I hope Akenon goes back to Carthage before the pregnancy becomes obvious.
CHAPTER 94
July 18th, 510 B.C.
In his current phase, Glaucus tried to follow many of Pythagoras’ precepts, but getting up early was certainly not one of them. That was why he was enraged to hear commotion inside the palace when his tired body was telling him dawn had just broken.
He came out of his bedroom without even putting on his slippers, ready to swiftly mete out punishment to whoever was causing the ruckus, and then go back to sleep. From the gallery, he shouted in the direction of his trusted servants’ rooms.
“Actis! Hilonome!”
He waited in vain for them to appear, which irritated him all the more.
“Parthenius!” he shouted, calling one of his secretaries.
Astonishingly, no one replied. However, many agitated voices could be clearly heard from the other side of the palace.
This is outrageous, he thought, pacing furiously along the gallery. They’ll be skinned alive before the day is out.
He passed the altar of Hestia and entered the main courtyard. There he stopped short, perplexed, observing the scene with his hands on his hips.
Dozens of guards, servants, and slaves were milling around in the courtyard close to the main door. His chief guard was shouting orders to close the doors. Many of his men seemed to be struggling with the servants who were trying to close them.
Are they trying to escape?
He took a deep breath and shouted at the top of his lungs.
“What’s going on here?!”
Everyone froze. They knew that whoever was responsible for Glaucus’ furious outbursts could lose his life. The chief guard quickly came over to him, standing at attention before he spoke.
“I’ve ordered the doors to be closed as a precautionary measure, sir.” He paused, which was unusual in a man who was normally so efficient. “However…” He paused again.
“What?!” roared Glaucus in exasperation.
“It’s best if we take a look from upstairs, my lord.”
Glaucus lifted his head and saw several soldiers on the roof looking down at the street. He felt a sudden wave of apprehension. Nodding his consent, he went up the stairs silently behind his chief guard. The flat roof of the palace was walled for defensive purposes. When they reached the wall, Glaucus gripped the stone edge and peered over it with increasing unease.
What the devil is going on?
He held his breath and looked down at the doors of his palace. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Then he saw something from the corner of his eye and turned to take a better look.
His eyes bulged.
The wrath of the gods was descending on the city.
CHAPTER 95
July 18th, 510 B.C.
Ariadne was with Akenon in one of the classrooms. It was the first time they had spoken since the previous day’s meeting in her father’s house.
She turned her gaze toward a window, deep in thought.
“Sometimes I get the impression our enemy doesn’t intend to kill my father but instead wants to make him suffer by destroying everything that matters to him.”
Akenon agreed, nodding silently as he watched Ariadne’s profile.
“At any rate,” he added after a while, “by detaining Crisipo we’ve shown that the masked man isn’t infallible. If Crisipo hadn’t managed to kill himself, I’m sure he would have revealed where we could find his master.”
Ariadne made no reply. When would they have another opportunity like Crisipo? What new atrocities would happen before that? The enemy had already killed almost all her father’s most trusted men, shattered the moral discipline of the community with Orestes’ execution, undermined their political support in the Croton Council, and seemed to have demoralized her father with theoretical matters…
She turned to Akenon to ask him about this but changed her mind. He had already told her he didn’t know what was in the parchment that had upset her father so much.
He hasn’t even let me see it, she thought in frustration.
All Pythagoras had told her was that it had been written by the same person who had solved the problem of the quotient—their masked enemy—and that it showed beyond any doubt that he had known Aristomachus well. That was why she and Akenon had met: they were making a list of the masters and grand masters who had been close to Aristomachus. In Croton, only Evander and Hippocreon were left, both of whom had been eliminated as suspects by her father’s analysis. However, there were several in other communities.
Akenon pointed to the list.
“Will they all be going to the assembly at Milo’s house?”
“My father has invited them all,” replied Ariadne. “The man hiding behind the mask could find some excuse not to attend, but it doesn’t look like he’s afraid of anything. It’s more likely his sick mind will enjoy the idea of parading right under our noses without us realizing it’s him.”
“I’m also convinced he’ll attend…if he’s really an active member of the School. In any case, the meeting will be a good opportunity to ask the leaders of each community about the most exceptional men in their brotherhoods.”
Akenon reflected a moment, then picked up a wax tablet.
“Let’s continue with the list. From Metapontum there’ll be Astylos and Pisandro, from Taranto Antagoras, Arquipus, and Lysis, your brother Thelauges from Catania…”
Ariadne turned abruptly and silenced him with her hand. The sound of a child crying was coming clearly from outside. Ariadne, her face tense, hurried to the window, followed by Akenon. A little girl of six or seven had fallen, and her teacher was consoling her. The girl had only scratched her knee, but Ariadne watched the scene attentively, holding on to the window frame with both hands. Akenon observed her surreptitiously. Ariadne’s hair was close to his face. On an impulse, Akenon went right up to her until his nose brushed against her hair.
He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly.
CHAPTER 96
July 18th, 510 B.C.
Glaucus couldn’t take his eyes off the fire.
Less than half a mile from his palace, the whole city seemed to be ablaze. Thick columns of black smoke rose everywhere.
An accident? Pirates? Glaucus was confused, unable to understand what he was seeing. Suddenly, he became aware that there were multiple fires, each separate from the next. Human hands had to be behind that destruction.
His thoughts flew instantly to the underground chamber where he kept his treasure. He had to decide as soon as possible whether to order an evacuation or arrange to defend the palace.
With Boreas I would have been safe, he thought bitterly.
He turned toward his chief guard, not knowing what to say. What were they up against? The man was waiting for instructions, nervous but disciplined. The rest of the guards on the roof were clinging to the stone wall and seemed terrified.
Then he heard it.
There was a sound his anxiety had prevented him from hearing up to then. Again, he turned toward the blazing section of the city. Irate voices reached him, battle cries coming from thousands of throats.
A second later, he saw them. Three hundred yards down the street. They surged forward like furious ants from an anthill and surrounded a small, single-story mansion. Though their movements weren’t coordinated, their great numbers made them efficient. They scaled the walls, spread out over the roof and dropped by the dozen into the inner courtyard. In a matter of seconds the house became invisible under the swarming mass. The doors opened from inside and the maddened crowd outside roared, jostling to get in all at once. Glaucus couldn’t see what was happening inside, he could only hear the continued roar, seething with rage.
A minute later, the throng moved on toward the next building.
“It’s an uprising,” Glaucus whispered, his throat dry, “we have to evacuate immediately.” Without taking his eyes off the source of the nightmarish noise, he raised his voice. “Ta
ke the mules and a dozen men to load them to the door of my storerooms. The priority is to save everything in my underground chamber.”
“Yes, sir.”
His chief guard barked a few orders to the men surrounding them, and they all dispersed rapidly. Glaucus was left alone looking over the wall, barefoot on the roof of his palace, while a short distance away the horror continued to unfold.
The owner of the next mansion, Erechtheus, was a friend of his. He was forty-five years old, recently widowed, and one of the largest landowners in Sybaris. Before the crowd could block the entrance to his home, the doors opened unexpectedly. A few insurgents rushed in, but were flung back by the horses galloping out. Erechtheus, his sons, and their guards desperately spurred their horses on, mowing down the insurgents in their path. Unfortunately for them, a few yards from the portico was a wall that forced them to make a ninety-degree turn. Losing speed meant a lethal opportunity for their enemies, who were armed with knives and sharpened sticks that they began to plunge into the animals’ flanks and the riders’ legs. Other attackers managed to grab the horses’ reins and hung on them with their entire weight. The men on horseback carried swords, but most fell to the ground before they could use them. As soon as one fell, he was surrounded by an incensed swarm that destroyed him with slashes and blows.
Paralyzed on the roof of his palace, Glaucus could just make out the desperate expression on his banqueting companion’s face. Erechtheus was trapped in the middle of a sea of people, lashing out in all directions with his sword, while he tried to see what had become of his sons. His sharp blade amputated fingers and hands that tried to drag him off his horse, slashed faces, and cleaved the necks of the men around him. Suddenly a wooden pike lodged in his back. The pain momentarily immobilized him, and his sword was wrenched from his hands. His attacker pulled out the pike and speared him again, harder, puncturing his lung. Erechtheus shouted at the sky, drowning in his own blood as they killed him.
The aristocrat’s fierce struggle helped give another rider time to escape: Lycastus, the second of his four sons, twelve years old. After plowing through the men blocking his path, he galloped two hundred yards and stopped to see if his father and brothers were following him.
All he saw was the crowd viciously dismembering several bodies that had fallen to the ground.
Lycastus had stopped right under Glaucus, who saw the boy start to cry. He didn’t look injured, but his horse was bleeding profusely from the neck and a deep wound in its hind legs.
You won’t get far, thought Glaucus.
Young Lycastus turned the horse and rode away, leaving a spray of blood behind him. For a moment, Glaucus watched him, then turned back toward the shouting, trembling, trying to calculate how much time he had left.
By Hades, they’re coming too fast!
CHAPTER 97
July 18th, 510 B.C.
Mounted on his horse, the masked man peered patiently through the trees. Beside him stood Boreas. Behind them were the giant’s horse and ten mules tied in a row.
The wait was becoming longer than expected and in the back of his mind the shadow of a doubt appeared. He dispelled it immediately and continued waiting. A short while later, the silence of the forest was broken by a rhythmic drumming sound. Soon, he could see it was a lone rider trotting toward him. The masked man moved forward with Boreas, emerging from the dense foliage into the middle of a wide clearing.
One of Tellus’ men rode out from among the trees.
“We’ve done it, sir,” he said with euphoric intensity. “Only a few hundred escaped, and we’re hunting them down.”
The masked man only nodded. The rider turned his mount and spurred it forcefully, anxious to get back to the bloodbath in Sybaris.
The black mask turned toward Boreas.
“Let’s go,” he whispered, concealing the joy he felt.
He set off and the giant Boreas followed, leading his horse and the ten mules by the reins.
Their destination was Glaucus’ palace.
The cloth that covered the ground in the wealthy district of Sybaris was burnt and ripped. The sense of tranquility normally felt in those streets had been vanquished by the fevered shouts of the men sacking and burning the mansions. As the masked man rode through the streets with Boreas he took pleasure in observing the devastating effects of his intrigues. Several times armed patrols halted them, but immediately allowed them to continue. All the revolutionaries knew the man in the black mask was a powerful ally who had encouraged and financed the popular revolt against the aristocrats, unexpectedly making the age-old dream of a handful of visionaries a reality. Moreover, Tellus, the leader they all obeyed, had ordered that the mysterious masked man be shown the same respect they showed him.
Besides, every Sybarite knew who Boreas was and what he was capable of, and they were even less inclined to go near him now that they saw him with an unsheathed sword.
The stone walls of Glaucus’ palace were stuccoed in red. A fitting color for a day of blood and fire, thought the masked man. A thin column of smoke issued from inside, but the palace didn’t seem to have suffered great damage. At the door stood ten or twelve armed men, one of whom came forward to receive them.
“Good morning, sir,” he said with a mixture of respect and pride. “My name is Isander and I’m Tellus’ lieutenant. He ordered me to take this building and put it at your disposal, along with my men.”
He stepped back, allowing them free access. He looked like a tough, intelligent man. Even so, like all the men who had participated in the revolt, his complete lack of military training was evident. The masked man recalled that, in contrast to most other Greek cities, citizens of Sybaris didn’t perform military service.
“Very good, Isander,” he whispered in his rasping voice. “I am grateful to you, Tellus, and all the people of Sybaris. Tell me now, did you detain Glaucus?”
Isander grimaced.
“No, sir. Our advance through the aristocratic quarter was complicated because most of them had a strong personal guard. Despite that, we conquered everything in only two hours, with the exception of a few mansions we’re laying siege to. Glaucus was lucky to escape before we barricaded the streets. We killed several of his guards, but he got away with a handful of men.”
Around the entrance portico, several dead bodies confirmed Isander’s story. It was not time yet to remove the dead.
The masked man nodded and they went into the palace without further ado. Another corpse lay in the entryway and three more bodies were strewn around the inner courtyard. One of them was still moaning, ignored by everyone. The statue of Dionysus had toppled from its pedestal during the struggle and was lying on the ground, its head and one arm separated from the torso.
Boreas felt strange returning to the palace where he had lived so many years. He looked toward the stables. Smoke came from them, though there was no sign of flames. Several mules were gathered on that side of the courtyard, their panniers strapped on, but empty.
Isander gave a contemptuous snort.
“Glaucus must have thought he’d have time to take his gold,” he said, pointing to the mules. “In the end, he had to escape empty-handed to save his skin…for now.”
“Perfect,” whispered the masked man. “I’ll use his mules too.”
“Yes, sir, but…” Isander wondered if he should continue.
“Yes?” The compelling whisper came through the mask, sharp as a sword.
“Tellus gave me orders to obey you as if you were he…but with one exception.”
The masked man frowned. Tellus had agreed that, as compensation for all the gold the masked man had used to finance the revolt, he would keep the contents of Glaucus’ palace. It had been a big concession on Tellus’ part, as the idealistic leader had ordered all treasure confiscated from the rich to be transferred to the public treasury. The only exceptions were the inevitable acts of pillage—to which they would turn a blind eye as long as they didn’t involve excessive amounts—and th
e assets belonging to Glaucus, the wealthiest of the Sybarites, which were to be reserved for the man in the black mask.
And we didn’t mention any exceptions to this agreement.
“It’s about Glaucus’ horses,” explained Isander, reassuring the masked man. “Tellus wants all the aristocrats’ horses for the cavalry section of the new Sybarite army.”
Boreas guided his owner and Isander’s men through the palace he knew so well. They accessed Glaucus’ private rooms, went through the gallery that ran around the large inner courtyard, at the center of which stood the statue of Zeus, and entered the main bedroom. On one of the walls, hidden behind a tapestry, was a small iron door embedded in the stone.
“Can you open it?” the masked man asked Boreas.
The giant thought for a moment and then silently left the bedroom. In the outer courtyard, he tipped over the pedestal where the statue of Dionysus had stood. It was cylindrical and grooved, like a thick column a little more than three feet high. He rolled it to his former master’s room, propped it against the wall opposite the iron door, then wrapped his arms round the heavy pedestal and tensed his muscles in a titanic effort. He managed to lift it and lean it on one shoulder, took a couple of steps toward the door, steadied himself, and started running. Everyone rushed out of his way. Six feet before reaching his target, he hurled the enormous block of stone with all his might. The pedestal hit the iron door with a crash that shook the palace.
The wall cracked, but the door held firm.
Isander and his men looked at Boreas in fright as he approached the stone block again. Some had seen him when he belonged to Glaucus, and all of them had heard about him. However, actually witnessing his immense strength was terrifying. The sense of danger was greater because the giant, in spite of being a slave, obeyed the masked man but showed utter disdain toward everyone else.
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 42
