Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) (45 page)

CHAPTER 98

July 18
th
, 510 B.C.

That night in Croton the Council hall filled little by little. Milo stood on the dais, looking grave as he watched the influx of councilors. As they came in, each councilor nervously hurried to join the group he had most affinity with to catch up on the latest news.

An hour and a half earlier, Milo had been informed that his troops had had an unusual encounter. A Sybarite had thrown himself on them, begging for protection. He was riding a horse that died from exhaustion shortly afterwards and was dressed only in the light sleeping tunic typically worn by the upper classes in Sybaris. He insisted there had been an uprising and that he had escaped by the skin of his teeth. Milo had ordered him brought before him and was surprised to see it was Pyreneus, a young, overweight aristocrat who belonged to the Council of Sybaris and was also a Pythagorean initiate.

“Milo, thanks be to the gods.” Pyreneus threw himself at his feet, sobbing.

“Get up, Pyreneus.” He had to pull him by the shoulders quite insistently before the Sybarite stood up. “What happened?”

Pyreneus shook his head several times before he managed to speak through his tears.

“I’ve lost everything. What will become of me?” Again he sobbed and then wiped his face with his hands, trying to regain composure. “They attacked treacherously. There were many of them, hordes. They were armed and carried torches to burn everything. Fortunately, I couldn’t sleep last night and heard them approaching. My house was one of the first they attacked.”

Pyreneus continued talking, giving vent to his emotions. From his incoherent story, Milo managed to glean that there had been quite a large popular uprising in Sybaris that morning, though he didn’t know what the outcome had been. Pyreneus had fled shortly after it started and had ridden all day till he reached Croton. Milo mulled it over, not knowing what to do. This kind of revolt could spread easily, apart from the fact that a change of government in a neighboring city was always a delicate situation. Especially if the ousted government had been a political ally, since that increased the probability of the new one being hostile. On the other hand, all they had was the testimony of a very nervous man who might have been exaggerating what he had seen.

Fifteen minutes later, his doubts were dispelled by a new Sybarite who had fled the revolt. He brought no new information about the events, but his account confirmed what Pyreneus had said. In spite of the fact that night had already fallen, Milo sent a message to Pythagoras and called for an emergency meeting of the Council of a Thousand.

So far, half the councilors had made their appearance. Milo kept updating them on the situation as new Sybarite refugees arrived.

“The last I heard…” He waited until the noise died down and the councilors turned to him. “The last I heard is that the aristocratic quarter of Sybaris is in flames. We already have seven refugees. All of them had excellent horses, and they’ve told us they overtook many fellow citizens along the road. We must prepare for the arrival of many more refugees, and for the possibility that the aristocratic regime in Sybaris has been overthrown.”

Mention of a possible toppling of the established regime sent a nervous murmur through the hall. Pythagoras was silent, sitting in his usual place in the middle of the first row of the stands, patiently enduring the disquieting trickle of information.

I pray to the gods the uprising won’t be successful
.

It would be very dangerous for Croton, given that both cities were governed by a council of aristocrats, led in turn by a Pythagorean élite. On the other hand, Pythagoras was surprised at the number of governments that had been overthrown that year, as if a wave of rebellion were flowing around the world. In Rome, Lucius Junius Brutus had dethroned King Tarquinius the Proud, in what seemed to be the end of a monarchy that had been in place for centuries, now that Brutus was working to install a republican government. In Athens, Cleisthenes had overthrown the terrible Hippias, ending a long period of tyranny, and was now avidly pursuing reforms that would extend the power of the people.

But the Sybarite government isn’t despotic, and neither is Croton’s
.

Pythagoras’ political ideas, practiced by the governments he guided, were based on a just exercise of power which punished abuse and corruption. It made no sense for what had happened in Rome and Athens to occur in the cities he controlled.

Someone must be instigating this through deception. A fanatical leader who has duped the people instead of acting in their best interests
.

He was suddenly seized by a dreadful idea.
Could it be the man in the black mask again?
It didn’t make sense. Whoever was responsible for the uprising had to be a well-known leader among the Sybarites. He shifted in his seat. He hoped the revolt had been crushed by now and that news of it would reach them as soon as possible.

A soldier came through the doors into the hall. Another refugee must have arrived with news. The soldier walked through the central aisle followed by hundreds of expectant eyes, went around the mosaic of Heracles and reached the dais. Milo stepped down to talk to him, then climbed the steps again.

The councilors quieted.

“I think we can now be certain about what happened.” General Milo’s stentorian voice reverberated off the stone walls. “The uprising was massive and well coordinated. Thousands of men invaded the aristocratic quarter at dawn, remorselessly killing everyone who fell into their hands. In a matter of hours they controlled the entire city, apart from some small pockets of resistance which have probably surrendered by now. In short, the city is under the control of the insurgents.” He paused. The councilors were so dumbfounded they looked like statues. “In view of the situation, I’m going to order the army to prepare in order to avoid something similar happening in Croton.”

Milo waited a few seconds, in case anyone had a comment. As no one did, he left the dais and exited the building to start rallying his troops.

From his seat, Cylon watched the commander-in-chief of the armed forces as he walked past. He had no objection to the army preparing to crush a possible riot. On the contrary, he was grateful they had troops, unlike the lazy malingerers in Sybaris who, not wanting to do military service themselves, didn’t have a regular army at their disposal. They trusted in their gold to hire mercenaries when the city had a conflict with some neighbor, and only kept a small detachment, whose loyalty was dubious, on a permanent basis. The wealthiest Sybarites had personal security, but probably many of those guards had joined forces with the people, especially when they saw their masters fleeing.

A rebellion will never be successful here
, he thought with more conviction than he felt. He was experiencing the unpleasant sensation of being at the mercy of events. In any case, it had never entered his mind that his ally could be behind what had happened in Sybaris.

Like the cities of Sybaris and Croton, Cylon was no more than a pawn in the masked man’s game.

CHAPTER 99

July 18
th
, 510 B.C.

A few hours after the unsettling nocturnal meeting of the Council of a Thousand, the masked man began to fear his plans would crumble.

He had been riding without rest to make sure he reached Croton before they increased security too much. He expected that as soon as the first refugees began to arrive, they’d raise the alarm, and it would become very difficult to get into the city.

When his group had covered two-thirds of the distance between Sybaris and Croton, they caught up with Tellus. The leader of the revolution had stopped to camp by a river, an intelligent decision. Besides, he couldn’t enter Croton with his hordes in pursuit of the Sybarite aristocrats.

New contingents who hadn’t been able to advance as fast, or who had set out later from Sybaris, were joining Tellus’ group. There were already three or four thousand men.

“Let’s talk to Tellus,” said Isander excitedly.

“No,” came the masked man’s hoarse whisper. “We must reach Croton as soon as possible.”

Tellus’ lieutenant looked at him suspiciously for a few seconds. Finally, saying nothing, he and his five men continued to escort him. On the last stretch of the road, they caught up with some Sybarite aristocrats who were planning to take refuge in Croton. Isander looked at the masked man enquiringly, but he shook his head. Stopping to hunt men down would delay them.

They reached Croton in the dead of night, split into pairs and went through the northern gate, leaving some distance between them so that the guards, on the lookout for the arrival of large militant groups, wouldn’t stop them. News of the Sybarite revolt had made the streets busier than usual at that hour. Citizens were everywhere, looking for news, while servants went back and forth with messages. Paradoxically, the confusion helped the masked man and his escort to pass unnoticed and arrive without incident at Cylon’s mansion.

The masked man dismounted and announced his presence to a guard he knew at the door. Isander and his men stayed a few feet behind, watching him with a mixture of puzzlement and hostility.
Who was hiding behind the mask, apparently so friendly with Crotonian aristocrats?
The guard answered that Cylon had gone out, but let him through without any problem. The politician’s trusted servants knew they were to obey the masked man.

Before entering, the masked man turned to Isander and his men.

“This is my destination. You can leave now,” he said curtly.

Isander thought of spitting on the ground as a sign of his contempt, but in the end, he simply gave him a bitter look and left hurriedly for Tellus’ camp.

After going through the gates, the masked man handed the reins to a servant while signaling to another.

“Take this sack,” he whispered, pointing at the load his horse carried, “and follow me.”

He crossed the luxurious courtyard, went up to the second floor and through a gallery to Cylon’s room. Doubled over by the weight on his back, the servant deposited the load where he was told and left him alone. The masked man piled a few cushions on the ground and lay down on them. Deeply satisfied, he leaned an arm on the sackful of gold and let his body relax. He imagined Cylon would spend the whole night at the Council.

While he slipped into a delicious sleep, he thought about what the contents of the sack would procure him. One part would buy the votes he needed in the Council of a Thousand.

Thanks to fear and gold, in a very short time I will control all the votes.

The bulk of the gold, however, would serve a different purpose.

Where the devil can the masked man be?

Cylon was walking back to his mansion, exhausted. Two guards accompanied him, carrying lit torches even though dawn had started to illuminate the streets. Cylon’s head was bowed and he was lost in thought. Without realizing it, he had become accustomed to following his mysterious ally’s
suggestions
, and now he hadn’t seen him for two weeks.

At the Council, they had decided to break up the session and go home to rest for a few hours. The constant trickle of Sybarites hadn’t stopped, almost all of them aristocrats who confirmed the success of the revolt and requested asylum.

When Cylon entered his house, he realized he was as anxious as he was tired. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep. He went up to his room and sat on the edge of the bed, letting his head drop forward onto his chest.

“I see we both need some rest.”

Cylon jumped and turned toward the gruff whisper. In a corner of the room, reclining on several cushions, was the masked man.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

Cylon got the impression the masked man smiled before answering.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll be your guest for a few days. We need to hold many meetings,” he added, patting the heavy sack that lay next to him.

It irritated Cylon to feel that he was at the masked man’s beck and call, but he also appreciated the sense of security that emanated from him during these turbulent hours.
And that sack looks like it contains a lot of gold
, he thought, impressed.

He mused in silence for a few seconds.

“Very well,” he answered at last. “I’ll have a room prepared for you. We’ll talk about all this when I’ve rested.”

The Council session resumed at midday. In Croton there had been no attempt to revolt, but the entire city was gripped by tense expectation. There were already two hundred Sybarite refugees divided between the community and the city, and more were arriving by the hour.

Pythagoras was in his place in the front row, surrounded by the entire Council of Three Hundred. As he waited for the latest news, his mind returned to the matter of irrational numbers.
Is there any way to approach them?
he wondered with an uneasy expression.

The stone seat under him, cold and hard, made his bones ache. He’d have to start bringing a cushion with him, like the older councilors. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort. Bent over like that, he looked frailer than ever, almost like an ailing old man instead of the powerful Pythagoras.

The fall of the Pythagorean government in Sybaris made him doubt his political plans. For the people to rebel against a government that was guided by his rules, his political doctrine, undermined his convictions. He felt he was losing some of the momentum he needed to confront all the large-scale projects that had been simmering in his mind:
Neapolis, the Etruscans, Rome…

Distracted by these thoughts, it took him a moment to realize that almost half of the seats were unoccupied. Cylon and his supporters, whose number had recently grown to about four hundred, were missing.

At one end of the hall, by the door, Milo was talking to a soldier who had just arrived. When he finished, he walked directly to the dais. He looked resolute, as always, but it was obvious that the soldier’s words had caused him consternation.

“Our first spies have just come back,” he said soberly. “The Sybarite rebels, in their hunt for the aristocrats, are nearing Croton. Right now, they’re camped less than three hours away by horseback.”

The news sent a nervous ripple through the hall.

“How many are there?” someone asked.

Milo wondered whether he should share with them what he considered to be military details.

“Five thousand men,” he finally answered, “and about a thousand horses.”

The audience recoiled in horrified amazement.
How is it possible?!
they wondered. Sybaris had always been a city without an army, yet suddenly they had mustered a significant military force, especially in regard to cavalry. Croton’s army, including reserves, consisted of fifteen thousand soldiers, but only five hundred of them were cavalrymen, half of what the Sybarites had.

Troubled, Pythagoras listened to the news and then turned again toward Cylon’s seat. The mysterious absence of the councilor and his supporters was making him extremely uneasy.

“What are you plotting?” he whispered, shaking his head.