Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) (30 page)

This has been my baptism of fire. My political rebirth
.

The noise outside interrupted his thoughts. There seemed to be an argument going on. He got up from the bed and went to the door. The room, a single, with a cot pushed against the wall opposite the door, was lit by a small oil lamp.

Standing by the door, he took a deep breath. He had spent half his life feeling insecure, fleeing from disputes that were not purely theoretical, but now he was a new Orestes. Full of gravitas and authority, ready to mediate and intervene as if he were Pythagoras himself.

He reached for the door and it suddenly burst open.

The surprise stunned him for a moment, as did the large group jostling in front of him. Their faces were agitated and confused. He addressed the man who had so impetuously opened the door.

“Pelias, brother, may I ask why you’ve barged in like this, shattering the peace of my room and of the whole compound at this hour of repose?”

Pelias seemed to be the leader of that unruly group, and Orestes had been careful to address him in the same way Pythagoras would have. Reason and moral superiority weren’t demonstrated through clamor or demands, but through appropriate, measured behavior.

“Excuse me, master Orestes, but serious matters oblige us to ask your permission to search your clothes, as well as your room.”

Those words left Orestes so dumbfounded he was unable to respond. He felt the crushing weight of the accusation—
they’re accusing me of theft?!
—and his old fears and insecurities flooded back, filling him with shame. Nonetheless, a second later his newly found confidence transformed the shame to indignation.

“And might I know,” he forced himself not to raise his voice, “what you’re looking for exactly?”

“Gold,” replied Pelias, entering the room.

Behind him, several men stormed in and, without a word, began searching his belongings. Orestes turned to them, but before he could speak, Pelias continued.

“Master, I am truly sorry to have to do this, and I hope to be able to excuse myself in a minute.”

Orestes saw something in Pelias’ eyes that contradicted his words. The impulsive youth was completely convinced of his guilt.

“Do you think I’ve stolen gold from the community?” he asked, while Pelias and another young man searched him with little civility.

Pelias didn’t answer. He finished his task without finding anything and joined the group that was inspecting the contents of a small chest, emptied onto the sand floor. Orestes peered outside the door. Among the men who remained at a distance, waiting for the results of the inspection, he spotted Eurybates. He was one of the most veteran masters, one of the members of the School who had reached the highest level. They had known each other for over twenty years.

“Eurybates!” exclaimed Orestes in surprise.

The man looked away, visibly uncomfortable. Orestes took a step toward him, but stopped when he heard an exclamation at his back.

“The ground has been recently dug up!”

As he turned around, Orestes saw they had turned his cot on its side and two men were digging in the sand. He swallowed, noticing that his heartbeat was racing beyond the control of his will.

“There’s something here!”

Orestes felt a stab of panic.

He tried to get closer, but they held him by the shoulders. A young man kneeling on the ground pulled a brown leather bag from the sand and handed it to Pelias. He unfastened it and poured the contents into the palm of his hand.

“Twenty gold darics,” he muttered to himself.

The new coin of Darius of Persia was unmistakable, with a royal archer on one of its sides. Each coin was worth more than forty Crotonian silver drachmas. It had only been in circulation a short while, so it was still unusual to see it in Magna Graecia.

Pelias raised his hand, showing everyone the coins and zealously proclaimed, “Twenty gold darics!”

The men in the room turned into a snarling pack that threw itself on Orestes, insulting him and shoving him. They had listened to Pelias’ story and knew that was the amount the sailor from Croton had paid for the secret of the dodecahedron. No one had any doubt now that Orestes had betrayed the oath of secrecy, and everyone knew what that meant. The oath of secrecy was the only Pythagorean rule that, if broken, obligated the disciples to respond with violence.

“It’s not mine!” Orestes realized he had lost control, both over the situation and over himself. “It’s not mine, I swear by the sacred
tetraktys
and by Pythagoras!”

“Save your oaths,” muttered Pelias in his ear as he shoved him out of the room.

Outside he was met with redoubled violence. He covered his head with his arms, trying to protect himself from the blows.

“Stop! Calm down!”

No matter how much he shouted, it was impossible to make himself heard. It wasn’t easy to think, either, between the blows and the panic that was growing within him.
What’s going on? Why so much fury over a simple theft?
Someone grabbed his hair and pulled it viciously. A hand wormed its way under his arms and scratched his face. He felt a strong tug that ripped his tunic, then others that tore it off him.

Pelias shouted instructions. Orestes couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the throng calmed down a little. It looked as if they were organizing themselves. Suddenly, several men caught hold of him and hoisted him in the air, then started walking purposefully. He looked around, frantic, and saw that a small group was heading toward the outer door of the communal building.

He was relieved. They were going to hand him over to the soldiers who would take him to the authorities. At least he’d be safe from the violence of those crazed men. How was it possible they could have treated him like that? Especially considering there were masters among that pack of savages, including Eurybates. It was inconceivable.

Orestes was hoping he could clear things up as soon as possible and single out those responsible, starting with Pelias. However sure they were that he had stolen the gold, the violence had been excessive. Besides, inside the School only Pythagoras could judge him. Maybe that was why they were going to hand him over to the city authorities. He’d have to face the same proceedings as in his youth, the difference being that now he was innocent. He would escape incarceration even if he had to endure it until Pythagoras returned. What wouldn’t be so easy to avoid would be the political impact on the School. Maybe that was the intention of whoever had set the trap. Cylon, perhaps? There was no question he had most to gain from this new internal scandal in the School.

They were carrying him naked, face up on a sea of arms. Someone was shouting insistently at him from his left. He turned his head in that direction.

It was Eurybates.

“You betrayed the oath! You sold our secrets!”

An intense wave of panic washed over Orestes, not only at Eurybates’ words, but at the deep hatred that emanated from his voice and his eyes.

“No! It’s not true!”

He realized they were changing direction, no longer heading for the exit. The real aim of the group that had gone ahead to the entrance must have been to prevent the soldiers from coming in.

Orestes understood in his terror what that meant, and thrashed violently. The hands gripped him tighter.

“Help!” he shouted with all his might. “Sold…!”

They grabbed his hair and yanked it back.

“Shut up, you damned murderer,” grunted Pelias feverishly. “You thought that by getting rid of Cleomenides and Daaruk you would guarantee your own succession. You were never worthy of being one of us, yet you planned on becoming our leader.”

They think I’m the murderer, that’s why they’re behaving so brutally!

“I’m…not…” His efforts to speak came out as a hoarse croak due to the violent twisting of his neck.

His vision began to blur. Even so, he realized that the men carrying him were moving faster. A second later, they were running and, finally, Orestes felt himself hurled through the air.

The flight was short. They had thrown him at the stone tank where they collected drinking water. It was three feet wide, ten feet long, and three feet deep. Orestes crashed into its stone edge and fell face down into the liquid. The basin was only half full, but the grand master lost consciousness, his face underwater.

As water began to enter his throat, it contracted, and he rapidly came to. He lifted his head, taking a gulp of air with a gasp of agony. Blood gushed from a hideous gash that ran across his forehead, blinding him. He shook his head, trying to free himself from the hands that reached for him like the tentacles of a marine monster. He leaned painfully on one of his arms, unable to feel the other. It must have broken. Eager hands wound themselves in his hair and submerged his head forcefully, breaking his nose against the slippery bottom of the water tank.

He heard shouts muffled by the water. Was someone coming to his aid? He tried to relax so he’d last a little longer, giving time to whoever was coming to rescue him. A moment later, he thought the hands were loosening their grip.
I need to breathe!
He jerked his head up, breaking free of some of the murderous claws, emptied his lungs, and inhaled deeply. Air flooded in, life-saving, but while he was still gasping the hands abruptly submerged his head and he swallowed water. He coughed under the surface and had to make a superhuman effort not to inhale again while they ground his face against the stone bottom.

He endured longer than he had imagined he could, but he had to breathe. He inhaled water, his body rebelled and he coughed, but the need for air was so urgent his brain forced him to inhale again. His mouth opened under the water, and he gasped. A swift wave of fire and pain ran down his trachea, exploding in his bronchial tubes. Panic and desperation multiplied to an unbearable degree. Part of his frightful suffering was the anguished need for air. His body inhaled again and again, filling his lungs with water.

When the panic began to subside, Orestes’ final glimmer of consciousness knew that the calm he was feeling was the antechamber of death.

He accepted it.

An instant later, grand master Orestes was no more.

CHAPTER 62

June 10
th
, 510 B.C.

Akenon had never felt such an acute sense of danger.

No sooner had he entered the palace than he knew something was very wrong. The secretary who received them was unpleasantly cold, indicating curtly that the soldiers were to stay in the courtyard. Servants usually took the same tone with people that their masters did, which made the secretary’s tone an alarming sign. His feeling of discomfort increased when he saw an enormous wooden circle almost thirteen feet high leaning against the courtyard gallery. It looked grotesque, like a monument to madness.

The secretary turned left.

Where’s he taking us?
wondered Akenon.

He knew the palace and was aware that this wasn’t the way to Glaucus’ private chambers where he held his meetings. As they advanced, he felt they were being observed. He could feel the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

The secretary crossed the threshold to the banquet hall and announced their arrival. Then he turned to them grimly, waiting for them to enter.

Akenon went in before Ariadne and stopped, aghast. The lighting was poor, but he could see that the hall was completely transformed from the last time he had been there. The far wall had been knocked down, leaving the pantry and part of the kitchen exposed. There was a circle etched on the floor the size of the hall and the pantry put together. Some of the furnishings had disappeared, and what was left was heaped in the corners. He took a couple of steps into the silent darkness and bumped into something that made a metallic sound. Peering at it through the dim light, he saw that the silver panels that usually adorned the walls of that opulent space were now strewn around the floor, covered with scratches.

By Astarte, what happened here?

The answer was in front of him. Glaucus had his back to them and was examining the walls, torch in hand. The light wavered against them, revealing carvings of geometric shapes as far as the eye could see.

The hall looked like a mad mathematician’s cave.

Even though the secretary had just announced their arrival, Glaucus remained oblivious to their presence. Ariadne and Akenon looked at each other doubtfully before moving closer. The Sybarite continued with his back to them as they walked toward him. When they were one step away, he turned abruptly to face them.

Akenon knew instantly that Glaucus had gone insane.

CHAPTER 63

June 10
th
, 510 B.C.

As he did every night, Cylon bade goodnight at the door of his mansion to the Croton officials he had met with, and got ready for bed. He went up to the second floor and quickly crossed the gynaeceum, the part of the house reserved for the women. His wife lived there along with two concubines he had taken on a whim years ago, but whom he no longer visited.

Now he was more practical and only used slave girls.

He went into his bedroom. At the foot of his bed kneeled Althea, a fifteen-year-old slave girl for whom he had paid full price, much to the seller’s delight. He gestured to her, indicating that her services were required tonight. Althea quickly went to him and removed his tunic.

“Ariadne,” whispered Cylon as he caressed her. “Undress for me.”

The slave had been instructed to respond to the name Ariadne. He had chosen her because she looked so like Pythagoras’ daughter. Actually, for her striking resemblance to the real Ariadne when she had been fifteen years old.

“Turn around, Ariadne.”

Althea turned her naked body, and Cylon took pleasure for a while in watching without touching her. Her features were not so similar, but her long, wavy, light-brown hair was exactly the same as that belonging to Pythagoras’ proud daughter. He brushed her hair to one side and bit her neck while he fondled her large breasts from behind. Althea tried to muffle a cry of pain, but Cylon heard it, and his excitement increased. He took a step back and slapped the girl’s buttocks hard. Her skin soon reddened. He observed the result with pleasure, and then lay on the bed face up.

Never mind music and meditation, Pythagoras, this is the best way to get rid of tension.

Althea began working between his legs with her mouth. Cylon placed two pillows behind his head so he could get a good view of her over the obstacle of his large paunch. The illusion was perfect from that angle, with the hair covering the slave’s face.

“Ariadne, Ariadne,” he groaned, without taking his eyes off her.

He had bought the slave five months earlier, and had pleasured himself with her every night since then.

It made him remember the time he had been so close to enjoying the real Ariadne.