Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) (41 page)

Glaucus had been staring at him. Suddenly, his gaze became as cold as his voice. He murmured, “You’ll talk, Crisipo, you’ll talk.”

The Sybarite turned to Akenon, who watched silently, sitting on the steps to the storeroom. When he spoke again, his voice had regained its friendly tone.

“We don’t want to do this to you, Crisipo. You’re forcing us with your silence. This situation is repugnant to me.”

Glaucus looked at Akenon expectantly until he nodded, sickened. The Sybarite was requesting his moral authorization to torture Crisipo. He was asking Akenon to confirm he was a good Pythagorean, and that only because of extreme circumstances and for the good of the brotherhood was he sacrificing himself, doing something that was naturally abhorrent to him.

Glaucus turned around and gestured to the slave who was heating the embers by stoking them and blowing on them through a tube. The servant redoubled his efforts and the Sybarite continued.

“I suppose your master killed my crew so they wouldn’t tell us where he’s hiding. It’s understandable that he’d do that, since he’s the murderer of several great Pythagorean masters. Yes, it’s natural he’d do everything possible to prevent us finding him. Fortunately, we found you.”

Glaucus picked up an iron rod. Its tip glowed, incandescent. He shivered at the thought that a piece of red-hot iron like this had destroyed his beloved Yaco’s face. He turned with the iron rod in his hand and stopped when his eyes fell on Akenon.

Akenon convinced me Yaco was cheating on me.

He hesitated for a moment with the searing-hot rod pointed at Akenon. Finally, he shook his head and walked toward the terrified Crisipo.

His friendly smile had turned to an expression of savagery.

CHAPTER 88

July 10
th
, 510 B.C.

Ariadne had been in bed for hours, but couldn’t bring herself to put out the oil lamp. She knew it would be impossible to sleep. As soon as dinner was over, she had slipped away, missing the reading, and rushed to lock herself in her room. In spite of her best efforts to relax, she was still a bundle of nerves.

Part of her worry was over Akenon. She knew he had gone to Croton that morning to talk with Eteocles, and had looked for him later to see if he had obtained anything new relevant to the investigation. Even so, she hadn’t tried too hard to find him. Presumably he had spent the day in Croton and returned without her realizing it. It was probably best not to see him for a day.

What had her in a permanent state of anguish was something different.

She sat on the bed in her warm room, and sighed. Eyes unfocused, looking at nothing in particular, she slowly shook her head.

It can’t be
, she thought, bewildered.
It can’t be
.

Nevertheless, the evidence was right there, beneath her. She got up and pulled a parchment from under the straw mattress. It was the document she had found at the bottom of her mother’s wooden chest. She had examined it a hundred times, but she unfolded it again with the same anxiety as the first times she’d looked at it.

She thought of her mother with conflicting feelings. If she had had a better relationship with her it would be easier to face this. But she didn’t, which was why she felt tremendous loneliness as she studied the contents of the parchment again.

There was no doubt, her mother was an expert on the matter. Everything was described with meticulous precision, leaving no room for any other conclusion: ten days late, increased sensitivity, nausea…

I’m pregnant!

CHAPTER 89

July 10
th
, 510 B.C.

Akenon remained seated while Glaucus walked toward Crisipo, carrying the iron rod with its red-hot tip in front of him like a sword. He recalled the first torture he had witnessed, of Pharaoh Ahmose II’s conspirator cousin. A shiver ran through him, but he forced himself not to look away.

Glaucus had regained much of his former weight. His voluminous figure completely overshadowed Crisipo, like a large fish about to devour a little one. As he approached his prisoner, he slowed his pace, reveling in his victim’s terror and at the same time deciding where to apply the rod.

Akenon held his breath, his body tense, waiting for the first contact. Considering the lack of integrity Crisipo had shown, it was likely he’d cave in soon.

Though I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop Glaucus after Crisipo has confessed
. The Sybarite had forced himself to maintain a friendly tone since their arrival, but had the same glint of madness in his eye that Akenon had seen when he ordered Boreas to kill and torture.

Glaucus advanced another step, ready to fall on his victim.

I’m so weary of all this
, thought Akenon. He wanted to believe they were finally close to catching the murderer. He needed to retire once and for all and lead a quiet life in Carthage without having to witness tortures or murders.

Ariadne came into his mind, but the sound of a violent blow pulled him back from his thoughts. He stood up and quickly went to see what was happening. Glaucus had his back to him, blocking Crisipo from view. The Sybarite hit his prisoner with violent fury. Then he grabbed him by the hair and tried to stick the incandescent iron rod into his mouth.

Crisipo had watched Glaucus in horror as he took the rods out of the fire to test their temperature. Finally, the moment arrived when he pulled out a red-hot rod and began to advance toward Crisipo. Up to that point, the Sybarite had behaved like a host apologizing for any unintentional inconvenience. Now, however, as he approached Crisipo there was no longer any pretense. His face radiated sadism, the intense desire to inflict pain.

On the battlefield, Crisipo had never been a coward, but now he felt he would faint with terror. His vision blurred, the world tilted dizzyingly, and his head fell forward on his chest.

React!
a voice inside him shouted.

If he didn’t act at once all would be lost. He sensed that the Sybarite would be very expert at prolonging his suffering without actually killing him. He had already covered half the distance to Crisipo. Only a few more steps and the flesh of his cheeks, his neck, maybe even his eyes would begin to char.

On the edge of collapse, Crisipo bent his head down as far as he could and grabbed the edge of his tunic with his lips.

Valiant Ares, give me strength
.

In the seam of his tunic his lips felt a small lump. He held it with his teeth and ripped the material. The contents fell on his tongue and Crisipo swallowed as fast as he could.

It’s done
.

With his head resting on his chest, he could see Glaucus’ feet coming toward him. It didn’t matter. He could already feel his tongue contracting, his throat constricting as if a fist were squeezing it from the inside. His breathing became labored. When he attempted to draw breath, he produced a whistle which in a matter of seconds became a groan of agony. From the unnatural contraction of his neck muscles, Glaucus must have guessed what had happened. He rushed to Crisipo and slapped him in an attempt to make him spit out the poison. It was too late. With a yell of rage, he hit him again. Crisipo barely noticed, his attention on the all-consuming reality that he was about to die, and by so doing would save his lord and master.

“Spit it out!”

The Sybarite grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head.

“Spit it out!”

When Glaucus saw that Crisipo’s jaw and lips had seized like his neck, he tried to push the red-hot rod into his mouth to pry it open. The flesh on his lips scorched with a rapid sizzle and the metal clashed against his teeth.

“Stop!”

Akenon pulled Glaucus by the arm. The rod fell to the ground. Crisipo, tied to the chair, had his head flung back. White foam began to bubble from his mouth. One of the guards gripped Akenon’s forearm, but he broke free with a hard shove. He took Crisipo’s head in both hands.

White mandrake root
.

The symptoms were unmistakable. It was the same poison that had killed Cleomenides and Daaruk.

“Tell us where he is!”

The scorched lips convulsed, as if Crisipo wanted to say something. Akenon tried desperately to catch a word. A second later, through the foam that augured instant death, Crisipo’s mouth managed, despite its agony, to transmit his message.

In a gesture that froze on his face as life left him, his burnt lips curved upward in a smile of triumph.

CHAPTER 90

July 11
th
, 510 B.C.

In the privacy of his room, Aristomachus held his breath as he analyzed the masked man’s method for calculating the approximation to the quotient. His small, spare body leaned so far over the parchments it looked as if he would fall on top of them. He ran a hand over the fringe of gray, unkempt hair that crowned his head. When he leaned it on the desk again, he saw his hand was shaking. He felt annoyance, as he often did, at not being able to control that outward sign of his fearful nature.

He had been examining the parchments for several days, completely fascinated, as much by the discovery that the mysterious masked man had made regarding the quotient as by the other extraordinary discoveries demonstrated throughout. Right now, he was studying the process used to obtain the square root of two
[7]
. He had never seen anything like it, and it astounded as much as disquieted him.

It’s… It’s magnificent
.

The process surprised him by being both efficient and straightforward. It started from a simple fraction which closely approximated the square root of two: 7/5. Then that fraction was inverted (5/7) and multiplied by two (10/7). The resulting fraction was another approximation to the square root of two, and indicated that a much closer result would be the mid-point between the two approximations, which was then calculated. Using that result, the process was repeated
[8]
. The method was simple: starting with a fraction, you doubled its inverse and found the mean. The result was brilliant.

Aristomachus went over every element in the parchments again and again, anxious to absorb the vast knowledge they contained as well as to find a clue that might lead to his enemy. He needed to do something for Pythagoras after letting him down twice in a row. The first time had been when Orestes died. Someone had needed to go to the Council then to represent the School until Pythagoras returned from Neapolis. Aristomachus had attended to read the communiqué, but after Cylon’s attacks he had locked himself away in the community, leaving Milo to face the Council alone.

The second fact that made him feel ashamed was when the expedition to Sybaris was arranged, to get Glaucus to give them the method for the quotient.
I was weak and cowardly.
He should have been the one to go and not Evander, since he was the grand master with the most outstanding mathematical abilities, second only to Pythagoras himself.

And now to the masked man as well
, he openly admitted.

He redoubled his concentration on the parchments in the hope of discovering a clue, some hint as to who could have created such astonishing work. His intuition told him there was much more than met the eye. He sensed that in spite of forcing his abilities to the maximum he was only scratching the surface.

His desire to help Pythagoras sprang exclusively from the adoration he felt for his master. It never crossed his mind that he might be elected successor. In fact, it would have caused him sleepless nights to know that Pythagoras’ current idea was to establish a committee of succession, in which Aristomachus would be responsible for the academic branch of the School.

Once more, he carefully reviewed the operations that used fractions to calculate the square root of two.

How many steps would be needed in this process to arrive at a fraction that is the precise square root of two?

Aristomachus’ reflections were interrupted by a knock on the door. He raised his head, unsure whether he had heard anything.

There was another knock.

He got up, his joints creaking, and winced in pain. He rubbed his knee, then walked slowly to the door. When he opened it, one of his disciples was standing there with something in his hand.

“Master Aristomachus, this just arrived for you.”

Aristomachus took it apprehensively. It was a slim, cloth package tied with a string. There was no marking on it to indicate where it had come from.

“Do you know who it’s from?”

“No, master. I already asked the messenger, but it appears to have been handed to him anonymously.”

Aristomachus looked at the package suspiciously, trying to guess its contents.

“Thank you,” he grunted as he closed the door.

He placed the package on the table and cut the string.

When he removed the cloth, he saw it contained a parchment folded in half. He stared at it for a while without touching it. Suddenly, he felt the temperature in the room drop by several degrees, and sensed someone behind him. Aristomachus quickly looked over his shoulder.

He was alone.

Open it, it’s just a parchment
, he reproached himself.

The first thing he saw when he unfolded it was the pentacle. It was a relief to find the symbol Pythagoreans used to greet and acknowledge one another. He had thought…

What’s this?!

The pentacle was inverted in relation to the text. His breathing quickened and he began reading, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

Brother Aristomachus, it gives me great joy to greet you again.

Instantly, he was certain the letter was from the masked man and it was someone he knew. His vision blurred and he had to steady himself on the edge of the table. His mind was in a ferment, imagining memories with that man: it was someone he had had friendly conversations with, someone whose power hadn’t shown itself back then as forcefully as it was doing now. Someone…

He forced himself to keep reading.

You must be wondering how many steps there are in my process of approximation to the square root of two
.

Aristomachus stifled a cry and dropped the parchment as if it had burned his fingers. He heard the echo of laughter and turned hysterically in all directions. By Pythagoras and Apollo, how could a letter tell him what he was thinking at the exact moment he received it? He jumped up from his chair and paced from wall to wall, grinding his teeth.

I’m not reading anymore.

He paused at the door and looked at the table, shaking his head vigorously. The wisest thing would be to get rid of the parchment, but he felt a strange and powerful attraction to it. He crossed the room and picked it up again.

It was a letter and a mathematical treatise all in one. Aristomachus continued reading, his face filling with fear as he glimpsed a dark abyss behind the symbols and diagrams. It became harder and harder to decipher them, but he didn’t need to understand everything to realize the implications.

When he reached the middle of the message, he fell to his knees without knowing it. His eyes continued to scan the horror before him as if of their own volition, indifferent to his terror. He felt a gloomy, dense darkness coiling within him, reaching into his mind.

He managed to close his eyes before he got to the end, but it was already too late.

He had understood too much.