At dawn, he would make them surrender and take control of the city, but he would cede its government to the Sybarite aristocrats as soon as possible.
I’ll have to leave some support troops, he reflected, until the aristocrats organize sufficient forces to maintain control. Two thousand soldiers should be enough. The rest of the army will be home in a few days.
He suddenly realized he had been hearing distant voices for a while. He opened his eyes and stared at the roof of his tent, faintly lit by an oil lamp. Although the noise was some distance away, it seemed to be the typical clamor of battle.
He sat up at once, grabbed his weapons, and went out of the tent. The two sentinels stationed at the door stood at attention. Outside, the sound of combat was clearly audible. It was coming from one end of the camp.
“Bring my horse!”
Milo took a few steps to the river’s edge and peered into the darkness. The Sybarite camp in front of him looked peaceful. The problem was coming from the southern end.
It seems to be an isolated skirmish.
He frowned, puzzled. His men had orders not to cross the river, and it would be absurdly rash of the Sybarites to have done so.
One of the sentinels approached, leading his horse by the reins. Milo mounted quickly and rode toward the conflict. There was very little light, but as he got closer he could see his men had crossed the river.
“What’s going on?” he shouted from his horse to a sentinel.
“It looks like some Sybarites crossed the river, sir. Then they fled, and some of our men went in pursuit of them.”
Damn it. Who could have been the imbecile…? His orders not to cross had been very clear. They couldn’t be disobeyed even for punishment incursions.
“Which officer was first to cross?”
The sentinel hesitated before replying.
“I think it was Androcles, sir.”
Milo’s expression hardened. He was almost sure Androcles was one of the members of his army who received payoffs from Cylon. The practice was so common that if he were to rid the army of everyone who did it he’d be left without half his troops.
He wondered what to do. Maybe Androcles had had a good reason to cross the river.
The only way to find out is go after him, he thought decisively. It might be dangerous, but he couldn’t stand by with his arms crossed. There was no sense either in waking the entire camp over an isolated incident that clearly posed no threat to them.
He unsheathed his sword and dug his heels into his mount, riding toward the river. Although the riverbed was quite wide, it had hardly any water in it. He reached the opposite bank with no problem.
There’s no one here, he said to himself as he scrutinized the surroundings. The Sybarite camp had withdrawn toward the northern side as if reacting to a lateral attack.
He advanced cautiously among the abandoned campfires. The shouting was coming from in front of him, some fifty paces away. It was so dark, Milo couldn’t make out anything from where he was. What he could see were corpses strewn on the ground.
They’re all Sybarites.
The shouting was moving away from him. He spurred his horse to a trot and quickly caught up with a group of Crotonian soldiers.
“Where’s Androcles?”
The hoplites jumped when they saw their commander-in-chief emerge out of nowhere. They were so surprised, all they could do was point in front of them. Milo trotted on, overtaking more soldiers until he reached several who were viciously running some fallen Sybarites through with their swords.
“Androcles!” roared Milo in his thunderous voice.
One of the men turned toward him and instantly stood at attention.
“Yes, sir.”
“What the devil happened?”
The officer swallowed before replying.
“Several Sybarites crossed the river without us noticing. They remained hidden until Officer Damophon passed near them, then leapt on him and captured him.” Androcles seemed to be reciting from memory. “It was a very speedy operation, sir. By the time the alarm was raised, they were already on their way back across the river. We set out after them immediately, but instead of confronting us they continued to withdraw. A minute ago we caught up with the ones who were furthest ahead,” he pointed with his sword at the Sybarite corpses, “but we’ve been unable to rescue Officer Damophon. Before they died, these men confessed that a small cavalry unit took him to Sybaris. I think they believed he was a general. We haven’t got horses, sir. Right now, I was about to return to the camp and alert the cavalry.”
Milo listened gravely to Androcles’ story. He strongly doubted any of it was true, but now wasn’t the time to judge his actions.
“Return to camp with all your men,” he said coldly.
He turned around and began riding at a gentle trot. Although he wanted to get back as soon as possible, it would be unwise to gallop through that darkness.
As he neared the river, he noticed there was movement in his camp. It seemed like everyone had woken up. Hundreds of torches zigzagged close to the water.
What is it now? he wondered in exasperation. More suicidal incursions?
He paused a moment to listen. His ears filled with the urgent splashing sounds of thousands of feet, together with the deafening battle cry of an entire army.
A wave of panic hit him.
Are the Sybarites attacking us en masse?!
Had he radically miscalculated the enemy forces? Were they hiding a mercenary army in Sybaris? Suddenly he realized it was his own men who were all crossing the river at once. He frowned, disconcerted. What motive could his officers have to order an attack? What the devil were his generals doing?
It was so absurd it seemed like a hallucination in a feverish dream. He spurred his horse forcefully, crossed the riverbed, and rode along the edge of his camp shouting orders at the last men to fall back. But it was already too late to stop what had been unleashed.
A few yards away, he saw General Polydamantus reprimanding some officers from his horse.
“Polydamantus!” bellowed Milo, riding up to him. “What’s happening, for the sake of all the gods?”
His general’s face, usually inexpressive, was contorted with desperation.
“I don’t know, sir. All of a sudden, I heard cries of we’re under attack all over the camp. The troops took to the river in the midst of the darkness to stave them off.”
“Did you see those attacks?” shouted Milo, brandishing his sword. “Did you see Sybarites on this side of the river?”
Polydamantus frowned.
“Well…I didn’t see any Sybarites, sir, but you can’t see anything more than ten yards in front of you.”
Milo turned toward the river. The din of his army was moving away, invisible to him. He clenched his teeth so tightly, his molars were on the verge of cracking. He suspected someone was manipulating them…but once again, he had to act based on the information at his disposal.
“Order the retreat immediately,” he instructed resolutely. “We’ll surround the Sybarites and minimize combat. With the cavalry, we’ll go ahead and block their path, as we did yesterday. Then we’ll take them prisoner and bring them to the gates of Sybaris. It seems they’ve kidnapped one of our cavalry officers. If they think one prisoner will make us negotiate, we’ll see what they think of our thousands of reasons to negotiate.”
CHAPTER 112
July 26th, 510 B.C.
“The events we’re facing cover us in shame and dishonor!” shouted Cylon from the dais. “The most ignominious actions in the history of Croton!”
Red-faced with indignation, Cylon embellished his furious speech with energetic gestures. His words had the thousand councilors on tenterhooks. An impassioned Cylon had just summarized recent events. Two days earlier, the Crotonian army had camped along a river bank near Sybaris. Stationed on the other side were some ten thousand Sybarites, basically peasants and old men without cuirasses, shields, or swords. The Crotonian army
had attacked the Sybarites at night, killing thousands and taking the rest prisoner. Then it had marched on Sybaris, whose inhabitants were more than willing to surrender. Despite that, the Crotonian troops had forced their way into the city and begun a sacking that was still going on.
“The wrath of the gods will befall us!” Cylon thundered, his arms held high. He looked like a herald of Hades, the god of the dead. “In the name of every one of us, our soldiers have set the city on fire, pillaged gold from the temples, slit the throats of defenseless old people…” With each atrocity he mentioned, his cries became more impassioned. “They’ve raped the Sybarite women and murdered their children!”
Pythagoras listened to Cylon from the first row of the grandstand. The politician had harangued them for over half an hour, adorning his speech with graphic details even Pythagoras hadn’t known about.
His messengers furnish him with more information than Milo sends us.
He continued listening to Cylon, showing no sign of emotion, disguising his increasing alarm. The atmosphere in the Council was becoming dangerous.
“And I ask myself,” Cylon continued, “I wonder, distinguished councilors of Croton: who is responsible for such barbarity and wanton violence?”
He paused at length, looking around the audience, nodding visibly.
“Milo,” he finally answered in a quieter tone. “Milo is the commander-in-chief of our troops, so he is responsible for everything they do.” Cylon’s voice rose once more to a fearful rant. “But presumably Milo obeys the city, he obeys us, and therefore his actions taint us all. And yet,” he roared forcefully, “I tell you, and you all know I speak the truth, Milo obeys Pythagoras above anyone else.” He pointed at the philosopher, his finger shaking with the heat of his anger. “That is why the blame for this dishonor, for this shameful infamy, lies with Pythagoras!”
He fell silent, allowing his words to resonate in every councilor’s ears. Pythagoras held his tongue. If he hurried to respond, he would give the impression he considered himself at fault.
“Speak, Pythagoras!” someone in the tiered seats shouted.
“Answer Cylon’s words!”
The philosopher stood up and took a few steps forward. When he reached the center of the hall, he stopped and slowly turned to the audience, showing the councilors his hands, naked as the truth he was about to offer them.
“The sacking of Sybaris is a despicable act, which dismays and sickens me as much as it does the rest of you.” For a moment, he considered speaking on behalf of the Council of Three Hundred, but his instinct told him to leave them out of it and try to make Cylon’s criticism fall exclusively on him. “As you know, I spoke to Milo before he left. Together, we planned the strategy to make the enemy cavalry dance.” His voice suddenly became powerful and charged with indignation. “That was the strategy that brought us victory in the battle on the plain, when it appeared that our army would be crushed, when it seemed that the Sybarite rebels would raze Croton to the ground the following day.” He paused to allow this to sink into their fickle minds. “We also spoke about what was to be done after the victory. I assure you neither Milo nor I thought about anything other than negotiating a peaceful surrender. I assure you…”
“Are we to believe Pythagoras’ words?!” Cylon suddenly burst out. “Can we believe him when he kept us in the dark and caused us such anguish before the first combat? Only he and his son-in-law, Milo, knew what our army would do during that battle. Only they knew what atrocities the soldiers would commit afterwards. What does an army do but follow orders from its superiors?”
Pythagoras, alone in the middle of the Council hall, carefully observed Cylon’s dramatic shouts and histrionics. He was attacking him with unusual vehemence, but there was something else behind his words. A hidden intention he was trying hard not to reveal.
He’s laying the groundwork for something much worse, thought Pythagoras, his eyes narrowing.
He remembered the portentous vision he had had three months earlier in the Temple of the Muses. He had glimpsed a future of blood and fire. Could the sacking of Sybaris be a sign that the frightful vision had begun to materialize? There was no doubt evil was spreading, cold and dark as an eclipse. He must fight with all his might to stop it.
Pythagoras focused on the grandstands, analyzing the body language of the thousand councilors. His enemy continued to vociferate, but the philosopher wasn’t interested in his words as much as the effect they were having.
When he finished assessing the audience, he realized the fight would be even more difficult than he had expected.
Cylon had the support of most of the Council.
Akenon was completely mistaken in thinking that morning would be tedious.
He led his horse by the reins as he slowly walked the streets of Croton. There were knots of people everywhere commenting on the news brought periodically by messengers. They gathered at the entrance to shops, in the squares, in front of the temples…and all of them lowered their voices as Akenon and his entourage went by.
The group Akenon was accompanying was made up of eighteen people in addition to beasts of burden. There were four Sybarite aristocrats, their families, and their servants. They had secured passage in a merchant ship, and had asked him to escort them to the port.
I’m not surprised they no longer feel safe in Croton, thought Akenon.
Up until two days ago, the Sybarites had been waiting in the community, hoping they might be able to return to their city at a later date. News of the Crotonian army’s victory against the insurgent troops had been welcomed with great rejoicing. They were also pleased to hear Milo had marched on Sybaris to secure its complete surrender, Akenon recalled. The Sybarite aristocrats imagined themselves returning to their palaces and resuming the pleasurable life to which they were so accustomed. However, the news that had followed was that the Crotonian soldiers had initiated a savage sacking of the city. They were stealing their gold, butchering the Sybarite people—their labor force—and setting fire to their mansions.
There’s nowhere for them to go back to.
Despite Pythagoras’ attempts to reassure them, the Sybarites anticipated with terror the moment that bloodthirsty army returned to Croton. They all wanted to get away from the city as soon as possible. Those who could left by ship, but many had already left on foot.
As they made their way through the port, Akenon grimaced, remembering the last time he had been there. He was thankful to the gods that Milo had been able to rescue him at the last minute.
The port was buzzing with activity. Workers were running in all directions, harassed by the shouts of the authorities to load and unload as quickly as possible. Beyond the estuary on the open sea, a line of ships awaited permission to dock. The proliferation of vessels was due to what had happened in Sybaris. The many ships bound for that city had turned back when they saw columns of smoke rising everywhere. Half of them had then headed north, to Metapontum or Taranto, while the other half sailed south along the coast to Croton.
Akenon took his leave of the Sybarites and left the port as fast as he could. It wasn’t simply that being there reminded him of when Cylon had tried to exile him, it was also a reminder that when he returned to Carthage he would have to board one of those accursed ships.
Thinking of his departure from Croton brought Ariadne to mind. That morning, as he was leaving the community, he had seen a different look in her eyes…as if she had taken off the mask of indifference she had shown him for quite some time.
It seemed as if she was wondering whether to tell me something important.
He had stopped, and their eyes had met for a few seconds, but she had suddenly turned around, flustered, and gone back into the compound. Akenon had walked away with the Sybarites, Ariadne’s image engraved in his mind’s eye. She looked more beautiful than ever. There was something special about her, her luminous skin, her sensuality accentuated…
He quickened his pace. He wanted to see her again, though he
didn’t know what he’d do once he had her in front of him. Perhaps reassessing their situation wouldn’t be a good idea for either of them.
“Akenon!”
Startled, he turned around. Pythagoras was coming toward him, accompanied by two disciples.
“Are you going to the community?” asked the master.
“I am indeed,” replied Akenon, trying to erase Ariadne from his mind. “I’ve just left the last of the Sybarites at the port.”
Pythagoras’ face grew somber.
“I don’t blame them for not feeling safe with us.”
Akenon observed Pythagoras. There seemed to be something else bothering him.
“How did the session go?” he asked.
Pythagoras shook his head and sighed before answering.
“Today, for the first time in thirty years, Cylon had the support of the majority of the Council of a Thousand. Yet he didn’t attempt any definitive action. It’s as if something is stopping him. He’s waiting for something, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Do you think he’s receiving instructions from the masked man?”
Pythagoras nodded gravely.
“That’s what I think. If Cylon were acting of his own accord, he would have immediately demanded some vote to use his majority support against us. His behavior today revealed more cunning and calculation than he is capable of.
Pythagoras became absorbed in his thoughts after he had spoken, and they continued walking in silence toward the city gates. Akenon slipped his hand inside his tunic and found Daaruk’s gold ring. He played with it distractedly for a while and finally took it out.
It had been a long time since he had held it in his hand. He remembered when he had found it among the ashes in the murdered grand master’s funeral pyre. Pythagoras had told him he could keep it. Many times, Akenon had pored at length over the small pentacle depicted on it. A very simple, yet complex symbol. Thanks to Ariadne, he knew it contained key secrets about the construction of the universe. He recalled Ariadne’s explanations. He visualized her vividly riding beside him, leaning her hand on his bare thigh, enveloping him in a look that spoke much louder than her words…
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 50