A minute later, she still hadn’t heard anything. The horse and mules were evidence that Daaruk was still there. What could have happened? she wondered anxiously.
Shoving the door open, she rushed into the room holding the sword in front of her.
There were two people on the ground. It looked like they were wrestling, and Ariadne felt a moment of panic, but then realized Daaruk was lying on the ground while Akenon, sitting on top of him, was tying his hands behind his back.
Relief at seeing Akenon safe turned quickly to a wave of fury. Ariadne ran to Daaruk and began kicking his body.
“Vile traitor, murderer, swine. You killed all your colleagues.” She turned to Akenon, who had collapsed onto a chair. “They set Milo’s house on fire!” she cried, her face covered with tears. “They killed nearly everyone. My father is injured, maybe dead.”
Akenon nodded weakly, barely able to stay conscious.
“I know. He told me.”
Ariadne turned around again. Daaruk was lying on his back, looking at her. There was hatred in his eyes, but in that fixed gaze there was also a hint of complacency, which gradually spread over his face.
“Did you think you were escaping when you pushed me off the horse at the Council?” shouted Ariadne, trying to wipe the satisfied expression from his face. “You were so stupid you didn’t realize I turned my back on you deliberately, so you would jump on the horse and escape. The only thing you succeeded in doing was to isolate yourself from the men who could help you.”
Daaruk’s burnt and bloodied face twisted in a hostile, bitter grimace, but the change was as fleeting as lightning. He regained his serene look, smiling cynically and provocatively.
Ariadne felt herself burning inside. Her face became a mask of stone. She clenched her fists and realized she was still carrying the sword in her right hand. She looked at it for a moment and returned her eyes to Daaruk. The murderous master turned toward her, grunting from the effort. Ariadne brought the sword slowly down to his neck while Daaruk looked at her defiantly. She leaned the tip of the sword against his throat and pressed lightly, scratching his skin.
Suddenly, Daaruk gave a long, grating laugh that sounded as if it had issued from the deepest recesses of his twisted soul. His body shook with little tremors, and the blade of the sword cut his neck, producing a trickle of blood. The echo of victory resounded deep in his laugh.
Ariadne grasped the hilt of the sword tightly, the muscles in her arm tensed to breaking point. Without moving the blade, she leaned toward Daaruk.
“I know,” she said, nodding.
Daaruk’s expression froze, alarmed by what he read in Ariadne’s ice-cold eyes. She pulled back the sword and slowly straightened up.
Her next words swept the arrogance from Daaruk’s face.
“Death isn’t enough for you.”
CHAPTER 138
August 1st, 510 B.C.
Three days after the attack on Milo’s villa, Pythagoras arrived, unconscious, in Metapontum.
During the journey, the boat in which he was traveling had only docked for one brief period, near Sybaris. They had gone ashore long enough to fill a container with fresh water and replace the first dressing on the philosopher’s wound, which had been improvised from a strip of tunic, with a clean one. With the second bandage, the bleeding stopped completely, but Pythagoras needed to rest, and that was something the fugitives couldn’t allow themselves. They returned to sea immediately, and the philosopher’s health continued to worsen with every hour on board.
When they finally docked in a secure place, the crew took their leader immediately to Tirseno, the most acclaimed doctor in the community of Metapontum.
Tirseno looked worried when he saw Pythagoras’ wound and his pale, lifeless face.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know if he’ll regain consciousness.” He carefully pressed the flesh around the gash. “We’ll have to try to keep the wound from getting infected, but the joint is fractured. Even if I can save his life, I don’t think he’ll walk again.”
Pythagoras woke up on the third day after their arrival and observed his surroundings, disconcerted. He was lying on the only bed in a small room. On the wall across from his bed was a window with the shutters closed to keep the room in semidarkness. In spite of that, the room was suffocatingly hot, making him perspire. The only thing covering his naked body was a strip of cloth over his waist. A cumbersome splint stretching from his thigh to his back kept him face up, unable to change position or bend his body.
Gradually, images of the past few days came back to him, memories he had registered while slipping in and out of consciousness. He remembered he was in the Pythagorean community of Metapontum, a collective comprising around a hundred members under the leadership of Astilo.
Astilo…
Pain contorted Pythagoras’ face, and he closed his eyes. Grand master Astilo, leader of the Pythagoreans of Metapontum, was one of the men who had died during the attack on Milo’s house.
“Does it hurt?”
Startled, Pythagoras opened his eyes and saw a small man in front of him, looking at him with concern. It was Tirseno, the doctor of that community. Pythagoras had met him several times in the course of his travels, and vaguely remembered that he had been tending to him for some days. Tirseno was about sixty, but still had a full head of hair with no sign of gray among the black curls. His lively eyes were fixed on Pythagoras.
“No, it doesn’t. I was recalling the attack.” Pythagoras shook his head. “I’ve just remembered Astilo was one of the victims.”
Tirseno sighed and sat on a stool next to the philosopher’s bed.
“Everything that happened is…” The doctor gestured with his hands, indicating he couldn’t find the words to express it. He sighed again and continued. “Fortunately, you survived the attack. You have a marvelous constitution. Your body is recovering as if you were half your age.”
“It’s always been that way.” Pythagoras smiled sadly. “But the past months have turned me into an old man.”
“They’ve been hard times.” Tirseno nodded. “Thankfully, those responsible can do no more harm.”
Pythagoras raised his eyebrows and tried to sit up.
“How…?” A spasm of pain prevented him from finishing the question.
“Don’t try to get up.” Tirseno laid a firm, affectionate hand on Pythagoras’ shoulder, and waited for the expression of pain on his face to ease. “The last thing you heard was that you were attacked…” He thought for a moment, remembering all the information that had arrived from Croton in recent days, and continued. “Before you were attacked, Cylon appeared at the Council of a Thousand with a masked man. With the support of a large part of the Council and many bribed soldiers, they detained the Three Hundred and organized the expedition that attacked Milo’s house.”
“How many of our people survived?” asked Pythagoras, fearing the answer.
“Only the seven of you who reached the beach. The rest were murdered.”
Pythagoras suppressed a sob. He squeezed his eyelids together and raised his hand for Tirseno to give him a moment. He had already imagined that Milo, Evander, and the others who had gone out to fight in the courtyard might have died, but it was devastating to hear it confirmed.
After a while, he signaled to Tirseno to continue.
“After they attacked you, they went back to the Council,” the doctor resumed. “It seems their next step was going to be to raze the community in Croton, but your daughter’s sudden arrival thwarted their plans.”
“Ariadne!” exclaimed Pythagoras, surprised and hopeful. The last he had heard of her was that she had disappeared two days before the Pythagorean summit.
“Yes, your daughter Ariadne burst into the Council on horseback. They say it was quite spectacular. She spoke with such assurance and conviction, it was as if you yourself had been on that horse’s back, fighting with the power of words while she made the horse turn
and prance so the guards wouldn’t stop her.” Tirseno smiled when he saw Pythagoras’ face brighten at the image. “Somehow, Ariadne had figured out who the enemy that had been attacking you was, the person hiding behind the mask.”
Pythagoras’ eyes opened even wider. He was as impressed and proud of his daughter’s actions as he was intrigued to learn the identity of the masked man.
“Who was it?” he managed to ask.
“One of your grand masters. Daaruk.”
Daaruk?! Pythagoras was stunned into speechlessness. He looked away from Tirseno and stared up at the ceiling. A moment later, he frowned. How could that be? he wondered, shaking his head on the pillow. With his own eyes he had seen him fall to the ground, foaming at the mouth, motionless and not breathing. Besides, Akenon had said he had no pulse. And his slave, Atma, burned his body on a funeral pyre.
It seemed impossible, but he gradually began to realize that somehow he knew it was true. Even though he couldn’t imagine how Daaruk could have feigned everything, the clues he had sent to mock them now began to make sense.
Daaruk, Daaruk… Pythagoras shook his head, reliving the impressions his disciple had made on him over the years. When he was a new initiate, he had learned at an astonishing pace. Moreover, he had combined what he learned with his own ideas in a very original way. Later, he had seemed to become stagnant, as if he had reached a plateau. Pythagoras didn’t find that strange; it was a process he had observed in other brilliant masters.
But Daaruk hadn’t reached a plateau. He had only pretended to.
Pythagoras had noticed that Daaruk was somewhat vain and not as generous as his colleagues, which was why he would never have named him as his successor. Nonetheless, he would never have suspected that his limits were feigned, and that in reality he had surpassed Pythagoras in his knowledge.
The method of approximating the quotient using my theorem, the way of approximating square roots, the discovery of irrational numbers…
What other secrets of the universe might that brilliant demon have unraveled?
Suddenly, Pythagoras felt the room go dark, as if the sun had gone out. He heard Tirseno’s alarmed voice beside him, and tried to reply, but couldn’t.
The philosopher had slipped into unconsciousness again.
Pythagoras had fainted due to his extreme weakness. Though he recovered with no ill effects, Tirseno decided he wouldn’t give him any more news until he had built up his strength.
The next day, however, he discovered Pythagoras wasn’t prepared to wait.
“Tirseno, tell me what happened next,” he said when the doctor entered the room. “I promise I won’t faint again,” he added jokingly.
Tirseno watched Pythagoras without answering. The philosopher was trying to smile, but barely had the energy to curve his lips.
He’s trying to show more strength than he has, thought the doctor. He sighed, sitting down on the same stool as the previous day.
“Daaruk managed to seize the horse from your daughter and escaped from the Council. No one has seen him since. Presumably, they’re searching for him to apprehend him, but all reports indicate that the councilors aren’t very interested in bringing him back. They’re happy enough to have found Daaruk’s hideout, thanks to the directions provided by your daughter, who was imprisoned there for several days. When they arrived at the hideout, they found the body of a giant called Boreas whose appearance, it seems, was so fearful many of them didn’t dare go near him, even though he was dead. There was also such a huge amount of gold that each councilor helped himself to several thousand drachmas.”
Pythagoras closed his eyes for a moment. He was trying to appear calm so that Tirseno would continue with his story, but his heart was beating wildly and he had a pain in his chest. My little one was locked up with Boreas, that brutal monster. He attempted to relax the knot in his stomach and take a deep breath. At least he knew the giant was dead and Ariadne had escaped.
“Where is Ariadne?” he asked, his hoarse voice barely audible.
Tirseno shifted uncomfortably. It was obvious that Pythagoras was very tired, but he couldn’t leave without answering that question. He observed the master, worried. His breathing was agitated, and perspiration was making his long white beard stick to his neck.
“The last I heard,” he answered gently, “is that she disappeared after intervening in the Council and unmasking Daaruk.”
Pythagoras detected in Tirseno’s voice that he was hiding something.
“Tell me everything you know,” he whispered firmly.
The doctor couldn’t avoid the master’s urgent look and lowered his eyes. He remained silent for a while, his jaw clenched, before answering.
“We learned that she asked a Pythagorean soldier for his horse and sword. She left Croton on horseback and no one has seen her since.”
Pythagoras closed his eyes without altering his expression. He gestured slightly and Tirseno left him alone. When he heard the door closing, Pythagoras shuddered.
Ariadne left in pursuit of Daaruk. If she found him and there was a confrontation…
That afternoon, the doctor visited Pythagoras again. The master immediately asked about Ariadne, and Tirseno replied that he had no news.
“Very well.” Pythagoras was resigned. “Tell me what else has happened in Croton.”
Tirseno could see the master was calmer than he had been in the morning. He sat down on the stool, ready to chat for a while.
“After Daaruk fled, General Polydamantus burst into the Council with half the army to avenge Milo’s death.”
Pythagoras frowned, fearing there might have been yet another massacre.
“Polydamantus was practical and only arrested Cylon,” continued the doctor. “He also ordered the release of the Three Hundred. However, the Three Hundred haven’t regained power. After Polydamantus left, the councilors deliberated and decided they didn’t want anyone governing them.”
“How did the Three Hundred react?”
“They went to General Polydamantus. But, maybe because Polydamantus doesn’t belong to our brotherhood, he told them he would vouch for their personal safety, but wouldn’t intervene in political matters. Now Croton is governed by a Council of the seven hundred.”
Pythagoras mulled this over for a few seconds.
“It’s a wise decision,” he said, to Tirseno’s surprise. “Otherwise, the situation would soon have ended in tragedy.” He went quiet for a moment, deep in thought. “Cylon always wanted to do away with the Three Hundred. Who would have thought that the day he achieved his greatest success would also be the day of his downfall? What’s happened to him?”
“The day after his detention, he was tried and hung. They nailed his body to a wooden post and erected it next to the city’s northern gate for everyone to see. By the second day, vermin had left little more than bones.”
Pythagoras gravely considered the mental image of his political enemy nailed to the gates of Croton.
With that execution, Croton is atoning for its sins, he thought bitterly. More than half the seven hundred had been Cylon’s allies, sharing in the responsibility for most of his crimes. Yet, instead of paying for that, they had cleared their names and their consciences with the death of their leader.
Tirseno watched the master’s gaunt face.
“That’s enough for today, Pythagoras.” He placed a hand on his forehead. There was perspiration on his skin, but no fever. “You need to rest. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.”
The philosopher nodded, lacking the energy to reply.
When Tirseno went out, Pythagoras reflected on the political future of the brotherhood. The overthrow of power in Croton, the political heart of Pythagoreanism, would encourage rival politicians in other cities. His School still controlled ten governments, but in some of them, the balance was quite precarious.
And even in the cities where we’re strongest, the situation could quickly change, he thought, remembering the bitter lesson learned in Croton.
He filled his lungs with the hot air of the room and slowly exhaled. He was sure that in the following months there would be a wave of movements against the governments throughout Magna Graecia. Opposition groups, or even the common people, would try to imitate what had happened in Croton. They would also be emboldened by the popular rebellion against the Sybarite aristocrats, the ousting of King Tarquinius in Rome, and the fall of Hippias, the Athenian tyrant.
Croton, Sybaris, Rome, Athens… The times were changing, and one had to change with them or risk losing many lives by clinging to power.
My priority should be to avoid more deaths, he thought, nodding slowly. Even if he had to do it from that bed, he would plan and lead an organized retreat from all the governments where there was a risk of violent opposition.
His expression was grave as he made one of the most difficult decisions of his life. It was with profound sorrow that he realized he would have to bury his dream of creating a community of nations. His principles of harmony, progress, and justice might never govern people’s destinies.
When Pythagoras had been in Metapontum for a week, he received a great surprise.
It was late evening, almost night and the temperature in the room had only just begun to cool down. The philosopher was meditating, his gaze absent on the ceiling, when the door opened and Tirseno came in, a sealed document in his hand.
“A message arrived for you,” he said seriously. He hesitated a moment before approaching, then continued. “It’s from the Council in Croton.”
Pythagoras stretched out his hand in silence and took it. Tirseno left the room, closing the door behind him. When he was alone, Pythagoras looked at the document with a shiver, remembering the parchment Aristomachus had received before killing himself. He broke the seal and quickly examined both sides of the document. There was no inverted pentacle, only the Croton Council seal.
A Council tainted by the blood of innocent people, he thought, feeling repudiation.
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 60
