As he touched her, his hairy forearms, thick as a man’s thigh, were next to Ariadne’s face. Her first instinct was to bite them, but fear held her back. A moment later, she found herself seething with rage: when she had been kidnapped at fifteen, panic had paralyzed her, and that had made her feel terribly humiliated and guilty for a long time.
She leaned her head toward the giant’s arm and dug her teeth hard into it.
Boreas jerked his hands away, grabbed Ariadne’s hair, and snapped her head back. A trickle of blood ran down his forearm. She tensed, expecting to receive a blow, but the monster just stared at her from above, smiling in satisfaction. He seemed to be saying that was exactly the kind of behavior he hoped for. He released her and bent down behind the chair.
Ariadne noticed the giant working at the cords around her swollen wrists.
He’s untying me!
When Boreas had finished, he walked around the chair and kneeled between Ariadne’s legs. He untied her ankles and then stood behind her again where she couldn’t see him.
Ariadne’s first thought was to run. She was only seven or eight steps from the door, and the giant had left it open to allow some light into the underground room. But her feet were so numb she couldn’t stand up.
That was when she realized Boreas was giving her time to recover.
He wants me to try and escape so he can have a bit more fun.
Ariadne leaned forward, resting her chest on her thighs, and rubbed her ankles to try and restore the circulation. She knew she’d only get one chance, and shouldn’t attempt to escape until she could use her feet properly. But she couldn’t delay much longer either, since she didn’t know how much time Boreas would give her.
Without moving her head, Ariadne scanned her surroundings. They were in what must have been some kind of storage room. To the left, by the wall, lay the remains of a cart and some agricultural implements. Suddenly, she realized the feeling had come back into her feet. She continued rubbing her ankles, swallowed, and prepared mentally to propel herself forward. She shot a quick glance at the objects by the wall, then at the brightness outside the door.
Now!
She clenched her teeth and tried to transform all her fear and anger into energy for her legs. As she began to get up, a piercing pain shot through her ankles. She thought they would fail her, but she managed to keep the momentum going. Once on her feet, she raced for the door, focusing one part of her brain on what she could hear behind her.
Boreas let Ariadne cover half the distance separating her from the outdoors, then sprang after her at lightning speed. He had to stoop because the ceiling was a few inches too low for him, but even so, he reached her in a second and stretched out his arm to grab her before she got to the threshold.
Ariadne drove her body forward with all her might, ignoring the pain in her ankles. She was two steps from the door, one step… Suddenly, she leaned all her weight on her right leg and threw herself to the left. Boreas’ fingers grazed her naked back but couldn’t get purchase on it. The giant slowed and turned to follow her, but his bent position hampered him and he lost a few seconds.
Enough time for Ariadne to reach the objects stacked against the wall.
While in the chair, she had noticed a piece of wood with a thick, rusty nail protruding from it. She had hoped it might be useful as a weapon since there was no time to look for an alternative. Now she could see it was a wide board, two feet long, with a sharp piece of iron, about eight inches long, sticking out of one end. She stopped in her tracks, crouched, grabbed the heavy piece of wood and whirled, swinging it with all her might. The rusty point cleaved the air and stopped…when Boreas grasped it with one hand. He wrenched it out of Ariadne’s hands and flung it behind him.
Ariadne was frozen to the spot. She had tricked Boreas, making him think she was running for the door, but it had been useless. Now he was a mountain of sweating, naked flesh in front of her. He observed her with amusement, waiting for her next move. Her resistance aroused him all the more.
Ariadne turned again to the wall, making a dash for a narrow stick with a sharpened end. Before she could pick it up, she felt Boreas’ immense arm wrap itself around her and lift her into the air. Her back slammed into the giant’s chest and Boreas squeezed her tight. With one arm he had completely overpowered her.
While he held her off the ground, Boreas put his free hand between Ariadne’s legs and began to move it.
He was parting her thighs.
CHAPTER 128
July 29th, 510 B.C.
“Fire!”
The mind of every master became a whirlwind of fear and confusion. Instinct urged them to escape the fire, but dread paralyzed them. Beyond their only exits were soldiers who would kill them the moment they appeared.
It seemed all they could do was choose between two ways of dying.
The smell of smoke intensified and a few seconds later the first coughs were heard.
The burden of finding an escape route weighed on Milo’s shoulders. They were facing soldiers—soldiers from his own army, for the gods’ sake!—and he was an expert at devising military strategies. Besides, they were in his villa, and he was the one who knew the building best, along with every detail of the surrounding area.
He shook his head in desperation. The smoke was beginning to overpower him.
“Get down,” someone shouted. “The smoke is less dense at ground level.”
Milo kneeled down, and discovered to his relief that he could breathe fresh air again. However, the smoke was descending relentlessly, little by little. Soon it would reach the ground.
A loud creak above Milo’s head made him shudder. The ceiling over the door had cracked. Through the fissures, tongues of flames emerged. The flames eagerly licked the wooden beams, casting a shimmering orange light inside the room. Milo could now see that the upper half of the room was filled with a dense mantle of smoke. All the masters were sitting or lying on the ground seeking clean air.
Milo bent over more and looked again at the flames coming through the roof.
Pythagoras watched the fire spreading overhead. The brotherhood’s conference, in which he had placed so much hope, was about to become a huge funeral pyre for everyone who had attended. He remembered the disappointment he had felt when Daaruk, the second of his grand masters to be murdered, had expressed in his will his desire to be cremated instead of buried.
I thought Daaruk would be the only Pythagorean to be cremated, and now our enemy wants to burn us all alive.
Propelling himself with his uninjured leg, he dragged himself to the wooden chest blocking the shutters. Leaning on it, he cast a quick glance at his companions. They all had their backs to him, their eyes fixed on the flames licking along the wooden beams. Taking advantage of that moment, he leaned his leg against the wall and pulled at the chest with both arms. The incessant roar of the fire dulled the sound of the heavy piece of furniture being dragged along the dirt floor.
That should be enough. He stood up and went to the window without anyone noticing.
The soldiers outside saw the shutters open and a plume of thick smoke billowed out. Cylon and the masked man were watching the fire, enraptured, mounted on their horses behind the line of soldiers.
They heard Pythagoras’ voice, powerful and unmistakable.
“I want to surrender!” he shouted. “Let the others live!”
Several hoplites rushed to throw their lances. Some hit the wall and others pierced the shutters, which closed instantly.
I had to try. Pythagoras sighed, sitting down on the ground again. It was clear no mercy would be shown.
A second later, he lifted his head.
“Milo,” he said firmly, “You’re going to have to lead the most mismatched battle of your life.”
Milo had been thinking the same thing Pythagoras was suggesting for a while: make the best use of the limited forces at their disposal, sell their lives at a high price, fight. The most probable outcome would be that they�
��d all be killed within one minute, but he preferred to die fighting rather than wait for the blazing roof to fall on their heads.
The hero of Croton looked around him. All the masters were sitting on the ground, waiting for his reaction to Pythagoras’ words. Their faces were admirably serene despite knowing they were on the verge of death.
It wouldn’t be a bad thing just now if their bodies were as strong as their minds, thought Milo as he observed them.
“Take the chairs,” he said resolutely. “Pull off the backs so you can use the seat as a shield, and rip off some of the legs to use as clubs.”
He took the closest chair and smashed it against the ground. The back came away from the seat. Then he pulled off three of the legs. He would use the fourth to hold the improvised shield. Taking another chair, he repeated the process, preparing clubs and shields for those masters who weren’t strong enough to break their own chairs.
While they hurried to ready their primitive weapons, Milo tried to think up ideas as quickly as he could. He still wasn’t sure what they should attempt. The unbearable heat made it essential to escape from that room as soon as possible. But how do we do it?! It was impossible to get out the window. The only option was the door, but he didn’t know if they’d be able to open it. It had been barricaded from outside, and the ceiling over it was on fire, making that side of the room as hot as a furnace—not to mention that there were probably plenty of soldiers in the courtyard pointing their lances at the door.
He looked at Pythagoras. It’s a shame he can’t fight. He would have been one of our best warriors. The philosopher was sitting next to Hippocreon’s body. He was dripping sweat and coughing like everyone else, but rather than red from the heat, his face was the color of wax. The lance had destroyed his hip joint, and he could barely control the pain. Milo looked quickly at the rest of the masters. They wore thin linen tunics instead of the leather and bronze cuirasses worn by the hoplites they would be confronting. Several masters were already armed with the improvised, rudimentary wooden weapons. He could see that some of them had to make a considerable effort just to hold them up.
They can’t fight, thought Milo, shaking his head.
The door led to the inner courtyard. Fortunately, it wasn’t very large, and would hold two dozen soldiers at most. If, by some miracle, they managed to defeat them, they’d reach the main portico, and from there the outside of the house, where they’d meet an army.
He shook his head again.
Androcles had remained in the inner courtyard with twenty hoplites. They held their lances while they watched the barricaded door, but as time went by they relaxed more and more. Thanks to the oil they had poured on the roof, it had been blazing for several minutes.
Are they dead by now? wondered Androcles. Now and again, he sent a soldier outside to ask the troops stationed along the side of the house if the Pythagoreans had tried to get out of the window. The soldiers had informed him that they had opened it just once, about five minutes before, but that the shower of lances had made them close it again immediately.
If we stay here much longer, we’ll be the ones to die. Androcles wiped the sweat from his eyes again. The sun was shining directly overhead, but what was really burning them was the fire a few feet away.
It seemed to him that the door was vibrating. He hadn’t heard anything, but the roar of the flames could drown out any sound. He fixed his eyes on the door. Two long planks were leaning against it, their ends lodged in the ground.
The planks moved a fraction.
“Watch out!”
The door shattered before he could get the words out. He pulled back the arm that held the lance. Milo’s head appeared for a moment before disappearing again.
Damn it! Androcles knew that brief glance was enough for Milo to see exactly how many of them there were, and where they were positioned. It doesn’t matter. That won’t stop us from slaughtering them.
The truth was, he was quite nervous. He hated to admit it, but General Milo frightened him.
Suddenly, Milo emerged like a tornado and charged at him, bellowing a dreadful war cry.
“Throw your lances!” squealed Androcles in terror.
All the hoplites threw their lances at the same time. They feared their true general, and knew he was the only danger they faced. They had been told that the other attendees at the meeting were old, unarmed Pythagoreans.
Milo had taken two of the chairs, and was holding them together by their legs with his left hand, thereby protecting most of his torso and head. The improvised shield saved his life, stopping several lances mid-flight. The tip of another went through the wood and pierced his forearm. Three more lances hit his body, one wounding him in the side, another in his inner right thigh, and the third opening a deep gash in his left knee. Fortunately, none of the lances lodged in his flesh, which allowed him to keep charging toward Androcles.
The corrupt officer raised his round shield, preparing himself for the fearful attack. He didn’t notice the continuous stream of Pythagoreans emerging through the broken door. As soon as they appeared they ran toward the soldiers in their resplendent linen tunics, carrying their square shields and wooden clubs.
Androcles imagined Milo would lower his strange shield at the last minute and attack him with his sword. Instead, the colossal Crotonian charged with tremendous impetus, slamming the officer into his men. The small dimensions of the courtyard had crowded them together, and now half of them fell in a tangled jumble of bodies and weapons.
The soldiers who escaped Milo’s impact couldn’t attack him, since blows from the wooden stakes were raining down on them. That gave Milo time to step back, move his shield aside, and let fly with his sword using all his tremendous strength. Androcles managed to raise his blade, but Milo’s sword crashed against it with such force it broke his wrist. With the pain came a wave of panic. Androcles looked at his general, his eyes bulging from their sockets, as he tried to withdraw. The next stroke of Milo’s sword severed Androcles’ head from his shoulders.
Milo fought more fiercely than he ever had before. He knew the advantage of their initial attack would last only a few seconds and he needed to kill as many enemies as he could before they regrouped. His right arm moved at such a dizzying speed the hoplites could barely see it. He swept the space in front of him, fending off all attacks, felling one enemy after another. The space filled with cries, splattered blood, and the crunch of shattering bones. From the corner of his eye, Milo saw the masters were holding their positions, replacing the combatants who fell with new ones. On the ground, the pile of dead bodies clad in red-soaked tunics grew higher.
Evander was making maximum use of his brawn. He had crushed two heads with his wooden club and leveled another soldier with a punch. Even so, he realized that most of his companions were falling, knifed before they could strike even one blow. A hoplite raised his sword to attack him. Evander covered himself with his battered wooden shield and stopped the blow, but the chair leg that served as a handle broke. The seat fell to the ground, leaving him unprotected. The soldier raised his sword again, but froze with his arm up. Evander saw that Milo had driven his blade into his side.
“Get a shield and a sword,” shouted Milo without slowing his assault.
Milo himself had gotten hold of a proper shield with which he pushed back the hoplites in front of Evander. The athletic master seized the moment to bend down and pick up new weapons. When he stood up with real armaments he felt a new wave of energy. He had no experience with swords, but neither had he used a club before, and he had managed to fell three enemies with it.
At that point, there were twelve soldiers on the ground and about twenty Pythagorean masters. It was impossible to fight without trampling on bodies, and it was difficult not to trip over them. Milo noticed with alarm that the soldier closest to the door ran out.
He’s going to alert the soldiers outside.
The moment enemy reinforcements arrived, the end would come in a matter of se
conds. The only thing that could buy them a little time was to maintain their position at the door so that they could only be attacked head-on. He was using his shield to push his way toward the entrance when he heard a shout behind him. He turned and saw Arquipo of Taranto, his face full of distress.
“We can’t break it down!” Arquipo shouted again.
Milo hesitated. The plan they had come up with when they left the blazing room was that he, Evander, and all the masters who could fight—except Arquipo and Lysis—would try to neutralize the soldiers in the courtyard. Meanwhile, Arquipo, Lysis, and anyone not fit for combat would escape from the burning room, cross the inner courtyard, and go into the room opposite. That room had no window to the outside, so Arquipo and Lysis’ task would be to knock down the wall using a door as a battering ram. Then they would escape through the hole and try to reach the forest.
But they hadn’t been able to break through the wall.
Evander turned to Milo.
“Go,” he shouted firmly. “Save Pythagoras.”
Milo launched one last, raging attack, then turned his back on Evander and left the fighting.
As he ran to the room, he realized for the first time that he was wounded. He was losing a lot of blood from his side and the gash on his thigh. They weren’t fatal injuries, but he’d lose too much blood if the wounds weren’t closed soon.
There were seven elderly masters with Pythagoras, Arquipo, and Lysis in the room. The look on Lysis’ face was one of desperation as he held the door they had been using to ram the wall.
“All three of us together,” said Milo.
He dropped his weapons, gripped the door with the others, and began battering the wall. A few cracks appeared. With the next blow, their improvised battering ram shattered. Milo didn’t hesitate. Taking his shield, he went out to the courtyard. The heat from the fire was unbearable. He placed the shield on his shoulder and glanced quickly toward the door. The ground was blanketed with bloody corpses. He saw that Evander and other masters were holding firm at the main door. Four soldiers were still alive, but they weren’t fighting anymore; rather, they had gone outside to wait for the imminent arrival of their reinforcements.
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 55
