“You are referring to the candidates to my succession,” said Pythagoras.
“We also have to consider them as suspects, of course. Don’t forget, they were the people closest to Cleomenides, they were present when the crime was committed, and they could have a motive—too many factors for us to overlook them. On the other hand, Ariadne has persuaded me not to question them on my own.”
“And I can’t do it either,” she said. “Their skills are far superior to mine. They could as easily fool me as they could Akenon. The tiny glimpse into their minds I might be able to manage could be deceptive.”
Without slowing his pace, Pythagoras considered what they were asking him. Although Ariadne’s skills were better than she claimed, whether out of modesty or because she didn’t realize how far she had progressed, the fact was that his daughter couldn’t compete with the candidates. Denying access to innermost thoughts was relatively simple for initiates who had reached an advanced level. Not even he could read what was in their minds if they didn’t cooperate, though if one refused, it would be evident.
He stopped and turned to Akenon. The stillness of the woods lent special resonance to his words.
“Tonight you will come to my house for dinner.” His face was grave and determined. “I’ll invite all the candidates too. If one of them is harboring a dark secret, I assure you it will be revealed tonight.”
CHAPTER 27
April 22nd, 510 B.C.
Throughout the rest of the day, Akenon noticed an increasing unease which settled definitively in his stomach when the sun went down and he arrived at Pythagoras’ house. After taking his seat at the table, he remained silent while he reflected.
In the court of Pharaoh Ahmose II, noblemen had been ostentatiously clothed, they behaved like princes and lived surrounded by entourages at times grander than the Pharaoh’s. They demanded fear and respect. Some of them wouldn’t even condescend to look at the commoner Akenon. The Pharaoh had taught him how to deal with all that, and Akenon had arrested, interrogated, jailed and even sent to the hangman some of those noblemen who, apart from their arrogance, had had a considerable fondness for conspiracy.
Just as he had learned not to be intimidated by the appearance and behavior of the noblemen, he now tried not to be overwhelmed by the presence of the venerable masters sitting around him, dressed in austere white tunics, their calm faces conveying simple dignity far superior to any Egyptian nobleman.
I mustn’t forget that deep down they’re men. They also can feel ambition or desire for revenge, he told himself as he watched them. He mustn’t forget either that during the meal one of them might be unveiled as the murderer. Though the atmosphere was relaxed, Akenon remained tense and on high alert. He would be ready should any of them try to escape or launch an attack.
Since Cleomenides’ death, Pythagoras had instructed two trusted servants to monitor the food he and the candidates ate. There were now goblets on the table, that had been rinsed before dinner, and the two appointed servants had served barley cakes and bowls of dates, cheese, olives and dried figs.
They had been dining in silence for a while when Pythagoras sat up more purposefully and looked at them all. The torches lent an orange glow to his golden gaze.
“Akenon’s investigation is tightening the noose around the murderer. We will talk about it during this meal and I hope our conversation will clarify a few issues.”
He said no more, but watched them for a few seconds before returning to his food. However, the echo of his words remained hovering over those present like a warning.
Akenon closely observed them for any possible reactions. The candidates waited in case Pythagoras had anything to add and then began to eat again.
If any of them is nervous, he hides it well, thought Akenon uneasily. He was particularly worried about Evander, by far the strongest of all the masters.
After some time, Pythagoras lifted his head and, in a clear voice, said the name of the candidate seated across from him.
“Evander.”
The brawny disciple looked up at Pythagoras, who fixed a penetrating look on him. Akenon imagined the master was probably exercising his mysterious ability to see deep inside people. He searched Evander’s face carefully.
What is Pythagoras seeing right now?
Akenon couldn’t glean any information. It seemed to him that Evander’s face was as expressionless as if he were asleep. As a precaution, he slipped his hand into his tunic and felt for the handle of the dagger he had hidden. He wanted to make sure he could draw it as quickly as possible. He glanced around and saw the other candidates casting discreet looks at Evander, perhaps attempting to read his innermost thoughts now that he would have lowered his defenses so as not to oppose Pythagoras.
They will inevitably suspect each other.
The room, redolent of incense, was frozen in a strained silence. No one took any notice of Akenon, who was able to freely examine them as if he were invisible. Pythagoras’ eyes were still fixed on Evander, staring at him with such intensity that Akenon hoped never to be confronted by that look.
“Orestes, look at me,” said Pythagoras.
Pythagoras concentrated on Orestes while Evander opened and closed his eyes as if he was having trouble bringing things back into focus. Akenon continued to observe the strange scene wondering, as his tension grew, how it would end.
Should I take it that Pythagoras has ruled out Evander as the murderer, or will he announce his findings once he’s analyzed them all?
Orestes was now absorbed in silent, enigmatic communication with Pythagoras. Aristomachus, Daaruk and Hippocreon continued to eat unhurriedly, as if their own imminent scrutiny by the master didn’t bother them at all.
Orestes isn’t hiding secrets, thought Pythagoras as he analyzed him.
Analyzing people through their eyes and appearance wasn’t an exact science, but Pythagoras was almost certain he could sense Orestes’ spirit in its entirety. Besides, I can tell his powers haven’t stopped growing. He was also taking advantage of this analysis of the candidates to evaluate their potential as a successor. What he saw in Orestes confirmed his noble nature, dedication and ability. He committed a serious political blunder, but it was so long ago that few people will remember. If it weren’t for that, he would be the number-one candidate. On the same level as Cleomenides. Pythagoras didn’t believe he had anything to do with the murder.
“Hippocreon, look at me.”
The somber disciple looked at his master, as gravely as ever. His face showed signs of fatigue, which together with his thinning white hair, made him look older than Pythagoras. Akenon’s attention lingered on him for a while as he searched for a reaction that never came. Then he focused on the two candidates Pythagoras hadn’t yet analyzed. Daaruk was sitting across from him and appeared calm, taking small bites of his barley cake. Akenon remembered their previous encounter, when Daaruk had silently communicated to him his desire to help. Tonight he hadn’t even looked at him.
Akenon turned to his left. Aristomachus, his eyes cast down, was holding a date between his fingers that he made no attempt to eat, as if he hadn’t realized he’d picked it up. Suddenly, he raised his head abruptly, the date slipping from his fingers, and stared straight ahead, his eyes widening. As Akenon followed his gaze he heard a strangled cry, a scream of terror desperate to escape a constricted throat.
Everyone’s eyes converged in horror on Daaruk. The face of the foreign master had morphed from its natural bronzed color to a hideous purple. Bulging from their sockets, his eyes gaped at Akenon. His blackened lips moved as if attempting to transmit a message at all costs, and a yellowish foam oozed from his mouth. He tried to stand up, his convulsing body knocking over the chair, then attempted to support himself on the table. His strength failed and he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, his head hitting the edge of the table with a dull thud.
Akenon sprang to his feet, ran around the table and crouched beside Daaruk. A deep gash had
split open his left eyebrow. Blood poured down his face, mixing with the yellow foam from his contorted mouth before dripping to the ground. His black eyes were fixed on Akenon’s in a mute cry.
Who did this to you? Akenon asked him wordlessly. Who is the murderer?
He took Daaruk’s head in both hands and leaned so close he almost touched him. This time, however, he received no inner message from Daaruk. In the master’s frantic look, he saw only a maelstrom of desperation and panic…and then, nothing.
He pressed his fingers to Daaruk’s neck for a few seconds before turning to Pythagoras.
“He’s dead.”
CHAPTER 28
April 22nd, 510 B.C.
Ariadne opened her eyes with a start, interrupting her meditation. She was in her bedroom and an ominous feeling about the gathering in her father’s house had just come over her. Alarmed, she looked toward the door. She wanted to run to her father’s house but managed to contain the urge. She had agreed with Akenon that after the meeting he would let her know whatever had been discovered about the candidates.
Her breathing quickened. The foreboding feeling was still in the room, gnawing at her stomach.
She stood up in an attempt to control it and walked barefoot across the clay floor to the door and then back to the opposite wall, where she stopped. On a shelf, a flat oil lamp burned, made of black stone with gossamer white veins. Through the hole in its side, a dwindling flame burned so meagerly it did nothing to assuage her spirits.
“I have no reason to worry,” she whispered to the flame.
What was the worst that could happen? That one of the grand masters had turned out to be the murderer and used violence in an attempt to escape? In that case, it would be a fight between one lone man and six opponents; Akenon, principally. Even if the murderer was armed, Akenon was too, and he would be constantly vigilant. Besides, he was much stronger than any of them.
Except for Evander, she reminded herself.
Evander was brawny and almost impossible to beat in wrestling competitions. But Akenon also had to be an exceptional fighter. Besides, Ariadne was sure Evander wasn’t the murderer. He had always seemed to her to have the noblest and most transparent character of all the grand masters.
She sat on the bed again. In spite of what her intuition told her, the most likely outcome was that the meeting would be a peaceful occasion. In any case, she was reassured that Akenon was there. His presence always made her feel strangely safe. Similar to how she felt with her father, but different. Her face relaxed and a smile began to spread across her lips. The next moment, though, her expression became serious again. The closer she grew to Akenon, the more she felt the need to distance herself from him.
She looked at the door again.
I’ll wait half an hour.
Leaning forward, she felt under the bed with one hand till she found her straw espadrilles. She had bought them the afternoon before, taking advantage of a visit to Croton with Akenon to interview some Pythagorean councilors. They had divided the job, and Ariadne had spoken to Hyperion, Cleomenides’ father. When she came out of his mansion, there was still an hour left before she was due to meet Akenon. She needed new shoes, so she’d decided to use that hour by going to the marketplace.
Two disciples of her father’s accompanied her. They couldn’t carry weapons, but one of them had been a professional soldier for several years and the other was a wrestling aficionado whose skill rivaled Evander’s. As they left the aristocratic district behind, the streets became narrower and more uneven, with smaller houses. Gradually, the two-story dwellings disappeared, as did those with stone walls. In the craftsmen’s and merchants’ districts, houses still had stone foundations but their walls were made of baked clay bricks. Even so, they still had inner courtyards of differing sizes depending on the prosperity of the owner.
Ariadne walked through the streets, observing with pleasure the wide variety of establishments. Thanks to her father, the city had enjoyed economic growth for many years. Not only had there been no serious military conflicts for a long time, but relations with neighboring cities were excellent, largely due to the fact that many of them also had Pythagorean governments. The number of new stores and the variety of products on display were clear evidence of the boom. Workshops for the same crafts tended to cluster together, often giving their name to the street they were concentrated on. Ariadne and her companions passed cutlers, ceramists and coppersmiths who displayed their wares on the ground or on makeshift tables and shelves. Further on, potters had set out earthenware jars and lamps as well as tiles and piping for waterworks.
Entering the next street, Ariadne wrinkled her nose. The acrid smell revealed the presence of dyes, many of which were toxic. Owners and buyers gathered around the merchandise to discuss the quality of the textiles. Inside the establishments, Ariadne could make out several workers busy operating rudimentary upright looms. Most workshops sold their products in the same place they made them, but there was also a healthy number of street vendors. Though forbidden in the wealthy districts, they offered their goods in the marketplaces as well as roaming the poorer streets, crying their wares from house to house or town to town. Seldom did a day go by without one of them passing by every house, carrying hares, hens, assortments of knives, clay pots, and a plentiful supply of sausages, oil and cheeses.
Ariadne watched the crowd and smiled with satisfaction. She was pleased that in the more modest neighborhoods there were more women on the streets. Neither did they walk around surrounded by entourages of slave girls like the rich women—at most, they had one or two to help them with more arduous tasks. Their clothing was also different. Dyes were expensive and the wealthy liked to show off brightly colored garments, sometimes bordering on garish: red or vivid golden-brown tunics, cherry-red peplums or violet chlamyses. But the favorite color of the aristocracy, following Athenian fashion, was an extremely expensive shade of purple extracted from the murex, a small sea mollusk. The Phoenicians brought it from the Orient, and no one who wasn’t rich would consider buying even a short cape dyed that color.
The townspeople that milled around Ariadne were dressed in white or brown. Their tunics were simple and practical, open on one side to allow their working arm freedom to move. Fishermen often rolled their garments down around their waists, leaving their upper bodies bare. Few people wore patterned clothing or fancy trim like the rich. Even brooches or pins to fasten the tunics were rare, and they were never ostentatious but rather, practical pieces of copper, bronze or wood.
Ariadne continued on her way, observing everything as she walked. She loved the intense air of vitality that large cities like Croton exuded. It had about two hundred thousand inhabitants, compared with the mere six hundred who lived in the Pythagorean community. In Croton, her senses of sight, smell and hearing were so bombarded she was almost overwhelmed, and that was an agreeable contrast to the ten years she had spent cloistered in the community.
But I couldn’t live in a city.
Even though there were things she liked, she could never and would never adapt to the rules and customs that governed the rights and the role of women in Greek society. Greeks considered women to be inferior to men in intellect, temperament and morals. They weren’t allowed to take part in men’s conversations and it was even frowned upon for women to gather together. In many ways, women were treated like children. Husbands were the guardians of their wives. If they were widowed, they automatically became dependent on their fathers, eldest sons or the new husbands their deceased husbands had chosen for them.
Fortunately, Ariadne lived in the community, where her father had established a very different system. There were still some inequalities, but men and women had roles that were much more alike. In the city, Ariadne would have had to learn to be submissive. Her education would have been limited to domestic chores so she could be married as a teenage virgin to a man who would probably be around thirty, or an older widower.
She frowned. Sometimes she felt
suffocated in the community, but outside it she wouldn’t be accepted. She didn’t fully belong in either of the worlds she knew.
The street suddenly opened onto a dirty, chaotic square that looked like the aftermath of a terrible battle scene. A labyrinth of stalls spilled out among the ruins of a grand building. Hundreds of people hurried in all directions, dodging sections of fallen columns and empty pedestals.
Ariadne’s face lit up.
My favorite market.
This was the spot on which the first large gymnasium in Croton had been erected. At the time, the area had been outside the city, but as Croton grew, it had eventually been enclosed by a tangle of narrow streets and ramshackle houses. The gymnasium had been abandoned by the city authorities who, by then, had ordered others to be built in more appropriate locations. The pillaging of building material had caused the walls and roof to cave in, and eventually the area became a large open square in the middle of the suburbs. It acted as a dividing-line between the modest but still respectable districts and the fringe areas, where people who had come to the city in search of a better life they hadn’t found lived in crammed conditions.
At the other end of the open space, Ariadne could see an irregular blanket of crumbling houses. There, stone foundations didn’t exist, nor did interior courtyards. The one-room hovels were built of adobe, and after every storm, their reed-and-rope roofs had to be rebuilt. Though they had no workshops and almost no materials or tools, the most resourceful residents found ways to make useful items. They sold these humble products in the old gymnasium market, as it was known to everyone.
Ariadne left the safety of the street that led to the market and, with her companions entered that lawless space, where the magistrates responsible for enforcing commercial law were notably absent. Vendors set up their stall where they could and most of the exchanges were on a barter basis.
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 13
