his goal of revenge and domination more quickly. Had the Sybarites won, he would have gone down the hill to join Tellus as they took Croton. Under the actual circumstances, though, he would go to his hideout and, from there, contact Cylon again.

  He thought with satisfaction of the gold he had handed many of the Crotonian officers. He had given it to them to control their actions in the very unlikely event of a Sybarite defeat. If those officers had died, it would have been wasted, but now that gold would yield a fabulous return.

  Absolute
power over the Council of Croton.

  Three hours after the battle ended, Pythagoras’ concentration was interrupted by shouting. He had been meditating on the meeting he had convened for five days hence at Milo’s house. He trusted it would help strengthen the future of the School.

  Looking away from the sacred fire, he turned his attention to the voices outside.

  “Master Pythagoras! Master Pythagoras!”

  In the cries he heard through the stone walls were distinct notes of jubilation.

  It worked, he thought with a sigh of relief.

  Pythagoras smiled toward the statues of the muses, but it was a sad smile. Wars meant the senseless death of many innocent people. He turned and went out of the circular temple, where he was met by dozens of people at the columns framing the entrance. Disciples and Sybarite refugees were thronging around a young, smiling soldier, clearly a messenger.

  “Greetings, soldier. Did Milo send you?”

  “Yes, master.” The messenger bowed respectfully, abashed by the philosopher’s imposing presence. “He instructed me to inform you that our army achieved a decisive victory. Our men played hundreds of instruments as the enemy cavalry was about to fall on us, and the Sybarite horses started dancing. We finished with all their cavalrymen and half their infantry in just half an hour. In all, there were about fifteen thousand casualties on their side…” he frowned, experiencing a bittersweet sensation, “and five hundred on ours.”

  Pythagoras felt a pain in his chest and closed his eyes. He had learned from Glaucus that the masked enemy was behind the rebellion in Sybaris. Everyone who had died in that battle had been a consequence of his deadly enemy’s hatred.

  The messenger continued.

  “We also took ten thousand prisoners. Only about six thousand Sybarites escaped, but Milo is pursuing them as he advances toward Sybaris. Our army will camp close to the city tonight, and tomorrow we’ll demand their unconditional surrender.”

  The Sybarite aristocrats shouted with joy. Since the previous day, they hadn’t taken their eyes off the northern road, fearing they’d see the enemy cavalry appear at any moment.

  Pythagoras thanked the messenger and turned around. Several Sybarites wanted to know his opinion on the military situation, but he raised a hand and went back into the Temple of the Muses without another word.

  Sometimes doing the right thing is very painful.

  Making the Sybarite cavalry unusable by playing music had been his idea. There was no doubt it had been necessary, but imagining the massacre caused him intense anguish. Music played a very important role in his doctrine. He frequently used it to induce certain emotional states and cure illnesses of the mind or the body.

  But this is the first time I’ve used its power to destroy.

  Destroy to create, he reminded himself. It was one of nature’s maxims, but it provided little consolation right now.

  He concentrated on the eternal flame of the goddess Hestia. The fire danced to silent music. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to regain composure. They were living through critical times, and the community needed him more than ever.

  Soon he managed to quiet his spirit. However, another concern was dogging his thoughts.

  I hope Milo obtains a quick and peaceful surrender from Sybaris.

  CHAPTER 111

  July 24th, 510 B.C.

  There were two hours left before dawn.

  Androcles, a veteran infantry officer in Milo’s army, was walking along the perimeter of the Crotonian camp, leading a horse that wasn’t his by the reins. He was tense and annoyed. His plan would have been much easier to put into action if the army had camped at the gates of Sybaris, as had been initially decided.

  He spat on the ground with contempt.

  Sybarite dogs.

  The previous day, having defeated the enemy, Milo had gone ahead with the cavalry to capture more prisoners. He managed to corral two groups, numbering almost three thousand men in total. On each occasion, he had had to stop and wait for the Crotonian infantry to catch up so they could take charge of the prisoners. Earlier in the day, several groups had left Sybaris with the intention of joining Tellus. Two thousand men in total. Along the way, they had been alerted to the situation by the Sybarite riders who had fled the battle. When they received the news, the men who were farthest ahead had withdrawn to a river some ten miles outside their city. They crossed the river, pulled down the two bridges over it, and stationed themselves on the other side, feeling they were Sybaris’ last defense. At that time of year, it was easy to wade the river, but that was all they could do against the Crotonian army. Sooner or later, surrender would be inevitable. Their last resort was to try and look like a significant obstacle to the Crotonians. Maybe that way they would be able to attach some conditions to their surrender.

  Androcles kept advancing until he reached the end of the camp. There, he glanced at the far side of the river. There were many campfires. The two thousand Sybarites who had withdrawn to that position had been joined later by another three thousand from Tellus’ ill-fated army, and five thousand more who had trickled in from Sybaris.

  About ten thousand in total, comprising cowards, peasants, and old men.

  Androcles didn’t agree with Milo’s clemency. If it were up to him, those ten thousand Sybarites would descend to the realm of the dead the following day, and their women would be booty for the soldiers who killed them.

  The thought put a sinister smile on his face. He walked a few yards away from the camp, stopping when he reached the first clump of bushes. A soft whistle reached him from the other side. He whistled in reply and went around the bushes.

  “By Ares, Androcles, I thought you’d never get here!”

  His companion was also a Crotonian army officer, with a rank similar to Androcles’, though he belonged to the cavalry corps.

  “Relax, Damophon. We need to stay calm.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” complained Damophon. “It’s my neck that’s on the line.”

  “We’re all risking our lives”—Androcles gave him a twisted smile—“but the masked man paid us well for it. Besides, I’ll remind you that I’m the one who’s going to have to explain your disappearance to Milo. If he finds out I’m lying, he’ll rip me apart with his own hands.”

  Damophon chose not to reply. Over the past few days, they had discussed several times who would be the one to leave the garrison. He didn’t like it, but it was already decided. There was no point going back over it.

  He reached up and took the horse’s reins.

  “I’d better leave as soon as possible.” He mounted the horse. “I want to be past Sybaris before sun-up.”

  Androcles waited for Damophon to disappear into the night. Then he turned around and went back to the camp accompanied by the babble of the river. He knew that one in five officers was aware of what was about to happen. And let’s hope the rest will be taken in by the ruse, he told himself, tightening his lips. As for the soldiers, those who weren’t involved would simply follow their officers’ orders. Besides, the whole plan was likely to succeed because it catered to the most basic passions shared by all men: vengeance, lust, ambition… The plot would triumph in a natural and inevitable way. So the masked man had said, or something to that effect. Androcles had believed him.

  His men were at the southern end of the camp. He made his way silently among them.

  “Wake whoever’s asleep,” he told them as he went by. “In a few minutes I’ll give the order.”

  After organizing the lookouts, Milo had ordered the garrison to be wakened half an hour before dawn. That time was still an hour away, but the commander-in-chief had been awake for a while. He slept little when they were on a campaign, even when the situation was as controlled as it was now.

  He turned in his bed, which consisted of a grass mat covered in a linen sheet. The heat inside the tent made him uncomfortable. He would have preferred to sleep out in the open, like most of his men, but for his own security
as well as that of his generals, they spent the night with a roof over them.

  Milo was sure there would be no skirmishes. He had ordered his men not to cross the river, and the Sybarites wouldn’t be so foolish as to attack them.

  They have enough to contend with just standing up to us.

  It was obvious that the Sybarites’ only intention was to stall them for a few hours. Milo assumed that at that moment the women and children were being evacuated. They no doubt feared the Crotonian army would sack Sybaris.

  They don’t know I won’t allow a sacking.

  Uncomfortable in the heat, he lay face up and shook his tunic lightly to fan the air between the fabric and his skin. The perspiration evaporated, causing a pleasant, cool sensation. He focused on relaxing so he could rest even though he couldn’t sleep.

  Some hours earlier, when they arrived at the river, he had sent a messenger to the Sybarite camp with a simple, clear communiqué: at dawn, they must surrender or be annihilated. He didn’t mind giving them a few hours of truce. The Sybarites no longer had the forces to oppose them. Besides, he preferred to take Sybaris when his troops were rested. They had just fought a battle and then been forced to march for many hours. It was neither wise nor necessary to fight in order to reach the city after the sun had already set.

  He shook his tunic again to cool himself.

  I hope we resolve this quickly.

  Milo deeply disliked having to fight against the Sybarites, but it was imperative that Sybaris surrender. Leaving the situation unfinished would create an unacceptable risk for Croton. With all the gold the rebels had confiscated from the aristocrats, they could buy an army of mercenaries large enough to invade Croton.