Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015)

by Marcos Chicot

  Pythagoras addressed Ariadne.

  “What happened on your trip to Sybaris?”

  Akenon held his breath. Although it was to be expected that Pythagoras would find out they had gone to Sybaris together, he hadn’t imagined it would reach his ears so quickly. Suddenly he remembered Ariadne making love passionately astride him, and blushed. Fortunately, everyone’s attention was on Ariadne.

  “The new investigations of the hooded man yielded nothing,” she answered, concisely closing that subject. “As for Glaucus, we couldn’t persuade him to change his mind about the prize. Not only that, but we were in grave danger in his palace. He’s more than obsessed, he’s been driven insane by his research on the circle. Research, I might add, in which he has advanced to a surprising degree. During the short time we spent with him, I saw that his mathematical skills were at least as good as mine.”

  Pythagoras frowned. In mathematics, Ariadne was at the level of some of the grand masters. Glaucus had never received enough training to rise higher than the level of apprentice disciple. Anything he might have learned after that was due to a combination of his innate abilities and the teachings he had bought with his gold. How far had he gone?

  “He didn’t even listen to my request for him to withdraw the prize,” continued Ariadne soberly. “He was only interested in my helping him with his studies and then, when he didn’t get what he wanted, he became so enraged he was on the verge of having us killed. I had to use all my will to appease him long enough to give us a chance to escape. Glaucus no longer obeys your authority, Father. He’s unpredictable and very dangerous.”

  The atmosphere became more oppressive after Ariadne’s words. Pythagoras remained lost in his thoughts for a while before he spoke.

  “Glaucus is the most influential member of the Sybarite government. They don’t do military service there, nor do they have a regular army, but the enormous wealth of its aristocrats maintains hundreds of hired mercenaries. Moreover, Glaucus himself has a personal guard comprising dozens of soldiers. We’ll watch Glaucus from a distance, but no one else will go see him for now. Later on I’ll send an envoy with a message to try and meet with him in person in a safe place.” He thought for a moment, and turned to Milo. “Reinforce your surveillance on Sybaris. We must be alert to any movements its troops make, and the possibility that they might recruit more mercenaries. At the moment, our army is far superior, but we should make sure that remains as it is.”

  “Do you fear a military attack?” asked Aristomachus, frightened.

  “I fear madness,” pronounced Pythagoras.

  He looked at them all before continuing.

  “As for the murderer, he has shown he’s a powerful mathematician. I’d say he’s a member of our School at one of the highest levels, or he has an informer who’s at that level.” The candidates exchanged uncomfortable glances. “It’s also possible he could be a master or a grand master from another of our communities.”

  After a moment’s silence, Akenon began talking again, interrupting the mental review each person was making of the masters they knew.

  “We must keep in mind that the traitorous soldier Crisipo could have taken advantage of a walk in the woods to put his partner Bayo out of action, and then easily killed Orestes. That would have been less dangerous for him than burying the coins under Orestes’ bed. Why did he act as he did?” he asked rhetorically. “I think the murderer ordered him to take that particular course of action so the brotherhood itself would kill Orestes. The internal damage to the community is much greater this way, and it also discredits the brotherhood in the eyes of the Council. He aims to intensify opposition among those outside the School, who probably don’t understand the importance you attach to the oath of secrecy.” There was nodding of heads, and Akenon waited a few moments before finishing. “Lastly, I think the murderer orchestrated this crime the way he did because he feels he is stronger than us. Not only does he not care if we are able to deduce something about him, he wants us to.”

  Everyone was puzzled by this except Pythagoras, who spoke next.

  “I, too, have the feeling he’s playing with us. He’s enjoying himself. He gives us clues that point in his direction because he thinks we’re incapable of catching him. That’s why he used the secret of the dodecahedron and the oath of secrecy to do away with Orestes. He’s sending us a message.”

  He leaned forward, his golden eyes shining.

  “He’s telling us who he is.”

  CHAPTER 73

  June 29th, 510 B.C.

  The slave girl Althea woke her master Cylon.

  It was pitch black outside, and the powerful politician grunted with irritation, then remembered what he had to do and jumped out of bed. Five minutes later, he joined his two most trusted guards in the stables. They were heavily armed and had the horses ready. Before going out into the street, Cylon covered his head with a closed hood that hid his face.

  They rode slowly through the streets of Croton under cover of darkness. Dawn was still an hour away. Once they reached open country, they sped up to a trot. There was no need to hurry, their destination was only ten minutes away.

  “We have the same goal.”

  Cylon was thinking about that solitary sentence in the first mysterious message he had received. He didn’t know who the sender was, since he had sent it through one of his slaves. When Cylon questioned the slave, all he could say was that someone had put it into his hands in the marketplace and disappeared among the crowd before he had time to see his face.

  The most interesting thing about the message wasn’t its text, “We have the same goal,” but the symbol accompanying it: an inverted pentacle.

  The message was wax-sealed. When Cylon unfolded it, the first thing he thought was that he had opened it upside down, but he soon realized that the star of the pentacle, the Pythagorean symbol, had its tip pointing downwards in the message. Cylon understood that it symbolized the mutual goal to which the text referred. The person who had sent the message wished, like him, for the destruction of the Pythagoreans.

  In any case, Cylon didn’t dwell on it for long. The enigmatic sender hadn’t indicated how to contact him, and he couldn’t rule out the possibility that it might have been a joke or a trap. Besides, his crusade against the Pythagoreans was progressing better than ever. He didn’t need to join forces with anyone.

  The day after he received the message, he had learned that Pythagoras had returned from Neapolis and would attend the next Council meeting. Not only was Cylon not intimidated, he prepared a very aggressive speech. He wasn’t going to allow the Pythagoreans to regain their political position. He would attack their arrogant leader with such force he wouldn’t be able to get up from his seat.

  His speech had been vigorous, incisive, and to the point, possibly his best contribution ever in the Council. For the first time in a debate against Pythagoras, he succeeded in getting many councilors to applaud him when he had finished his offensive. He was exultant.

  But it had been a serious error of judgment.

  When the cheering died down, Pythagoras had stood up, unruffled and sure of himself, and done what he excelled at. First, he calmed the mood with his deep, resonant voice. Then he went back over all of Cylon’s attacks, changing their perspective in such a way that he and his followers were shown to be the victims rather than the perpetrators; and, finally, in a homily that almost turned Cylon’s stomach, he extolled the benefits his School had brought to Croton for many years. The storm of applause, led by the Three Hundred but seconded by most of the seven hundred, went on interminably. Cylon had left the hall before it ended.

  Since that day, there had been five sessions of the Council of a Thousand. Cylon had attended to see first-hand what was happening, but hadn’t made speeches at any of them. He had the guaranteed support of about two hundred fifty councilors, but the rest of the seven hundred were a pack of opportunists and cowards who always sided with whoever was on top. Now that Pythagoras was attending all
the sessions, they danced to his tune.

  The second message had arrived the day before.

  Once again, it had been impossible to identify the sender. On this occasion, it included details for a meeting. And, as before, the inverted pentacle.

  Cylon reined back his horse, letting the guards get a few yards ahead of him. They were nearing the meeting place, a small temple high on a hill north of Croton. Its construction had never been completed due to the premature death of the merchant who was financing it. Half-finished, it was little more than a stone house with some columns.

  The guards dismounted. Visibility in the moonlight was limited. Cylon, still on his horse, gestured to them to go into the temple.

  The message had asked for them to meet inside, alone.

  You’d have to be stupid to think I’d come alone.

  The guards disappeared inside the building. Cylon remained tensely on his horse, taking cover under his hood. He expected the guards to disarm whoever had sent the messages and bring him out.

  A minute went by with no signs of life. He was not used to these situations and the nocturnal sounds of the forest unsettled him. His eyes darted from one place to another, nervously reacting to little creaking noises. He turned his head, peering at his surroundings. He didn’t see horses or any other evidence of another human presence.

  Suddenly, a strange voice startled him.

  “May the gods be with you, Cylon of Croton.”

  CHAPTER 74

  June 29th, 510 B.C.

  Though dawn was still distant, Pythagoras had been up for quite a while. He had never needed much sleep, but lately he had barely managed to rest for two or three hours.

  He tried to make good use of his nocturnal waking time. On this occasion, he had decided to visit Orestes’ grave again. Standing beside it, he reflected on the circumstances of his death. It was discouraging to see how easily dozens of members of his School had been manipulated, including some advanced masters.

  He closed his eyes with a heavy heart.

  The punishment for breaking the oath of secrecy had only been applied symbolically up to that point. It was true that in the case of maximum betrayal on the part of a grand master, with all aggravating factors present, it could be deemed that the person responsible deserved capital punishment. But I should be the one to hand down such a sentence. And he had always thought that if such a situation arose, he would find a way to lessen the sentence so as not to have to bear the responsibility for the death of a human being. Unfortunately, since he had been away, those who had discovered what they thought was a betrayal had decided to mete out the punishment on their own.

  The oath of secrecy was indispensable. The School’s secrets must only be accessible to minds that were righteous and ready for them. In creating the oath, his intention had been to protect humanity against those secrets falling into the wrong hands.

  To protect through dissuasion, not through execution.

  He sighed deeply when he imagined Orestes’ lynching and death. The brain behind that crime had demonstrated terrifying control, not just of their secrets, but of the workings of the human mind. He had manipulated men who were usually calm and contemplative into being carried away by the most savage passions. Not only had he managed to make them believe Orestes was a traitor, he had also convinced them all that Orestes had murdered Daaruk and Cleomenides as well. The enemy knew they were living in fear because of the recent deaths and that, thanks to his cunning, there would be an emotional catharsis, a general explosion of feeling that would convert their individual consciences into a rabid collective and primitive beast. As the criminal had foreseen, fear and hatred combined to unite the basest instincts of everyone there, while simultaneously erasing the most elevated part of their souls.

  Pythagoras knew exactly what had occurred in his disciples’ minds. He had questioned the participants in the crime, one by one, and had seen the same thing in all of them.

  As far as the Council was concerned, he thought it best to stick to the version that Orestes had been murdered, with no clues left behind, but he adopted his own measures with the culprits. He demoted Eurybates and Pelias to the level of mathematical disciples, with no possibility of rising to a higher level for ten years in Eurybates’ case, and twenty in Pelias’. Moreover, he sent them to the community led by his son, Thelauges, in Catania, thereby protecting both them and the brotherhood against a possible investigation by the Council of a Thousand.

  As for the rest of the disciples involved, he demoted many of them and all lost the possibility of advancing to a higher level for ten years. He had also given instructions to increase the amount of time dedicated to developing the inner self. In some ways, those men had done the right thing, since they were certain Orestes was a traitor, and they had strictly applied the law as it pertained to the oath of secrecy, but they should have waited for Pythagoras’ return. Besides, their behavior had not been rational, but blinded by emotion and emboldened by the mob mentality they had all taken part in.

  My disciples, behaving like wild animals.

  That crime had, without doubt, been the most harmful to the brotherhood.

  The sky would begin to lighten soon, but it was still a dark mantle studded with stars. The soldiers’ torches were the only thing that made it possible to see anything around him. Pythagoras left Orestes’ grave and walked toward the entrance to the community, followed by several hoplites. He heard a horse approach from inside the grounds and saw it was Akenon.

  “Good morning, Pythagoras,” he said as he went through the portico.

  “Good morning, Akenon…though the sun isn’t up yet. Are you going to Croton?”

  “That’s right,” he answered from his horse. “I want to talk to some laborers down at the port, and this is the best time for it. Then I’ll pay Eteocles a visit, and some other horse and mule merchants. Maybe we’ll find some clue by examining their sales over the past few weeks.”

  “That’s a good idea. Take care.”

  Akenon trotted off, and Pythagoras looked after him as his silhouette dissolved into the morning mist. He suddenly realized he hadn’t seen Akenon and Ariadne together since his return from Neapolis. She was almost always shut up in the schoolhouse, and whenever he saw her she wore a sober, impassive expression, behind which Pythagoras sensed intense suffering.

  Politics and his other obligations hadn’t left him time to pay more attention to her. He reflected for a few moments. His daughter always benefited from travel. Perhaps the best thing would be to send her for a while to her brother, Thelauges, in the community of Catania on the island of Sicily.

  He looked one last time at Akenon as he rode away and went into the compound.

  CHAPTER 75

  June 29th, 510 B.C.

  Cylon spun around, frightened, and tried to turn his horse. He unsheathed his sword clumsily and only then did he think to warn his guards.

  “Over here!” he shouted loudly.

  What was before him, however, didn’t seem dangerous. A lone man on foot, motionless between two trees. He had a cape wrapped around him, with the hood pulled up tight, just like Cylon. There were no weapons in his hands, which rested calmly, one atop the other. He didn’t seem to mind in the least that there were two guards running toward him from the temple, brandishing their swords.

  Cylon raised a hand, and the guards stopped by his horse.

  “Who are you?” he asked with authority.

  The stranger said nothing. Cylon waited, mildly disconcerted, then irritated at being ignored.

  “Answer, if you don’t want my guards to run you through!”

  He thought the hooded man lifted his head slightly, but Cylon couldn’t be sure because the light barely visible on the horizon wasn’t enough to pierce the shadows surrounding them.

  “I was hoping we could have a private conversation.” The stranger’s voice seemed to drag along the ground before reaching Cylon’s ears. It was a very deep voice, penetrating and sinister.
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  Cylon wondered what to do. The hooded man opened his hands and showed his palms to make it clear he wasn’t armed.

  “Very well.” The politician turned to the soldiers without taking his eyes off the mysterious stranger. “Go back to the temple and stay alert.”

  He waited for the soldiers to move out of earshot.

  “Who are you?” he asked, less aggressively than before.

  The hooded man shook his head slowly.

  “The important thing is this: how can we join forces to put an end to Pythagoras and his School?”

  Cylon wasn’t used to not getting a straight answer, but decided to overlook it.

  “Why would I, Cylon of Croton, want to join forces with a stranger?” he answered as he wondered who could be hiding under that hood. Maybe a member of the Council of Three Hundred who wanted a bribe?

  “Because this stranger can achieve things you can’t, and because together we can inflict more damage, and faster.”

  “I control nearly half the Council,” Cylon said, his pride stung. “What can you bring to this battle?”

  The stranger’s voice became even deeper, taking on a harsh tone that made Cylon step back on his horse.

  “You control fewer than half of the marginalized seven hundred, which is little more than nothing. Without my help you’d continue to wear yourself out fruitlessly. What have you accomplished so far, Cylon? Nothing. What have I accomplished?” He paused, then continued in a cruelly jubilant voice. “I’ve managed to do away with half of Pythagoras’ most trusted men: Cleomenides, Daaruk, and Orestes.”

  “You killed them?”