He began reading, fearing bad news for the Crotonian community. However, he discovered that the seven hundred seemed to be satisfied with the power they had gained. Not only did they have no desire to act against the community, they were inviting him to return to Croton, albeit on the condition that he devote himself only to matters having nothing to do with politics.
Pythagoras laid the document on his chest and leaned his head on the pillow.
I’m not going back, he thought after a moment.
At least not as leader of the community. Not only was he sickened by the politicians’ behavior, he was disgusted with the military and the common people for not standing up to leaders who engaged in such unjust, violent acts. Besides, he was wounded, exhausted by the events of the past months, and dejected by the deaths of so many friends.
The six hundred disciples in the Croton community deserve someone who can guide them with vigor, clarity, and resolve.
He took the document from his chest and put it on the ground beside the bed.
I’ll tell Tirseno to write a message to Theano.
He was going to ask his wife not to come to him, but to remain in Croton and take over the leadership of the community.
I need to focus on other matters, he told himself resolutely.
He had to supervise the withdrawal of the brotherhood from political affairs throughout Magna Graecia. That would take months, if not years. In addition, he needed to disseminate the discovery of irrational numbers. Daaruk had used that discovery to orchestrate Aristomachus’ suicide, but he hadn’t made it public. His intention had probably been to disclose it at a later stage, no doubt in the way that would be most harmful to the brotherhood.
Where is Daaruk? wondered Pythagoras.
The last he had heard was that he had escaped from the Council…and that Ariadne had gone after him. He shook his head, thinking of his daughter. There was still no word of her. Maybe she’s already safe and sound in the Crotonian community, and at any moment Tirseno will walk in with the news.
As for Daaruk, it was now ten days since he had disappeared, which meant he could be anywhere. Maybe he had resumed his plan to kill off the brotherhood. At that very moment he could be sending letters to all the communities, revealing the existence of irrational numbers.
Pythagoras shook his head. Whether it’s through Daaruk or someone else, the abyss posed by irrational numbers will come to light.
In his discovery of the existence of something no one else had even glimpsed yet, Daaruk had been ahead of his time. Thanks to him, Pythagoras could now clearly see that his mathematical studies and his concept of the world had run up against the wall—the mountain, in reality—of irrational numbers.
We must confront them, but with utmost caution, so they don’t destroy everything we’ve achieved up to now.
Pythagoras’ aim wasn’t to try and bury the discovery. His wish was to transmit the new concept to a select number of grand masters, after which he would deliberate with them about the best way to disseminate the new knowledge among the rest of the Pythagoreans, causing the least possible trauma.
He looked at the little window in his room. The shutters were open, but from his bed all he could see was the sky. A mantle of gray clouds had brought nightfall earlier than usual.
He sank back into his reflections.
There’s another problem seriously affecting the future of the School.
The financial viability of the brotherhood was now in jeopardy due to the loss of political support, the foreseeable drop in new members, and even the desertion of some disciples.
He remembered all the gold that had passed from Glaucus’ hands into Daaruk’s. With just a fraction of that gold, the brotherhood could survive with no problem.
The door opened suddenly, startling Pythagoras. The philosopher turned his head to see who it was.
His face lit up with an incredulous smile.
CHAPTER 139
August 8th, 510 B.C.
“Father!”
Ariadne,” whispered Pythagoras. He stroked his daughter’s hair, then hugged her tightly, crying silently while she sobbed against his chest.
Akenon remained by the door, respecting the intimate moment between father and daughter. The doctor, Tirseno, had just told them that Pythagoras’ wound was healing well, but Akenon had feared it might have been a merciful lie to calm Ariadne.
Thanks to the gods, thought Akenon as he observed him. Although the philosopher was thinner and paler, he didn’t look like the dying man he had feared they’d find.
Nevertheless, Pythagoras’ splint was very striking. Several strips of wood tied with bands of cloth ran along the left side of his body from his knees to the midpoint of his torso, keeping his hip rigid. A linen bandage covered the wound on his hip. Akenon discreetly sniffed the air in the room, but found no trace of the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh. Bearing in mind that ten days had passed since Pythagoras had been wounded, that was a very good sign.
Ariadne lifted her head and laughed, embarrassed at having cried like a little girl. She squeezed her father’s hands, and they gazed at each other in silence for a while. Then Pythagoras turned to Akenon.
“Dear friend, I’m so happy to see you again.”
Akenon came forward, smiling, and shook Pythagoras’ hand. Ariadne was still clasping the other one.
“I imagine that’s Daaruk’s work,” said Pythagoras, pointing at Akenon’s face. The swelling on his right cheek was still visible, his nose was slightly crooked, and there was an uneven brown patch on his neck.
Akenon nodded.
“Daaruk and Boreas caught me and almost killed me, but thanks to Ariadne we don’t have to worry about either of them anymore.”
Pythagoras asked them to tell him everything that had happened. They explained that Akenon had figured out Daaruk’s identity from his ring. They also told the philosopher how Ariadne had managed to kill Boreas, get to the villa where Akenon was, and untie him before going to the Council to unmask Daaruk. Ariadne couldn’t avoid the expression of contempt that crossed her face when she remembered how Daaruk had fled the Council and gone to his hideout, thinking he was escaping, only to have Akenon apprehend him.
“When Eritrius told me where Daaruk’s family villa was,” said Ariadne, “I asked him not to give anyone else that information. That way I made sure no one would interfere in our plans. Besides, that allowed us to spend the night there, since Akenon was badly hurt and couldn’t ride. The next morning before dawn I went to the port to find a boat so we could leave Croton. While I was at the port, I met Eshdek.”
Ariadne looked at Akenon, and he continued the story.
“Eshdek is a friend from Carthage who is completely trustworthy. He’s a powerful merchant for whom I do most of my work. He happened to stop in Croton on his way to Sybaris. When he heard the news about everything that had happened in the Sybarite city, he decided to try and sell his merchandise in Croton. Fortunately, Ariadne remembered me mentioning him so she approached him and Eshdek immediately offered to help us. He picked us up from a beach with one of his ships and kept us hidden for several days while his men kept us abreast of everything that was going on. The moment we learned you were in Metapontum, we set sail in Eshdek’s ship.”
“What did you do with Daaruk?” asked Pythagoras, looking at his daughter.
Ariadne’s face clouded and she couldn’t meet her father’s gaze. There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Akenon answered for her.
“He’s chained to an oar on Eshdek’s ship. We couldn’t hand him over to the Crotonian authorities, since he’s bribed too many people who would help him in the hope of receiving more gold.” He hesitated before continuing. “We also had to take into account the seductive power of his gaze and his hypnotic voice.”
Pythagoras nodded, looking somber. Ariadne got up silently and looked out the window. As she watched the night shadows, she was overcome by a profound melancholy. She had always felt she didn’t
completely fit into the brotherhood, but now she knew with painful certainty that because of Cylon and Daaruk, the distance separating her from the Pythagorean School had become unbridgeable. Her father would always love her, but he would never be able to accept some of the dark feelings within her that were as much a part of her as all her other traits.
Pythagoras watched her sadly, then turned to Akenon.
“Are you going back to Carthage?”
Akenon assented, but Ariadne wasn’t listening to his words. She was thinking of the second day they had spent in hiding on Eshdek’s ship. While she was changing the bandage on Akenon’s face, one of the sailors had arrived with the news that Cylon had been executed.
“His body is on display at Croton’s northern gate,” the sailor said.
At that moment, Ariadne had felt an inexorable need to see the body. When night fell she hid her face under a hood and left the ship. She didn’t tell Akenon where she was going because she knew he would try to stop her.
When she reached Cylon’s body, she was slightly disappointed that the swollen, deformed face was barely recognizable. Even so, she spent half an hour there, motionless, probing her feelings. As Pythagoras’ daughter, she felt she ought to experience forgiveness or compassion, but that wasn’t what happened. When she remembered that Cylon had ordered her kidnap and rape, led the attack on Milo’s house, devoted his life to crushing her father and everyone associated with him… When she contemplated his corpse and thought about those things, what she felt was an angry release, followed immediately by a deep sense of emptiness.
After spending two days with Pythagoras, who continued to make good progress under Tirseno’s care, Ariadne and Akenon left the small community of Metapontum.
They had divided between them over two thousand pounds of gold from Daaruk’s villa which was now hidden in the hold of Eshdek’s ship. Before leaving Metapontum, Ariadne offered her father almost all her share, and Akenon gave him half of his. Pythagoras found himself unexpectedly with more than fifteen hundred pounds of gold, worth nearly four million drachmas.
That will cover the expenses of all the Pythagorean communities for several years, thought Ariadne.
In a few minutes they would reach the place where Eshdek’s ship was docked. They hadn’t spoken since beginning to walk. Ariadne watched Akenon from the corner of her eye and thought of saying something, but didn’t. It was obvious that Akenon’s thoughts had taken him far away.
He’s thinking of Carthage. He must see his return as a release after everything that has happened here.
Ariadne looked forward again. Before falling into Daaruk’s and Boreas’ hands, she had felt incapable of having a relationship. However, since confronting the giant, she had noticed that had changed. She was still apprehensive about the emotional risk of exposing herself so intimately to someone, but the block and the apparently insurmountable fear had disappeared. There was no longer any trauma to come between her and Akenon.
But I mustn’t tell him I’m pregnant. If she did, he would feel duty-bound to take care of them and she would never know his real feelings.
The past weeks had been so turbulent and tragic that everything else had been relegated to the background. However, in recent days, they had found time to talk more calmly. And Akenon hasn’t mentioned our relationship even once. Not only that, she had heard him several times talking to Eshdek about how much he was looking forward to returning to Carthage.
Trying to think of something else, Ariadne evoked her leave-taking from her father. At once, her eyes welled up. She clenched her teeth to stop herself from crying, but a telltale tear slowly rolled down her cheek. In Pythagoras’ room, having kissed him for the last time, she had walked toward the door, but had suddenly been assaulted by the thought that her father’s face must show his true feelings for her now that she had her back to him. Those feelings could only be sorrow and condemnation, given that her bitter, resentful attitude towards their enemies went against her father’s moral teachings. When she reached the threshold, dejected, an uncontrollable impulse to turn around had gripped her. She deserved the disapproval she would find, the punishment of seeing clearly in her father’s face how she had disappointed him. She turned her head suddenly to catch him by surprise. Framed by his magnificent white hair, every feature of that sober, powerful, venerated man’s face radiated the same thing as his golden gaze.
The tenderness of a father who loves his daughter.
CHAPTER 140
August 12th, 510 B.C.
Akenon leaned against the gunwale, holding on with both hands. He was glad not to have suffered seasickness since setting sail from Metapontum two days before. Sailing could be tolerable when the sea was calm and the coast within sight.
Eshdek had told him there were plenty of pirates about, which was why a Carthaginian military ship was escorting them, a long, stylized trireme. Akenon was admiring its impressive bronze-plated prow and the fierce enormous eyes painted on either side of the hull. It was said they helped the ship to see and instilled fear in the enemy. Akenon imagined the trireme rushing towards them, its more than one hundred oarsmen making it fly over the water, and had to admit it would be a frightening vision.
The ship they were traveling in was a wide, pot-bellied merchant ship, a hundred feet long, with twelve oarsmen on each side. The breeze was enough to fill its enormous square sail, so the oarsmen were resting.
Eshdek appeared beside him. He was wearing a short tunic with a wide leather belt and his usual teasing smile.
“You’re going to be one of the wealthiest men in Carthage. Have you thought about what you’ll do there with so much money?”
Akenon looked out at the horizon before answering.
“I’ll buy a quiet life.”
Eshdek thought of making a joke, but something in Akenon’s voice held him back. He searched his bruised face for a moment, and stayed with him by the gunwale, watching the sea in silence.
After a while, he turned to Akenon again.
“You’d both better go down to the hold.” He signaled with his head toward the coast. “In half an hour we’ll be in Croton.”
Akenon nodded. The wisest thing was to hide until Eshdek’s men reported back on the situation. Six days ago, when they had set sail for Metapontum, Croton had been calm, but it was best not to trust a city that had just experienced violent changes in the head of its government and its army.
On the other side of the ship, Ariadne was absorbed in her thoughts, watching Croton. Akenon went up to her and put a hand on her bare shoulder. She turned, startled, and smiled when she saw it was him. For a moment, they looked at each other without speaking. Ariadne saw the sparkle in his brown eyes and his attractive smiling lips. He’s beginning to look like the Akenon I met a few months ago, she thought. Maybe his imminent return to Carthage was cheering him.
“We have to go down to the hold,” said Akenon.
Ariadne nodded but didn’t move. She kept looking into his eyes, wondering if gestures such as putting a hand on her shoulder, almost caressing it, were simply something a friend would do, or if they meant more.
Akenon’s face tensed slightly, and he looked away.
When they began to descend to the hold, Ariadne stopped suddenly.
“I want to see him one last time.”
Without waiting for a reply, she walked away from Akenon and entered the oarsmen’s compartment. The air was hot and humid there, so thick with human stench it was almost impossible to breathe. The oarsmen wore shackles around their ankles and were linked together with long chains which also secured them in their places. Almost all the poor wretches were dozing, slumped forward on their oars.
Ariadne’s eyes rested on the first oarsman on the right. Although he was asleep with his face buried in his arms, it was evident the skin on his forehead was burned.
Daaruk… thought Ariadne. How can one man have done so much harm?
Asleep and chained, he looked harmless, but he alone, with
the hypnotic power of his eyes and his dark voice, had caused the deaths of thousands of men. He had almost condemned Sybaris, a city of three hundred thousand, to oblivion. He had instigated the bloody revolt against the aristocrats, the war against Croton, and the savage sacking perpetrated in its aftermath. Each of these had decimated the population of Sybaris, now a city on its knees.
Ariadne walked up to Daaruk with an increasing feeling of tension. Her father’s ex-disciple, one who had belonged to his intimate circle, had been on the verge of completely destroying the Pythagorean brotherhood. He had stripped the School of its political weight in Croton, and it would probably soon lose its presence in the governments of other cities as well. The Pythagorean School had gone from being one of the most influential organizations in the world to being threatened with extinction. Ariadne felt her breathing quicken. The traitorous disciple had murdered all the candidates to her father’s succession as well as many other grand masters, first one by one, and then en masse during the attack on Milo’s house.
You were also about to kill my father. She stopped a step from Daaruk, clenching her teeth. And Akenon. Daaruk shifted, as if he could feel someone’s presence. And you ordered Boreas to rape and kill me.
Daaruk raised his head abruptly, sniffing quickly to his left and right like a rat in the dark. The surface of his eyes was opaque, seared with a red-hot iron by Eshdek’s men. Although he couldn’t see Ariadne, he suddenly pierced her with his blind gaze. His burnt lips drew back like a snarling dog’s, trembling with rage, revealing the few teeth that remained. With a malevolent grimace on his deformed face, he emitted a guttural grunt. The hatred he exuded was so intense, Ariadne shuddered and took a step back, but she made an effort not to turn around, and continued to look at him. The traitorous master erupted in a furious rant of unintelligible curses. His body shook violently against the chains, his face went purple, and the veins in his neck swelled as if they would burst. Inside his mouth, Ariadne could see the frenzied contortions of the stump that had remained after his tongue had been pulled out with pincers.
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 61
