“How did you find this place?” he whispered, approaching her.
Boreas grunted and his master turned to him. Through gestures, the giant explained he had caught her far from there, and that she hadn’t been heading for the hideout.
The masked man cackled unpleasantly, turning to Ariadne again.
“So it was a coincidence. You’ve fallen into our hands without knowing who I am or where I’m hiding. Am I right?”
Ariadne felt her enemy’s mind pushing against hers. Using all her strength, she concentrated on keeping him out. After a few moments of tense silence the masked man began talking again, in a powerful, hypnotizing murmur. His words gently massaged her mind at first, but eventually grew to a deafening resonance that fought to take over Ariadne’s thoughts and will.
After a few minutes, the masked man desisted.
“You’re stronger than you look; my compliments. However, that won’t save your father or your community.”
Ariadne lowered her head, completely exhausted. Her enemy was so powerful, probably almost everyone bowed to him. That explained why Boreas had brought her here without touching a hair on her head, despite the evident lust shining in the giant’s disturbing stare.
“Your friend Akenon was more cooperative,” the masked man continued in a tone at once cheerful and cruel. Ariadne was frightened to hear Akenon’s name, and listened attentively. “He told me all about your entire ridiculous investigation. In fact, the only noteworthy advance he made was yesterday, when he discovered who I was and where my other hideout is, which is where we caught him. Those two discoveries showed a certain ingenuity, but then he was so stupid he didn’t think to tell anyone before coming to us so we could kill him.”
His last words exploded in Ariadne’s ears like Zeus’ thunder bolt.
Akenon…dead! She felt a pain as if someone had stabbed her in the chest. Her mind froze, unable to process what she had heard. For a few seconds, she couldn’t breathe. She looked at her enemy, tears welling in her eyes, almost mad with hatred.
The masked man thoroughly enjoyed Ariadne’s expression of suffering and hostility. Just then, he realized Boreas was watching her, his lecherous gaze tinged with sadism. That gave him an idea. He grasped the neckline of Ariadne’s tunic and yanked it down. The fabric tore, revealing one of her breasts, larger than usual due to her pregnancy. Ariadne tried to lean forward to cover her nakedness, but couldn’t, since her wrists were tied behind the back of the chair.
Boreas roared like a rabid animal. The sight of Ariadne half-naked was driving him mad. The masked man held Ariadne’s naked breast and squeezed it as he turned toward Boreas.
“Do you want to enjoy her?” He turned to Ariadne again without loosening his grip on her breast. “It seems you stir men’s passions. I know Akenon also succumbed to your charms. And did you know Cylon would give anything to have you? He was the one who arranged for you to be kidnapped and raped fifteen years ago.” Cylon had boasted about it in an attempt to impress him. Now the masked man was grateful, as it gave him more ammunition with which to wound his enemy’s daughter.
Ariadne raised her head and looked contemptuously at the masked man. It was all she could do. The masked man responded by twisting her nipple hard. The pain shot through her, causing every hair on her body to stand on end, but her expression didn’t change. The black mask drew closer until it was only a few inches from her face.
“Think about everything I’ve told you,” he whispered malevolently. “We don’t have time right now to deal with you as you deserve, but I assure you we’ll come back for you.”
Ariadne could see his eyes behind the metallic slits and suddenly realized who was hiding behind the mask. The revelation was as surprising as it was sad. She could do nothing about it now.
The masked man turned around, gathered a few parchments, and left the room without casting another glance in her direction, as if she no longer existed for him. Boreas, on the other hand, grunted through his tongueless mouth, devouring her with his eyes until he disappeared behind his master.
Alone, Ariadne burst into bitter tears.
CHAPTER 121
July 29th, 510 B.C.
Two days after Boreas captured Ariadne, a new session was about to begin at the Council of a Thousand, one that would be remembered down through the centuries as the most famous in the history of Croton.
The room was agitated. The hum produced by the councilors’ whispers and comments was louder than ever. In the grandstands, seated next to Cylon, was the reason for the commotion.
The masked man was attending the Council.
More than half the councilors already knew him, since they had received his gold at the meetings in Cylon’s house, where he had captivated them with his dark charisma. In contrast, the Three Hundred were horrified and fearful. Pythagoras had told them that the investigation pointed to a masked man as the brain behind the murders, revolts, and sackings. They imagined that the man hiding behind the black mask next to Cylon was the person responsible for those crimes.
Neither Pythagoras nor Milo were in the hall. That day, the Pythagorean summit had begun. The philosopher would be in Milo’s country house for the next two days with the most prominent members of the brotherhood. The day before, in an attempt to anticipate Cylon’s moves, Pythagoras had met with the Three Hundred and warned them that his political enemy would take advantage of his absence to intensify his attacks.
“You must be firm in your resolve,” Pythagoras had told them, enveloping them in his serene gaze. “I’ll be away for two days, but the assembly will strengthen us. As soon as it’s over, we’ll focus all our energy on reestablishing the political support we’ve lost in the past months.”
Those words had had some positive effect on the morale of the Three Hundred, but it vanished the moment they entered the Council hall and saw the masked man on the grandstand.
Cylon stood up to speak. Rather than addressing the Council from the dais, however, he remained at his seat, surrounded by his supporters, thereby underscoring the fact that his words were backed by more than half the councilors.
He arranged the folds of his tunic over his left arm and raised his right, then looked around until conversation had subsided to a tense silence.
“Esteemed councilors of Croton,” he proclaimed with energy, “we have gathered again to examine the outrages committed by our army. Yesterday, we heard General Milo’s explanations, supported by his master Pythagoras—” some of the Three Hundred protested at this comment—“and today was the day we were hoping to be able to debate those explanations with them.”
The Three Hundred increased their protests against Cylon. The masked man smiled in his seat. In fact, the previous day Cylon had allowed Milo and Pythagoras to speak as long as they wanted to without interrupting them. The politician had faithfully followed the masked man’s instructions: do nothing until Milo and Pythagoras were away. The masked man had told Cylon that when that happened, he would attend the Council and join Cylon in speaking to the councilors, concentrating all their strength in a single, definitive attack.
“Nevertheless,” continued Cylon, ignoring the protests, “Pythagoras and his followers have once again shown how little they value this Council. They can’t be here today because they have a meeting with their own sect!”
Many of the Three Hundred stood up, shaking their fists and shouting at Cylon. The masked man was beside himself with glee. Go ahead, shout, shout while you can.
Cylon remained quiet for a few minutes, stoically enduring the Three Hundred’s boos and whistles. They were rebuking him because Pythagoras and Milo had given ample notice that they would be absent from the Council those two days.
“You complain because your great leader had already informed us he’d be away.” Cylon paused, scanning his audience, before suddenly shouting, “Does a crime cease to be a crime just because the criminal gives advance warning that he’s going to commit it?!”
A new barrage of shouts
and insults arose from the Pythagorean faction. Some councilors looked like they were about to cross the hall and assault Cylon. Several of them, however, remained motionless in their seats, worrying where it would all end. Cylon’s aggressive audacity couldn’t lead to anything positive.
Good, very good. The masked man nodded slowly, satisfied with Cylon’s performance. He was obeying his instructions to the letter. He had advised him to train his criticism on Pythagoras rather than Milo, and he was to stir up the mood so it would be primed for what they planned to do in just a few minutes.
Cylon continued gravely.
“Pythagoras governs the city through the Three Hundred. The problem is that he has shown time and again that his personal and sectarian interests come before those of Croton. You all know I’ve been fighting for many years to stop the city from surrendering to this absurdity. Today, however, it won’t be my voice that makes patent the gravity of this historical error.” He turned to the masked man, held out his hand, and returned his gaze to his audience. “Today we have with us someone who, more than anyone, deserves the name of councilor. Hundreds of us have already had the good fortune to be guided by his wise words. Moreover, he knows Pythagoras and his pernicious doctrine well.”
The masked man stood up, taking Cylon’s hand. The most attentive of the Three Hundred were stunned to see the reverent silence with which the stranger was greeted by most of the Council.
After a few tense seconds, a disquieting voice emerged from the black mask, a loud, hoarse whisper that immediately riveted the attention of everyone present.
“Those who know me know my intentions.” He turned to the audience, deliberately avoiding the Three Hundred. “You know I have your interests at heart. You know I want what’s best for Croton.”
“He’s a murderer!” shouted a Pythagorean councilor.
“Don’t listen to him, he’s our enemy!”
The masked man raised a hand to the Three Hundred, but didn’t turn to face them.
“I’m the enemy, that’s true—the enemy of Pythagoras, who is Croton’s enemy!”
In response to the energetic new protests produced by this statement, he limited himself to taking a parchment from his tunic.
“In just one example of Pythagoras’ selfishness, he doesn’t want his doctrine spread in written form. However, he keeps some of it in documents which he zealously guards.” He paused, holding the parchment high. “What I have in my hands is an excerpt from the Hieros Logos, the book Pythagoras wrote in his own hand, and which he himself refers to as his Sacred Word.”
The masked man had lowered his voice to its habitual whisper, loud enough, nonetheless, for the audience to hear clearly. Even the Three Hundred had fallen silent, alert to what was about to happen and unable to completely shield themselves from the hypnotic effect of their enemy’s voice.
“This text shows Pythagoras is worse than any tyrant.” There was another outburst of protests from the Three Hundred. The masked man raised his voice. “It shows that Pythagoras’ kind-hearted appearance is merely a disguise that makes him all the more dangerous. In the Hieros Logos, Pythagoras calls himself the people’s shepherd. He says his function, and that of his disciples, is to lead a misguided flock. It constantly reveals his contempt for everyone who doesn’t belong to his sect. He calls them inferior beings who need to be led by him so as not to continually fall into depravity and crime.”
The cries of the Three Hundred were now tinged with desperation. Their enemy was using the most dangerous kind of lie: the one that contains a grain of truth. It was true that Pythagoras regarded himself as the people’s shepherd, and thought that without his doctrine it was more likely an individual would lead a more primitive life. However, he also had the utmost respect for each person and his freedom of choice. Pythagoras didn’t want to impose rules for living, but rather to offer them, and to assist anyone who requested his help to live by them. It was also true that he advocated a government led by an élite, but its members first had to achieve a high standard of moral perfection. He wished power to be exercised by the most capable only after they had committed themselves to behave justly and generously.
Cylon had taken his seat when the masked man began his speech. Now he stood up again.
“The Pythagoreans have spent thirty years laughing at the people of Croton!” he bellowed, with little need to pretend indignation. “These three hundred shepherds—” he pointed an accusing finger—“have made decisions for us at their whim. To them we are no more than animals: their seven hundred miserable sheep!” A roar of indignation made the Council hall vibrate. “Pythagoras and his Three Hundred risked every Crotonian’s life by forcing us to go to war. I’ll remind you that we abstained from voting on whether to offer asylum to the Sybarite aristocrats, but they—” he shook the finger that was still pointing at the Three Hundred— “voted against handing them over, which meant they voted for war.” He shouted at the top of his voice to be heard above the desperate cries of the Three Hundred and the accusatory roar from the rest of the Council. “And not satisfied with that, the Pythagoreans then decided to raze to the ground a city that had surrendered, making all of Croton responsible for sacrilegious plundering of temples, vile murders, and mass rapes. And I ask you, honorable representatives of the people of Croton, I ask you: shall we allow those who have blemished our reputation in the eyes of other cities and of the gods to go unpunished, or shall we clear our name by punishing them as they deserve?”
Some of the Three Hundred didn’t wait for Cylon to finish. They realized they were risking their lives by staying there and, besides, they had to warn Pythagoras of what was happening. The councilors stumbled down the stands and rushed toward the doors. These isolated attempts to escape quickly became a mass exodus amid the rest of the Council’s aggressive clamoring. Those not fast enough were held back and jostled and shoved by the members of Cylon’s band, while the first to flee reached the exit, spilling out into the street.
The men just behind them stopped short as they reached the door, turning back unexpectedly en masse. Behind them, pushing with his gigantic arms stretched wide, appeared Boreas.
The masked man was enjoying the scene tremendously. The Three Hundred looked at each other, terrified. Pythagoras’ powerful political supporters had been reduced to a trembling mass of cowards. Behind Boreas, dozens of soldiers appeared, their swords unsheathed, and surrounded the Pythagoreans.
“Detain them,” ordered Cylon. “Lock them up until we decide what to do with them.”
In truth, their fate had already been decided, but there was no time right now to carry out their punishment. Some of the Three Hundred belonged to the wealthiest and most influential families in Croton, and would be offered the opportunity to publicly renounce their current beliefs. The rest would be hanged.
The masked man left his seat in the grandstand. When he reached the floor of the hall he circled the mosaic of Heracles on his way to the dais.
The time has come, he thought with a shiver of excitement.
He was going to address the Council, now comprising only seven hundred councilors, with two objectives. The first was to secure his position as sole leader of Croton.
Cylon will have to be quick to take on his subordinate role, or I’ll have to eliminate him.
The second aim of his speech was to set in motion the most important phase of his plan: the pinnacle of his revenge.
Hastening his steps as he neared the dais, he suddenly remembered Ariadne. She had been locked up for two days, half naked and tied to a chair. He hadn’t allowed Boreas to touch her in case he needed her as a bargaining tool.
He changed direction and went over to the giant.
“Take care of Ariadne,” he whispered, unheard by anyone else.
Boreas looked at his master anxiously. Did that mean…?
The masked man nodded.
“Do whatever you want with her.”
CHAPTER 122
July 29th, 510 B.C.
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Milo’s country house was a large, simple building. The walls were of adobe, and the roof of wood. One story high, it had an inner courtyard surrounded by rooms. The largest room, designed to hold the assemblies of the brotherhood, occupied the length of one side of the courtyard. Access to this room was through the courtyard, and it had one window on the external wall. At that moment, both the door and the window were open to let the air flow and offer some relief to the room’s forty occupants who were enduring the heat of the day.
Fifty people had been invited, but ten had sent their regrets, claiming to have difficulties with transportation or security due to the war between Croton and Sybaris.
They’re reasonable excuses, thought Pythagoras, but I regret their absence. He especially missed his son, Thelauges, leader of the community in Catania. He hadn’t seen him in several months, and had been sure he’d make it in spite of the difficulties, as most of the invitees had done.
A large, rectangular table had been set in the middle of the room, containing bowls of olives, cheese, and fruit, as well as barley cakes. The attendees sat around the table and helped themselves. Unlike the usual custom at Greek gatherings, wine was not offered.
Pythagoras was the first to speak. He summarized the dramatic events of the recent months, and told them about his idea to appoint a succession committee. Afterwards, he asked the representatives of each community to comment on the brotherhood’s situation in their regions.
The presentations by the representatives from Himera and Metapontum took up the rest of the morning. When they finished, just after midday, Arquipus of Taranto prepared to speak. He was forty years old, robust and vigorous, and had been named grand master only a few months earlier.
“Greetings, brothers. In the name of Antagoras, leader of the Taranto community, I apologize for his not being able to attend. His health prevented him from traveling with us.”
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 53
