Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) (47 page)

CHAPTER 103

July 22
nd
, 510 B.C.

Pythagoras waited on the dais for the councilors to make a decision. Standing tall, he looked like the impressive leader he had always been. In his left arm, crossed in front of his body, he carried the end of his linen tunic, as white as his abundant hair. His golden eyes scanned the hall while he wondered what would happen.

The Sybarite rebels’ delegation had arrived two hours ago. The Council of a Thousand had allowed the leader, Isander, to address the entire hall. His message had been clear and definitive: they must hand over all the Sybarite aristocrats within twelve hours or face the consequences.

Lacking diplomacy, Isander had added, “And you know the size of our army, especially our cavalry.”

It was true. They knew the size of their army, and especially their cavalry. That was why Pythagoras, who had delivered a short but impassioned speech after the delegation left the hall, wasn’t sure if he had convinced enough councilors. There was no doubt the Three Hundred would vote in favor of protecting the refugees.
The problem will be if there’s a majority of votes against it in the Council of a Thousand
. The Council of Three Hundred was the hierarchical head of the Thousand and could decide on its own, but that wasn’t an option now. If they were left in the minority on such a thorny issue, there would be an institutional crisis which would block Croton’s ability to act at this extremely delicate moment.

The councilors had been given thirty minutes to think the matter over and vote. As usual, they had congregated in groups along the tiered seating. Now and again, councilors acting as messengers could be seen rushing from one group to another. Traditionally, the largest group was the Council of Three Hundred. However, for the past few weeks, Cylon’s group had been more numerous. It currently included almost four hundred councilors.

Only five minutes were left to deliberate. The murmur had grown more urgent. Pythagoras could do nothing but await the result of the vote.

I’ve been absent too much these days
, he reproached himself.
I hope it doesn’t influence the vote negatively.

The discovery of irrational numbers had left him stunned for ten days. The existence of relationships in nature that couldn’t be expressed as ratios between whole numbers had dealt too heavy a blow to his doctrine. His faith in his knowledge, his research methods, and therefore himself, had been irrevocably shaken. Nevertheless, he realized his huge responsibility. The foundations of his mathematical model had crumbled. Perhaps what needed to be done was to dismantle the whole model and try to construct another, more solid one from the remaining fragments.

I won’t be able to do that now, but I must encourage others to do it
.

He had to guide the members of his brotherhood into the future. They had to try and reconstruct their mathematical model, reevaluate their ideas on astronomy and music, and learn to see in a different way, or accept that seeing was impossible, as it appeared to be now. But his doctrine went much further than that. There was his knowledge of the human body and soul. There were his rules on personal and collective behavior which led to a better life on earth, as well as to a closer approach to immortality within the soul’s cycle of reincarnation. In just six days, he would meet at Milo’s house with the most important members of the School. He would create the succession committee, which would be responsible for reevaluating and reorganizing whatever was necessary with the energy that was beginning to fail him, and then…

“Not handing them over is suicide!” someone shouted.

Pythagoras awakened from his thoughts and saw that two small groups of independent councilors had become embroiled in a discussion.

“Handing them over is tantamount to murder!” a second voice replied.

Pythagoras didn’t intervene. Those kinds of discussions were normal during debates. Anyway, time was up.

We must vote.

The elderly Hyperion, Cleomenides’ father, spoke first in representation of the Three Hundred. Their hierarchical superiority gave them the prerogative of voting first. He stepped forward, to the edge of the mosaic of Heracles, and declared in a weary but decisive voice: “The Three Hundred vote in favor of asylum.”

Without another word, he turned and went back to his seat. There was no reaction to his statement.

Now it was the turn of the remaining seven hundred. One of the reasons the Three Hundred voted first was to influence the other councilors; however, Pythagoras knew that in a matter of such importance, where the lives of the councilors themselves were at stake, their influence was very limited.

He cleared his throat.

“Let’s continue with the voting. First, let’s have a show of hands of those in favor of handing over the aristocrats to the Sybarite rebels.”

Far fewer hands went up than he had expected, but his relief was bittersweet. To hand them over would be an atrocity, but protecting them probably meant fighting against an army far greater in number, which could mean the eventual destruction of Croton. A second later, he realized there was a large vacuum among the raised hands.

Cylon and his four hundred minions hadn’t voted.

What does this mean?
he wondered anxiously. Angry comments were beginning to circulate through the hall. It didn’t make sense for Cylon’s group to vote with the Three Hundred. After all, the majority of the Sybarite aristocrats were members of the brotherhood, and had governed according to its doctrines. What interest could Cylon have in defending a group of Pythagoreans?

Two secretaries were entrusted with doing a hand count. Pythagoras had already counted them, one hundred forty-eight, but he waited for the secretaries to finish.

The first one approached him from the right.

“One hundred forty-eight,” he whispered.

A few seconds later, the second came from the left and indicated the same number.

“Good,” continued Pythagoras, not sure how to proceed. “Now let’s have a show of hands from those in favor of offering refuge to the Sybarite aristocrats.”

The secretaries approached, once more in agreement.

“One hundred fifty-six.”

Immediately, exclamations of amazement and protest broke out in the hall. Cylon and his four hundred hadn’t declared their position, and everyone was shouting at them. They remained calm, as if the voting had nothing to do with them. Pythagoras frowned. Abstention was an option during voting, but it was rarely used, and never on a matter of importance.

Moreover
, thought Pythagoras,
Cylon would never choose to show favor to any initiates of the brotherhood, and abstaining means protecting them
.

The only explanation for Cylon’s silence was that he wished to exercise his right to address the hall before voting. Nevertheless, it was extremely disrespectful to have waited until the majority of the councilors had voted. In fact, it was so irregular, Pythagoras was tempted to declare Cylon’s and his followers’ votes null and void. He bit his lip, unsure of what to do. The problem with taking such action would be that it would begin a lengthy discussion.

The Sybarite delegation has been inflexible with the deadlines, they won’t wait for us to resolve our internal quarrels
.

Cylon was enjoying Pythagoras’ disconcerted expression. However, his mind was more occupied with other matters.

I don’t know what the masked man is planning, and I don’t like that.

In the last meetings he had held at his house, the masked man had spoken to the four hundred councilors who now formed his faction in small groups. He had beguiled them all with the strange spell of his dark voice, and had won them over definitively by giving them thirty gold coins each.

Twelve thousand coins in all.

Cylon shook his head. He wasn’t complaining about not having been part of that rain of gold; he himself had received three hundred coins. What he didn’t like was acting without understanding his own actions.
I feel like a puppet
. Despite everything, up to now the reward had far outweighed the inconvenience. The masked man used his house as he saw fit and made the decisions, but in exchange he had managed to inflict more damage on Pythagoras in a few weeks than he himself had achieved in decades. Cylon’s gratitude for that was enormous, as was his confidence in the masked man’s ability to achieve similar results with his next decisions.

Pythagoras was waiting for him to speak, but he remained seated.

“Councilor Cylon,” Pythagoras finally said, controlling his irritation. “Would you like to say something to the assembly before voting?”

The moment had arrived. Voting against asylum meant handing over the refugees and avoiding military conflict. Voting in favor of asylum—or abstaining—meant siding with Pythagoras and his Three Hundred, refusing the demands of the Sybarite delegation, which probably meant war.

He rose from his seat, thinking of the masked man one last time.
Very well, I’ll do what he told me even though I don’t understand it.

“Esteemed Pythagoras,” he replied, feigning surprise, “I didn’t think it was necessary for me to speak.”

He shrugged, as if explaining something obvious.

“We…” he gestured vaguely toward the councilors around him, “will abstain.”

CHAPTER 104

July 22
nd
, 510 B.C.

Ariadne exhaled a tired sigh and finished the class, then led the children to the dining hall. The little ones were more restless than usual, as if they had been infected by the tension building up in the adults.

She, too, was ill at ease. She went outside and headed to the community portico in search of news. In the gardens she found Evander and Hippocreon holding a meditation session with about a hundred disciples. That they could manage to isolate themselves from everything under these circumstances was admirable.

During a class recess another teacher had given her the latest news, delivered to the community by a messenger an hour ago: a delegation of Sybarites had visited the Council of a Thousand. No other details were known yet.

As she went down the slope, Ariadne saw that more than six hundred people had gathered on the grounds next to the entrance around the statues of Hermes and Dionysus. They were strangely silent, but no one felt like conversing during that stressful wait. Among the group were three hundred Sybarite aristocrats who were being housed in the compound, most of them sleeping on the ground in the inner courtyard of the communal buildings. The remaining two hundred refugee aristocrats were in the city with relatives or business associates who had taken them into their homes. When they received the news that the Sybarite delegation had arrived, they all took it as a given that Tellus had asked for them to be handed over, and that their future was being decided at that very moment in the Council.

Ariadne saw Akenon standing at the back of the group and went over to him.

“Any news on the delegation?”

Akenon was startled. He was so immersed in his thoughts he hadn’t noticed her approaching.

“The last we heard was that the delegation from Sybaris entered the Council hall.”

Ariadne nodded, indicating she already knew that. Then she sat down to wait, feeling very tired.

After a few seconds, Akenon sat beside her. For a while neither spoke. Akenon was very conscious that his arm was almost touching Ariadne’s. He had resigned himself to the fact that they wouldn’t be together, but that didn’t make it easy to stop himself from wanting to caress her. He held his breath as he discreetly admired her fair hair falling around her shoulders, the smooth, tanned skin on her arms… He clenched his jaw and looked straight ahead. There was no point in trying again, but the situation left him with a constant sense of loss.

When I get back to Carthage I can begin to forget her
.

Ariadne started talking, looking toward the group of refugees.

“I find this whole situation incredible. It was always said that Croton was safe from attack because it had the strongest army in the region, but now, all of a sudden, tens of thousands of Sybarites are preparing to fall on us.”

She looked directly at Akenon.

“You’ve seen their troops. Do you think they can beat us?”

That morning, Akenon had accompanied some soldiers going to spy on the Sybarites. He wanted to evaluate their forces firsthand.

“The soldiers in your army are quite good,” he replied after a moment. “They’re well trained and armed, unlike the Sybarites. I think each soldier could put three or four of Tellus’ men out of action. Despite the fact that the ratio of infantry troops is two to one in favor of the Sybarites, Croton’s infantry could destroy them. If it weren’t for the cavalry, victory would be assured. In fact, I can’t imagine the Sybarites initiating a battle.”

“I’ve heard they have two thousand horses,” said Ariadne. “They’re the ones the aristocrats used to train for their equestrian games, so they must be magnificent animals. Nevertheless, they don’t have the cavalry soldiers to ride them. Does that not reduce their advantage?”

Akenon nodded, but pursed his lips.

“It reduces it a bit, but not enough. Many of the mercenaries and guards are excellent riders, trained in cavalry combat. I saw them practicing and training the other cavalry troops. All in all, they’re quite good. They’re not professional, but they were chosen from the best riders and the best fighters, and they’ve been given the best weapons. They all have a sword, whereas their infantry have little more than knives and sharpened sticks.” He shook his head, visibly concerned. “What’s more, their horses are really big. That also gives them an advantage.”

“What do you think the outcome will be if they declare war?”

Akenon swallowed. That had been on his mind all day. He was tempted to soften his response, but Ariadne’s eyes were asking for the truth.

“It depends on how they manage the battle, but I fear they’ve got good strategists. Their camp shows good military organization, and the trainings I saw were well conducted. Keeping that in mind, I think the Crotonian army could finish off at most half the Sybarite cavalry, and perhaps ten thousand infantry soldiers.” He clenched his jaw. “In other words, after the battle, there would still be a thousand soldiers on horseback and fifteen or twenty thousand infantry to fall on the defenseless city and the community.”

Ariadne nodded silently and looked away.

I pray to all the gods there won’t be a war
, she thought, hugging her knees to her chest.

Shortly afterwards, an excited murmur began to grow among the crowd. They got up to see what was happening. A cloud of dust was advancing toward them. It was a rider, galloping past the gymnasium. Although the usual procedure was to wait for the herald to enter the compound to deliver his message, on this occasion everyone rushed to the portico. Akenon was about to move forward with everyone else, but realized Ariadne was holding back, trying to avoid the crush. He waited with her and they were the last people to go outside, just as the red-faced rider stopped his horse and began transmitting his message.

“Tellus’ delegation has demanded all aristocrats be handed over.”

Despite being the news everyone had expected, many men reacted with horrified cries. The messenger caught his breath and continued.

“The Council of a Thousand has decided to deny the request and has conveyed this to the Sybarite delegation.”

This time exclamations of relief were heard.

The herald finished delivering his message.

“Sybaris has declared war against us!”