Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015)

by Marcos Chicot

  The hooded man made no response.

  “Agreed,” continued Cylon. “You have skillful methods of damaging the sect. If you’re so efficient, then, why do you need my help?” He was getting irritated.

  The hooded man shook his head.

  “Hatred is a good source of energy, and you harbor much hatred. That’s good, but don’t waste it unwisely on me. Distinguish between your enemies and your friends. Seek always to have fire in your heart and ice in your mind.”

  He’s like a Pythagorean master, thought Cylon, disquieted. In fact, the hooded man spoke with a composure and radiated a strength he had only ever felt in the presence of Pythagoras. Although this man’s energy has a sinister edge to it.

  “How do I know you’re not leading me into a trap? How do I know you’re not working for the sect?”

  “You feel it,” said the hoarse voice enigmatically.

  It was true. Just as he felt his power, Cylon felt the man hated Pythagoras at least as much as he did.

  “How do you propose we collaborate?” he finally asked.

  The hooded man seemed to grunt with satisfaction before replying.

  “Though we’ll need the Council, we must work in the background. Pythagoras mustn’t notice any change. Maintain your opposition in the Council, but don’t try anything ambitious that might reveal the strength we’ll be gaining.”

  “And just how are we going to gain that strength?”

  “You’ll arrange meetings with the councilors who haven’t yet taken a definitive stand. I’ll attend and use my persuasive skills and my gold to secure them. Once we convert a certain number, the rest will come knocking on our door so as not to be relegated to the minority.”

  “Gold is a very convincing argument, but you would need much gold to buy the support of men who aren’t short of it.”

  “Much is what I will offer them. Each of them.”

  Who the devil is this man? wondered Cylon in amazement.

  “Very well,” he answered. “But I’d like to see the face of the person in whom I’m placing so much trust.”

  “Of course,” whispered the cavernous voice.

  Cylon watched attentively as the mysterious man pulled down his hood. When he had done so, the politician’s heart stopped.

  He has no face!

  Without meaning to, he pulled on the reins, and the horse reared. He was barely able to keep his balance without taking his eyes off the terrifying sight. The stranger’s body seemed to end at the neck and then there was nothing, just darkness as impenetrable as the shadows that surrounded it.

  The man with no face took two steps forward.

  “Satisfied?”

  From that distance, Cylon could see him more clearly.

  “Are you…are you wearing a mask?”

  “Yes,” the masked man answered curtly.

  Cylon felt a bit calmer, but didn’t dare ask him to take off that black mask too.

  “There’s something else,” added the masked man. “We have two particularly bothersome enemies. One is Milo, the commander-in-chief of the army, whose troops are annoyingly loyal to him. However, it would be premature to attack him directly. I’ll take care of Milo. Don’t do anything against him,” he said in a tone that left no room for argument. “The other enemy is Akenon, the Egyptian investigator. I take it you know him.”

  “Naturally. It’s an embarrassment for Croton that Pythagoras has delegated the duties of the police force to that Egyptian.” Cylon spat out the word in anger.

  “Akenon is a nuisance and a potential danger to our plans. Fortunately, he doesn’t have the support Milo has in the Council. Not at all.” The masked man clenched a fist tightly and punched the air. “Let me tell you how we’re going to deal with Akenon…this very day.”

  CHAPTER 76

  June 29th, 510 B.C.

  It was mid-morning when Akenon entered Eteocles’ establishment.

  “I’m so happy to see you, Akenon, my friend!”

  Under his unkempt beard, the merchant wore the smile he reserved only for his best customers.

  “Good morning, Eteocles. I’m happy to be greeted so effusively, but don’t expect me to buy a horse from you every time we meet.”

  “Not every time we meet, but every time you need one.” Eteocles laughed, satisfied with his own response. “By the way, I saw my servants taking care of your horse. I hope you’re happy with him.”

  “I am, I am. As happy as you are with what I paid for him.”

  The merchant burst out laughing, patting Akenon’s back roughly.

  “What brings me here,” said Akenon, when the slapping was done, “is the investigation of the crimes in Croton.”

  Eteocles nodded, becoming suddenly serious. He didn’t want any connection with that.

  “I assume you keep a record of the animals you sell.”

  Eteocles nodded again, reticently. The fact was he kept two records. An accurate one, to maintain control over his business, and another less profitable one, to justify his reduced contributions to the city treasury.

  “What I want to know,” continued Akenon, “is if a soldier named Crisipo purchased a mount some weeks ago. My guess is he may not have bought it himself, or if so, didn’t give his real name, so I’d like to examine all the transactions.”

  Eteocles noisily scratched his chin while he pondered this. Suddenly, a strident shout jolted him from his thoughts.

  “Akenon!”

  Both men turned to the door. Six hoplites stormed in, armed with lances, shields, and swords at their hips. Their grim faces and the way they moved, fanning out into a semicircle around them, made their intentions clear.

  Akenon saw at a glance there was no other way out, and instinctively stepped back against the nearest wall. That way, he’d avoid having them at his back too. But six well-armed soldiers were too much for him to take on. He decided not to unsheathe his sword.

  “What do you want?”

  The hoplites drew closer without answering and stood around him. Eteocles took advantage of the situation to slip away without anyone preventing him.

  “You have to come with us.”

  It doesn’t look as if that’s all you have in mind, thought Akenon, trying not to let any of them out of his sight.

  “In whose name?” he asked firmly.

  “In the name of Croton!” answered the one who seemed to be the leader.

  Akenon quickly weighed his options.

  “Very well,” he finally agreed.

  Those soldiers must be on Cylon’s payroll. Milo had warned him there were a few. The best thing he could do was avoid a confrontation with them and then ask for help in the street when they came across other soldiers or someone who knew him.

  He walked with them to the door. One of the hoplites stood at his back, silently unsheathed his sword, and raised it over his head. Akenon realized what was happening a split second before the attack, but it was too late. The soldier brought his arm down hard, striking him across the nape of his neck with the hilt.

  Akenon crumpled like a dead weight. Another of the soldiers swiftly put a hood over his head so no one would recognize him. They loaded him onto the back of a horse and set off, avoiding the busier streets.

  Akenon regained consciousness as they were arriving at their destination. He had an excruciating pain in his head and was suffocating inside the hood. When he tried to lift it to breathe, he discovered his hands were tied behind his back. Just then, the horse halted, and Akenon could make out what one of his captors was saying.

  “Throw him into a dungeon,” he grunted with contempt. “The boss will take care of him.”

  CHAPTER 77

  June 29th, 510 B.C.

  Ariadne walked slowly along the edge of the small pond in the community garden. Her distant gaze wandered over the surface of the water, where the cautious silhouette of an orange fish appeared occasionally.

  Pythagoras walked beside her, worried, still unsure of what he was going to say to
her. He watched his daughter from the corner of his eye. The hard expression on Ariadne’s face was a defensive reaction he had seen many times before.

  Painful memories of the past are affecting her again.

  Pythagoras could guess she had been romantically involved with Akenon. That must have made her relive her traumatic past.

  And it’s probably ruined her relationship with Akenon.

  He didn’t need his daughter to say anything to see that clearly, but seeing it didn’t mean he knew how to help her. What was obvious was that the funereal atmosphere and sense of threat that hung over the community weren’t doing her any good.

  Father and daughter continued walking in silence, each immersed in their own thoughts.

  Very well, thought Pythagoras, finally coming to a decision, the best thing will be to send her to her brother in Catania for six months.

  He took his daughter’s arm and started talking.

  As he walked the road between the community and Croton, grand master Aristomachus was startled to hear someone calling him urgently.

  “Master Aristomachus! Master!”

  He turned toward the shouts and instinctively withdrew toward his two bodyguards. One of his disciples was approaching on a donkey along the northern path, vigorously spurring it on.

  “Calm yourself, Hipparchides,” said Aristomachus when the disciple got closer. “Why are you punishing the poor animal like that? What news do you bring?” He always tried to seem composed in front of his students, although since the murders had begun he had trouble controlling his nerves.

  “The prize, master Aristomachus, Glaucus’ prize…”

  Hipparchides jumped off his donkey and said nothing for a moment while he caught his breath. Aristomachus felt his right hand start to tremble. He intertwined it with his left and rested them discreetly in his lap.

  “What happened with the prize? Speak.”

  “Master…the prize has been awarded.”

  Impossible!

  Aristomachus’ face froze in astonishment. His lips parted and he tried to say something, but could only open and close his mouth like a fish out of water.

  “Yesterday morning I was in Sybaris,” continued Hipparchides. “I spoke to a Pythagorean brother who knows one of Glaucus’ secretaries. The secretary told him that a few days earlier Glaucus had paid the prize. Over three thousand pounds of gold!”

  Aristomachus started to stutter.

  “But… Do we know…do we know who…how…?”

  Hipparchides shook his head.

  “We don’t know who it was, master. The secretary said that the person who claimed it was wearing a hood…” His expression grew somber, as did his voice. “And he said something else.”

  Aristomachus swallowed and waited for his disciple to finish.

  “It seems the hooded man made sure to make one thing very clear: he found the solution by using our leader’s sacred theorem.”

  Aristomachus stepped back in horror.

  Pythagoras’ theorem!

  Ariadne frowned, considering her father’s suggestion.

  Go to Catania…

  Pythagoras’ golden gaze enveloped her, but she couldn’t feel his warmth as she had other times. She looked away and walked on a few steps.

  In six months’ time Akenon will already be gone.

  She was confused. She had also thought it might do her good not to see Akenon. Now that the possibility was becoming real, however, she felt her stomach seize till it hurt.

  Ariadne raised her head in alarm. Someone was hurrying toward them.

  It’s Aristomachus. What’s wrong with him? The master walked toward them as fast as he could without breaking into a run. Even though he was making monumental efforts to maintain his composure, his face looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  When he reached them he blurted out his news.

  “Master, Glaucus has awarded his prize.”

  Pythagoras stood rooted to the spot.

  “Do we know anything else?” he said at last.

  “Yes.” Aristomachus bowed his head before continuing. It was obvious he was upset by what he was about to add. “It seems the approximation to the quotient Glaucus was looking for was solved…using the theorem which bears your name.”

  Pythagoras’ face contorted as if he had been bitten by a snake.

  Gods, it’s another message from the murderer… And another sign of his unlimited capabilities.

  Pythagoras had no doubt: the person who had solved the problem had murdered his candidates. Who else could boast such astounding abilities, and at the same time scorn his rules to keep their most advanced knowledge secret? He’s made an incredible discovery and handed it over to a dangerous, deranged man in exchange for gold.

  Ariadne tried to read her father’s tense face. The news was of huge impact for everyone, but especially for Pythagoras. Someone had just achieved what he had declared to be impossible. And it’s particularly humiliating that he’s done it using his most famous theorem.

  It was a superhuman feat and, at the same time, a massive slap in the face for the philosopher.

  This has dire implications, Ariadne told herself. It meant that their enemy’s capabilities were superior to those of any grand master…including Pythagoras himself. Moreover, the hooded man, whoever he was, now had a virtually infinite amount of money at his disposal for his criminal aims.

  Eight million drachmas, thought Ariadne, remembering the calculation Akenon had made.

  She suddenly realized she hadn’t seen him all day.

  “Father, do you know where Akenon is?”

  Her father turned his head toward her. His eyes were distant, still immersed in the implications of the news about the prize.

  “I saw him this morning,” he answered distractedly. “He left before dawn to do an investigation in Croton.”

  Ariadne looked at the sky. There were only two hours left before sundown. She turned anxiously toward Croton.

  Her intuition warned her something was very wrong.

  CHAPTER 78

  June 29th, 510 B.C.

  Cylon threw out his chest, brimming with exultation. The collaboration with the mysterious masked man was reaping magnificent rewards only hours after it had begun.

  He was sitting in the main hall of his mansion with twenty councilors sympathetic to him. It was a meeting like many others he held on a weekly basis, with the exception that today there are two guests who, up to now, have never set foot in my house.

  The first of them was the masked man himself. At first, the councilors had been surprised to see him there, sitting at one end of the large room. However, once he got up and started to speak, he commanded the councilors’ full attention. A few minutes later, his words had infiltrated the deepest recesses of their minds, and now all of them were treating him with reverence as if, instead of a man behind a black mask, he were the fearsome god Hades. Cylon was pleased to have such a powerful ally, though he also felt a twinge of jealousy.

  The second novelty among the guests was also the most important element of the meeting. Without him, this assembly would make no sense. Cylon congratulated himself, observing the man with satisfaction. It was Helicaon, one of the Council secretaries, whose signature and seal were required to ratify laws and rulings. This secretary had never helped Cylon. On this occasion he had come to his mansion simply to refuse the invitation and state with dignity that neither his position nor his honesty would permit him to attend that kind of meeting. Ten minutes of conversation with the man in the black mask, though, and the bag of gold he was offered, had persuaded him to leave dignity and honesty for another day.

  Helicaon had drafted a document at the request of Cylon and the masked man. At that very moment he was stamping it with his seal. Cylon went over to Helicaon and waited impatiently for him to finish, after which he grabbed the parchment from his hands and read through it avidly. Obviously, he already knew its content, but it gave him enormous satisfaction
to see it written in an official document.

  It decreed the exile of the foreigner Akenon and the confiscation of all his property.

  Perfectly legal, Cylon said to himself as he reread it.

  This kind of decision could be made by a minimum of twenty councilors without any of them having to belong to the Three Hundred. If Akenon had been a citizen instead of a mere foreigner, his exile would have had to be decreed by a majority of the Council of Three Hundred. And, even as a foreigner, for a decree of capital punishment, several councilors from among the Three Hundred would also have been required.

  But even though we’re from the marginalized seven hundred, at least we have the authority to rule on this. With a fierce look, Cylon shook the document.

  Everyone present had a goblet of wine close to hand. The masked man leaned forward to take his and raised it in Cylon’s direction.

  “To the destruction of Pythagoras.”

  His rasping voice sent a shiver down the Council secretary’s spine, as he hurriedly raised his goblet with the others.

  “To the destruction of Pythagoras!” they all exclaimed in unison.

  The secretary emptied his goblet in one swallow, anxious to silence his guilty conscience. Even so, he didn’t doubt he had followed the most appropriate course. Talking to the masked man had made him understand something that he needed to bear in mind from then on.

  The Pythagorean faction’s days were numbered.

  Half an hour later, Cylon went upstairs to his bedroom and requested the services of his slave girl, Althea, whom he addressed as Ariadne. He rarely used her before nightfall, but he was in a celebratory mood. Among other things, the day was quickly approaching when the woman laboring between his legs would be the real Ariadne.

  Akenon was about to be put on a ship to Biblos, the ancient Phoenician city that was now part of Persia. His small fortune in silver—about which Cylon had been informed in detail by Kallo—was probably passing at that moment from Eritrius the custodian’s hands into the public treasury.