Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) (17 page)

CHAPTER 34

April 23
rd
, 510 B.C.

The Pythagoreans usually devoted some time to solitary meditation before sunset. That evening, Pythagoras decided to meditate in the room where Daaruk had died. All the community members had come by to pay homage to the foreign master…until Atma had taken the body. Pythagoras’ mind was filled with grief and questions. What most disturbed him was the knowledge that one of his closest disciples, with whom he had had almost daily contact for more than twenty years, had been a stranger to him in very important ways.

Daaruk would be the first initiate in the brotherhood to be cremated instead of buried. Pythagoras found it incomprehensible that Daaruk’s family’s beliefs and customs had taken precedence over the doctrine.

Did he do it out of respect for his family, or because of his own convictions?

His eyes scanned the table, stopping at the spot where the ill-fated disciple had been dining before falling to the ground. He regretted not having had time to analyze Daaruk’s innermost thoughts more deeply. It had been the first time he had so exhaustively analyzed the candidates to his succession. That kind of examination was extreme, perhaps bordering on aggressive, and could only be justified under exceptional circumstances such as the current situation. The goal of the analysis had been to eliminate any involvement on the part of the disciples in Cleomenides’ murder, but since his scrutiny was so detailed, Pythagoras would not have missed a secret of the magnitude Daaruk was hiding.

During the meal, he had finished his analysis of Evander and Orestes, eliminating both as suspects. Moreover, Orestes had clearly stood out as the best candidate to succeed him. The future of the School could be safe in his hands.

Thinking of Evander and Orestes reminded him of a journey he had taken fifteen years earlier. He had visited the communities in Taranto and Metapontum, and planned to travel through the Daunia region afterwards. He usually arranged for some of his most outstanding disciples to accompany him on those journeys so they could gain political experience, indispensable in the future directors of the brotherhood. On that occasion, Evander, Orestes, and Daaruk had gone with him. The first two had been with him for ten years, and had already been masters for three or four years. Daaruk had only spent five years in the brotherhood and had achieved the level of master in an unusually short time. That had been his first trip with Pythagoras.

They had stopped for a rest at the top of a hill. Their donkeys grazed peacefully a short distance away. Pythagoras was sitting on a rock, and the three disciples had gathered in front of him. Congregated behind them, as usual, were dozens of men and women from the surrounding areas.

“Master,” said a man sitting at the back of the group, “why do you say we shouldn’t make animal sacrifices? Will we not be displeasing the gods if we don’t?”

Pythagoras answered with his strong, clear voice.

“Men and animals share the same soul. We are all part of the one divine current of life that permeates the universe. Whenever possible, we should try not to kill animals, whether for sacrifice or food. The gods,” he said, smiling, “are honored with a heartfelt sacrifice, even if the ceremony is done with grains of wheat, aromatic herbs, or representations of animals made of paste.”

Daaruk looked at Pythagoras, unblinking, eagerly absorbing every word. Evander and Orestes had attended many similar talks, but they were new to Daaruk. Besides, when he had achieved the level of master, he had begun to receive instruction in some of the deeper aspects of the doctrine, and the more knowledge he acquired, the more he felt he needed.

“Can I not feed my children meat?” a woman asked, worried.

“You not only can, you must,” replied Pythagoras, with a reassuring smile. “The restriction on meat-eating mustn’t affect your children’s growth. Wisdom is usually found somewhere between the two extremes, at the point where a benefit can be obtained without causing harm.”

Daaruk nodded to himself. The master insisted on not killing animals gratuitously, but he wasn’t completely opposed to using them as nourishment. Certainly, at the highest levels of the School meat was hardly ever consumed, but that was largely due to the fact that it stimulated the baser instincts and clouded awareness. A vegetarian diet served to elevate the spirit and aided clearer, more precise thinking.

Pythagoras continued talking to the people who had gathered. He told them that through their immortal souls they could communicate with animals just as they did with people. Then he raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes. The congregation watched him, awed as much by the energy he radiated as by his words. They didn’t understand everything he said, but they felt that, just as the clouds part to reveal the heavens, those great truths pierced the darkness of their confused spirits. After a while, they saw that the master had started to whistle a melody, still looking skyward, as if he were imitating the lowest notes of a wind instrument. Everyone felt comforted.

Suddenly, someone screamed. A shadow was falling rapidly over Pythagoras. The master stretched out one arm and all those present gasped in astonishment. An enormous eagle landed on Pythagoras’ forearm. Its claws with their curved, sharp talons closed round his skin using only enough pressure for the bird to stay upright. The master whispered softly, stroking the eagle’s neck. The bird lowered its head, enjoying the caress. A minute later, as people held their breath, the eagle brushed its beak against Pythagoras’ shoulder and took flight with a powerful flap of its wings.

The news that wild animals obeyed Pythagoras spread quickly through those lands.

“He calls himself Pythagoras,” the locals said, “but, in fact, he’s the incarnation of the god Apollo.”

Two days later, as they went further into the Daunia region preaching the doctrine, they were no longer followed by dozens of people, but by hundreds.

Several men approached him as he traveled next to his disciples.

“Master Pythagoras, allow me to prostrate myself at your feet,” one of them said, kneeling.

He was a thin man of about forty, his gestures uncertain. His frayed tunic and bare feet revealed his poverty. Evander stepped forward and helped him up. He was used to men behaving as if the master were a god.

“Brother,” said Pythagoras, “don’t treat me in a way I don’t deserve, speak to me as an equal.”

“Thank you very much, master,” the man replied, though he kept his eyes on the ground. “We wanted to ask you…” he gestured toward his companions, as poor and nervous as he was, “if you’d visit our village. It’s not an important or wealthy town, but most of us have been trying for years to live our lives according to your teachings. We travel to the community in Metapontum whenever we can to listen to the masters who live there.”

He stopped abruptly, his head still bowed.

“Lead the way,” replied Pythagoras. “We’ll follow you.”

The villagers started walking, bowing repeatedly and expressing their joy. Two of them ran ahead to announce their arrival. Pythagoras, who had noticed Daaruk’s puzzled look, turned toward Evander.

“Tell us, Evander, why are we going to this village today and not to a big city?”

“Because power is just one of the means used by the School, master.”

Evander’s quick reply made Pythagoras smile. He explained the answer to Daaruk.

“That’s right. Power must never be an end in itself, but only a tool to ensure that the greatest number of people live by the principles we believe in.”

Orestes, walking behind them, frowned and looked at the ground. In his youth he had been a politician in Croton and used power to gain wealth. He had been a different person for years now, but would always regret his past actions.

Pythagoras continued.

“The brotherhood controls the governments of several cities. That’s why we’re treated with such respect throughout the region by the authorities and some of the people who accompany us on our journeys. But most of our followers, such as the inhabitants of the village we’re going to right now, only look for truth in our doctrine. These men come to us in search of enlightenment. We must satisfy their longing to live according to our principles of justice and personal growth.”

They continued in reflective silence. Pythagoras was worrying about the effect power might have on his disciples. The brotherhood had become hugely influential in only a few years. This meant that he had enormous political clout, but also that his disciples held positions of authority in society. After all, they were the representatives of an organization that controlled several cities, including their armies.

Someday, one of them will succeed me.

Whoever inherited his position would also inherit all his political power.

I must mold not only the best masters, but the best governors.
He smiled as he observed the young masters from the corner of his eye.
Fortunately, there are many years left to think about retirement.

Remembering that journey had brought a smile to Pythagoras’ face, but only briefly.

One of the three disciples who were with me on that journey has just been murdered.

His two other companions, Evander and Orestes, were the same ones he had been able to analyze completely the night before and they had been eliminated as possible suspects.

Who could have murdered Daaruk?

He continued thinking about the rest of the candidates. His analysis of Hippocreon had been interrupted midway, but the impression he had received confirmed his previous conclusions: Hippocreon was an excellent master, with a marked aversion to public life, but completely devout. He hadn’t had time to analyze Aristomachus, who he considered his most transparent disciple and, therefore, free of suspicion, or Daaruk, whose death had uncovered a side to him he had never imagined.

Pythagoras shifted in his seat.
Might some other disciple be hiding similar secrets?
he wondered uneasily. He needed to finish analyzing Hippocreon and do the same with Aristomachus as soon as possible.

His thoughts returned to Atma. At this moment he was probably ready to light the funeral pyre. Daaruk’s body would turn to ashes. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He hoped at least to have the opportunity to bury the ashes. He hadn’t discussed this with Atma, but on this point he would stand firm. Daaruk would be cremated—he had agreed to it—but he would also be buried with the ceremony befitting him.

His next thought brought a frown of concern to his face. He had asked Akenon to bring back Daaruk’s ashes…

Even if he has to confront Atma.

CHAPTER 35

April 23
rd
, 510 B.C.

Akenon was only a few steps from Atma.

He was using the excuse of paying his respects to approach him. Akenon’s intention was not to deceive Atma with condolences, but to lessen the tension of getting so close to each other without speaking. Besides, Akenon wanted to see how Atma would react before the confrontation that would likely occur when he tried to take Daaruk’s ashes.

Atma had closed his eyes and moved his lips silently, as if in a trance. Akenon stopped a step away from him and waited, unable to find the right moment to speak. He looked at the pyre. It was a small boat on which Atma had mounted a structure made of intertwined branches placed at ninety-degree angles. This gave the pyre stability and guaranteed good air flow between the branches. The resulting bonfire would burn for several hours, given that the trunks at its base were as thick as Zeus’ powerful thighs. On top of the pyre lay Daaruk’s body, dressed in a pristine white tunic. Strips of cloth printed with symbols were wrapped round Daaruk’s forehead, arms, and hands, which Atma had folded across his chest.

Akenon noticed the gold ring Daaruk was wearing on his ring finger. It was engraved with a Pythagorean symbol he had seen before: a pentagon with a five-pointed star inside it. He remembered Ariadne telling him that the star was called a pentacle. What he didn’t know was that Atma had in his possession a document sealed with the same symbol.

The cloth wrapped around Daaruk’s body, as well as his skin and hair, were covered in a viscous substance.

It will burn well
, thought Akenon.

Atma opened his eyes and looked at him with tense recrimination. Akenon felt as if he had rudely interrupted a sacred ceremony. He murmured an apology, lowered his head as a sign of respect, and returned to Ariadne.

She was sitting on the ground, hugging her knees to her against the increasing cold. The mantle of clouds above them had faded from the vivid red of sunset to the cold, grey-blue of nightfall. Akenon sat next to her on the sand and they watched the funeral ceremony in reverent silence.

Atma went to a small bonfire a few steps from the boat that had burnt down to embers. He stoked it and laid the end of a branch in the flames, as if preparing a torch. Then he lifted his gaze to the sky and the growing darkness, perhaps offering a final supplication for Daaruk’s soul. He removed the lid from a heavy clay vessel and, holding it in both hands, walked over to the funeral pyre.

Atma doused the branches at the base of the pyre with the liquid in the pot. He then walked around the boat, wading into the river up to his knees to douse the branches on all sides. When he had gone all the way around, he clambered onto the pyre and poured the rest of the fuel on top.

Ariadne was still sitting, clasping her legs. Her head rested on one knee, but she lifted it anxiously when Atma grasped the torch. Night had fallen quickly and the moon was hidden behind the clouds. All was dark except for the bright circle of light thrown by the torch. Atma walked to the pyre and stopped for a few seconds, holding the torch high. Ariadne thought she saw tears etching his swarthy face.

The slave stuck the torch into a crack between the branches and set fire to a pile of straw and dry twigs. Flames quickly enveloped the wooden structure, and Atma had to stand back. A moment later, he tried to come closer, but the heat kept him at bay. He seemed to hesitate, then threw himself into the cold water and drenched his entire body. Crawling to the pyre on all fours, he leaned his hands on the edge of the blazing boat, and started pushing. Ariadne could clearly see his face, flushed from the effort and the pain. The vessel was
completely aground, weighed down by the branches and Daaruk’s body. Atma redoubled his efforts, digging his feet into the sand on the riverbank and pressing his face and shoulders into the edge of the burning boat. Fire licked his head and his hands. Groaning in pain, he managed to drag the funeral pyre into the river. He waded in and continued pushing until the current slowly began to take the boat. With one last effort, Atma propelled the floating pyre into the center of the river.

It was an impressive sight, as if a fire had broken out in the middle of the water. The fact that those flames were also devouring a man’s body was disquieting. Ariadne and Akenon sat in silence, watching as the floating bonfire drifted languidly away. The intense glare of the pyre submerged everything around it in even blacker darkness.

Ariadne sat up suddenly, alarmed.

“Where’s Atma?!”

Akenon scrutinized the darkness in every direction.

The slave had disappeared.