Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) (48 page)

CHAPTER 105

July 22
nd
, 510 B.C.

The masked man was preparing to control the future.

He was in the underground room of his first lair, seated at a table with dozens of parchments spread open in front of him.

This is my greatest treasure
, he thought, contemplating them.

He focused on the last ones he had written, the ones on which he’d based the letter to Aristomachus. He smiled broadly, remembering. It had been a resounding success. Aristomachus had killed himself and, according to his latest information, Pythagoras was so despondent it seemed as if someone had ripped out his soul.

There was no time for gloating. He turned his attention to the parchments while controlling his breathing and heart rate. The usual feeling of heaviness invaded his muscles, and a wave of warmth flowed over his skin. He focused on his body’s nerve centers and dissolved all his tension.

He closed his eyes. From that point on, sight was a hindrance. He reviewed the parchments with his accurate memory, leaving behind numbers and shapes and entering the domain of concepts. He went directly toward the most complex of these, the ones that had vanquished Pythagoras: irrational numbers, the undefined, mathematical infinity… Before the discovery of these concepts, they had merely been scratching the surface, thinking there was nothing underneath, that the world was a thin shell, all parts of which could be measured by the same standard. He let his mind sink deeper. There was a whole world waiting to be discovered, even for him. A new, perhaps impossible challenge that called to him like the song of the sirens, leaving a faint, luminous trail in that ocean of absolute darkness. He sensed that the brief traces of light he discerned were the start of a path toward understanding and control over that unexplored universe.

Go deeper
, his ambition urged.

If anyone was going to transform it into a known, regulated world, he wanted that person to be him. He tested the borders, keen to begin, but a feeling of urgency reminded him of why he was there. He had immersed himself in that new world to achieve a deep trance that would facilitate maximum control over his mind. From that state, he could control what, in an ordinary person, would be the subconscious. He was there to meditate on elements no one else was capable of accessing, and to design perfect plans.

He was there to accomplish what he desired in the world of men.

Sybaris entered his mind. In the past few weeks, he had worked meticulously to bring about social upheaval. After laying the groundwork, he had withdrawn before the mayhem started, and then returned to collect Glaucus’ enormous treasure. His strategy had been similar in the conflict between Sybaris and Croton. With his gold and his meetings, he had succeeded in manipulating the Council of a Thousand into voting to offer the aristocrats asylum, thereby prompting Sybaris to declare war on Croton.

He had succeeded in precipitating a new cataclysm.

Nonetheless, in Croton he hadn’t just fomented that plan. As well as dividing his gold among the councilors to secure their votes, he had worked on another project which had required even more gold. The project was tentative, and he wasn’t sure the opportunity would arise for his gold to achieve its goal, but he wanted to make sure all eventualities were covered. If the proper circumstances presented themselves in the end—and he would know very soon—that gold would serve to start the most devastating avalanche of all.

His reward, in that case, would be total domination over Croton.

CHAPTER 106

July 22
nd
, 510 B.C.

Milo ordered the entire Crotonian army to advance as quickly as possible toward the Sybarite military camp. He didn’t want Tellus and his men to have time to react to the news that Croton’s troops were moving in on them.

After the Sybarite delegation’s declaration of war, Milo had taken decisive command. Croton’s laws and his own prestige allowed him to make the decisions he considered necessary without having to consult the Council.

“Detain the Sybarite delegation,” was his first order. “When I’ve set out with the army, you can free them.”

“This is an abomination!” protested Isander, Tellus’ lieutenant who was leading the delegation. “It dishonors all of Croton!”

“Calm down, illustrious ambassador,” Milo said with irony. “In a few hours you can run back to Tellus. By then, his lookouts will have already informed him of our offensive. But I’m sure you can appreciate that we don’t wish to offer you an additional advantage right now.”

Isander made an impulsive attempt to escape and had to be subdued. Fortunately, the delegation’s weapons had been confiscated before they had gone into the Council. While Isander was being tied up, Milo shared a few last words with him. The time had come to put into action the plan they had drawn up in the event of war breaking out, a plan only his most trusted generals and Pythagoras knew about.

“Tonight you will regret having declared war against us,” said Milo. “Say goodbye to the sun when it sets, because you won’t see a new dawn.”

Detaining the delegation and telling them they would attack that night was the first part of his strategy. Of course, if he had really intended to attack that night, he wouldn’t have told Isander.

Milo left the Council and went through the northern gate to take command of the army, immediately giving the order to advance. When the vanguard of the Crotonian army was several miles from the city, Isander and the rest of the delegation overtook them at a gallop. Orders had been handed down through the chain of command not to attack them, but that didn’t stop insults being hurled at them as well as the odd stone during the ten long minutes it took them to skirt Croton’s troops.

Fifteen thousand men, five hundred horses, and hundreds of pack animals couldn’t move easily along a narrow road, which meant most of the army advanced cross-country. When they reached rough ground, they had to fall back into narrower fronts, lengthening the column of troops. The vanguard ended up more than an hour’s march ahead of the final soldiers.

Milo had decided to move away from Croton to fight for several reasons. The first was to avoid giving enemy troops the opportunity to sack the city during battle, which couldn’t be discounted due to their superior numbers and the lack of discipline among the Sybarite troops. Furthermore, should they be defeated, messengers could deliver the news to the city two or three hours ahead of the enemy’s arrival, whereas if they fought close to the city gates, the sacking would begin immediately after the defeat. Additionally, Milo needed suitable terrain for the different regiments of his army to maneuver. The configuration and movement of troops was key in battle, and they needed to make the most of their greater experience and discipline. Just south of the Sybarite camp lay an area of level ground, perfect for combat.

Milo glanced to the left and the right. His best generals rode by his side, the worry on their faces mixed with determination to confront their destiny. Milo thought his expression must be similar. He was as resolute as he was worried.

Accursed cavalry!

This had been the most frequent thought in his mind since two days before, when he’d learned Tellus had four times his number of cavalry units. Croton’s cavalrymen were better soldiers, but the Sybarite horses were bigger and stronger. Even if each Crotonian cavalryman managed to eliminate one of the Sybarite riders, it would leave fifteen hundred animals that would crush their infantry as if they were trampling on grass.

He bit his lower lip without realizing it, thinking of the tactics he had developed with his generals to handle the different ways the battle could go. There was no denying that most of their strategies were plans born of desperation. They had determined the best course of action for each scenario, but neither he nor his generals believed victory was possible when faced with a charge of two thousand horses.

A small dust cloud approached from the north. The sun had just set, though there was still plenty of light. Whoever was approaching hadn’t been intercepted by their advance guard, which meant it must be someone from their army. Shortly afterwards, Milo saw it was one of his scouts. For days, he had been sending them out in a constant flow, so that every half hour he received updated news on the enemy camp.

“There’s no movement, sir.” The scout rode up to Milo. “Half an hour before I left, the Sybarite delegation arrived at the camp. It doesn’t look as if that decided them to mobilize their troops, at least not up to an hour ago, when I left.”

“Is the camp still in a defensive position?”

“Yes, sir.”

Milo pondered this for a few moments.

“Fine. Good job, soldier. Join the rearguard and take a rest.”

Two hours later, the sky black as an evil omen, Milo ordered the start of the diversionary maneuvers. Barely a third of the army had arrived and they had just begun to set up camp, but it was best to begin operations as soon as possible.

The Sybarites preferred simple, direct combat in broad daylight, so they could take advantage of their superior brute force. They thought the Crotonian army would prefer to fight at night to compensate for the difference in numbers with their greater military experience.

I wouldn’t hesitate to attack by night if I could catch them by surprise
, thought Milo while he supervised the deployment of his troops.

An unexpected and decisive nocturnal attack could finish off forces ten times stronger, but the Sybarites were alert. Too alert, in fact. Milo would try to take advantage of that with the maneuvers he was currently putting in place.

Throughout the night, in two-hour shifts so as not to lose too much sleep, five hundred soldiers would simulate a silent surprise attack, as if they were the entire Crotonian army. It would be relatively easy to create that impression with a few men and a few horses, throwing them off the scent with bonfires and torches. Milo’s objective was to allow most of his troops to rest all night, while the Sybarites would be wide awake and tense at all times, especially their cavalry squadron.

That tactic would weaken the enemy, though it would make only a small dent in the enormous inequality in their forces.

If it were only our infantry fighting each other…

Milo felt the curse of some god had befallen them. He was proud of his soldiers, and the injustice of possibly losing in battle against an improvised army of hot-headed amateurs infuriated him.
My fifteen thousand soldiers could crush Sybaris’ twenty-five or thirty thousand with no more than a thousand casualties
. In battles, massacres almost always happened when one of the armies broke formation and began to flee. He was certain most of his soldiers would fight to the death before withdrawing. On the other hand, many of the Sybarites would panic and run away if they found themselves in difficulties. The problem was that the Sybarite cavalry would prevent that from happening.

Sometimes, two armies would spend several days facing each other without initiating combat. They could fall into a daily routine of advancing and falling back while waiting for something to change, without ever taking decisive action. On occasion, one of the armies would withdraw without actually having fought. However, Milo knew that wouldn’t happen here. If one side didn’t initiate combat the following day, the other would. The Sybarites were far too impulsive to restrain themselves with the enemy in front of them, and he was anxious to take advantage of the fatigue they would be suffering tomorrow after a sleepless night.

Besides, with each hour that passes, the Sybarites are reinforcing their numbers and their arsenal.

Milo turned to the enemy camp, just over a mile away. Clouds covered the full moon, but didn’t prevent him from seeing the Sybarite troops. He gazed thoughtfully at the sea of campfires spread out on the other side of the plain. The Sybarite leader would be close to one of those fires.

Milo’s look hardened.

Tellus, one of us will die at dawn
.

CHAPTER 107

July 23
rd
, 510 B.C.

Ariadne was sitting on the edge of the bed, her arms resting on her knees, and her head bowed. Her skin wet with perspiration, she was fighting a bout of nausea. She wasn’t sure if it was due to the pregnancy or the tension produced by the dramatic events they were living.

Raising her head, she forced herself to take a long, slow breath. The atmosphere in the room felt oppressive. She needed to breathe fresh air, so she put on her espadrilles and went outside.

The sky was a dark mantle overhead. On the horizon, over the sea, the first timid streaks of light were beginning to reach into the darkness. Ariadne noticed numerous shadows dotting the grounds of the compound. They were Sybarite aristocrats and disciples who had been too anxious to sleep. She filled her lungs with the clean air of early morning and walked down the hill to the portico. As she passed among them, she could make out their tired, worried faces. They waited in silence, their eyes fixed on the northern road.

That’s where we’ll see our army returning…or the Sybarite hordes approaching to attack us
.

While she walked in the midst of that strange, tense silence, Ariadne remembered the short speech Pythagoras had made the previous day to everyone in the community, Sybarites and disciples alike. She had been relieved to see that her father was overcoming the impact of Aristomachus’ death and whatever had been in the parchment they had found by his body. His words had been firm and serene, infused with heartfelt sincerity. He told them all they were free to go. If any disciple wished to leave, he would find no impediment should he choose to return at a later date. He would try to protect those who stayed, though he couldn’t promise anything.

An hour later, half of the Sybarites had left. In contrast, not one of the disciples abandoned the community.

In any case
, thought Ariadne,
getting away from Croton has become increasingly difficult
. The community housed six hundred resident disciples—plus three hundred Sybarite refugees up until the previous evening—and they only had about twenty mounts, including donkeys, mules, and the old mare. Almost all the Sybarites had arrived on horseback, but in many cases the animals had died afterwards, exhausted by their forced gallop out of the city or as a result of the injuries they had sustained. The price of horses had shot up, and obtaining passage by sea was almost impossible. Thousands of Crotonians had fled on foot along the southern road, knowing that in a matter of hours the formidable enemy cavalry could come thundering down on them.

Amid so much desperation, the day before a group of forty Sybarites had pooled their resources and influence and bought a small merchant ship.

Glaucus was among them
, Ariadne recalled, frowning.

The erratic Sybarite had the good fortune of being involved in trade, and many of his ships were at sea just then. Some of them would return to Sybaris and probably fall into the hands of the insurgents, but he could get a message to others and divert them to Syracuse. From there, he could reorganize his commercial empire.

The Sybarites who had bought the ship had left the community the previous afternoon. Ariadne and Akenon, among hundreds of others, gathered round the community portico to watch them leave. The atmosphere was tense and almost no one spoke. Along the road stretched a slow procession of Sybarites already on their way to the port of Croton. Ariadne saw Glaucus joining them, his four soldiers surrounding him like a human shield. Neither she nor Akenon had spoken to him again for three days, since the Sybarite had tried to persuade them to allow his personal guards into the community.

Glaucus’ face was strained and he had large violet rings under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. As he passed Ariadne, he looked at her and quickly averted his gaze, but then seemed to hesitate and turned his head in her direction without slowing his pace.

“I’m going to Syracuse,” he said so curtly it sounded hostile. “I have customers in that city who owe me enough to allow me to settle there.”

As abruptly as he had spoken, he turned his back on her and walked away. Just then, one of the Sybarites who was staying in the community ran after him. He was an old man, so thin he looked ill. He managed to squeeze a hand between Glaucus’ soldiers and grabbed his tunic.

“Take me with you, Glaucus!” The soldiers tried to push him back, but he clung so tightly to the tunic that the fabric tore, revealing Glaucus’ flabby white torso. “I’m your mother’s brother, Glaucus! Do it for her, don’t abandon me to certain death!”

The man’s desperate cries sent a shiver down everyone’s spine. Glaucus threw himself on his uncle and started slapping him on the head.

“Let go of me, you bastard!”

Glaucus’ face reddened suddenly, reflecting an irrational rage. His elderly uncle attempted to defend himself without letting go, but his nephew’s third blow hurled him to the ground.

Glaucus was still beside himself.

“Give me your sword!” he bellowed at one of his guards.

The soldier hesitated. Glaucus took a step toward him, grabbed the hilt of his blade, unsheathed it and whirled toward his unconscious uncle, the sword held high.

Everything happened in an instant.

A sharp clash of metal was heard, and Glaucus’ sword flew from his hands. He held his wrist and grimaced in pain. His soldiers rapidly unsheathed their swords and placed themselves in front of the muscular Egyptian who had disarmed their master.

Glaucus turned to Akenon. His first instinct was to order him killed, but the Egyptian’s cold, determined look made him think twice. He seemed very confident about taking on his guards.

Damned Akenon, you wouldn’t be so sure of yourself if I had Boreas with me
.

Glaucus clenched his teeth in fury and stared slowly around at the onlookers. Ariadne shivered when those eyes, filled with hatred and contempt, fell on her. Glaucus’ expression gradually metamorphosed into a malevolent sneer and he suddenly let out a loud, unpleasant laugh.

A shiver ran down Ariadne’s spine when she remembered Glaucus’ laugh.

I hope I never see him again
.

She walked a few yards from the central path and sat down on the ground, becoming yet another expectant shadow. In the hours to come, thousands of people would die. Whether they would be among them or not was in the hands of destiny.

They might also make slaves of us
. Ariadne clenched her jaw and crossed her arms protectively over her abdomen.

The dawn air was cool and before long she had gooseflesh. She rubbed her arms to keep warm and hugged her legs. The nausea had passed. She wished the sun would rise and begin to warm the air, but there was still half an hour left before dawn.

With the light growing along the horizon she began to be able to make out her surroundings. Resting her head on her knees, Ariadne surveyed the people around her. Suddenly she realized that ten steps across from her was Akenon. Tension was engraved on his face and he was frowning.

What’s he thinking about?
Ariadne wondered.

She could also see he was carrying his sword. He was the only armed man in the community, now that the hoplites assigned to security had rejoined the army to fight the insurgents.

She observed him without moving, and Akenon didn’t notice her sitting there. She looked at the northern road. As the sky continued to brighten, she thought of Glaucus’ expression when he had laughed at them.

He seemed sure that everyone left in Croton was going to die
.

Boreas was on a hilltop, watching the final preparations for battle with interest. At his feet lay the plain where the combat would take place. The murmur of tense voices reached him along with the smell of wood smoke. The hill he stood on was part of a long stretch of high ground that demarcated one side of the plain. To the other side, half a mile from where he stood, was the sea.

He had arrived with his master more than an hour ago in the dead of night. At that time, they had been able to make out only a few fires dotted around the Crotonian camp in front of them, and the more distant fires of the Sybarite camp. Little by little, the dawn light had revealed more details. Up to half an hour earlier, the Crotonians had looked as if they were sleeping peacefully, whereas the Sybarite camp was a hive of activity. The Crotonian soldiers had gotten quickly to their feet, obeying the orders shouted by their officers. The troops had eaten breakfast in a few minutes and then formed disciplined lines, preparing for the imminent battle.

A well-trained army
, thought Boreas sarcastically.

One of the flanks of the Crotonian army reached the edge of his hill. Boreas could see the closest soldiers a little more than a hundred yards from him. The front line was a single row of cavalry. Directly behind was a regiment of hoplites, a third of the infantry, arranged in formation seven ranks deep. Among them, he could see several men with trumpets, double flutes, and other instruments. Boreas imagined their function was to transmit orders during the clamor of the battle. Next there was an open space ten steps wide, another third of the infantry, another open space and, finally, the remaining soldiers. This formation of the cavalry and the three infantry regiments extended from the base of the hill to the edge of the sea.

With a front a half-mile wide, the Crotonian army looked impressive from where Boreas stood. He could also make out the Sybarite army a mile and a half to his left. They seemed less organized, but there were twice as many men. Besides, their cavalry front was several ranks deep.

Boreas let his imagination run wild, dreaming he was in the thick of the battle. He’d give his tongue all over again if his master would allow him to fight. He would be surrounded by a mass of combatants half his weight and size who would barely reach his chest. There would be a never-ending sea of heads around him to crush. Killing gave him indescribable pleasure, but the thrill was always too ephemeral. In a battle like this one he could kill hundreds of men. He could mow them down for hours. He could…

His mouth filled with saliva and he had to swallow. He looked at his master. The masked man had told him that if the situation were under control he’d allow Boreas to hunt down some of the Crotonians who tried to flee. That would have to suffice.

At least I’ll make sure they die a slow death
.

The masked man was smiling under his metallic face.

He could sense Boreas’ excitement beside him, but the giant was obedient. He wouldn’t act of his own accord as long as he was under orders, and right now the masked man’s orders were very clear: to protect him during that expedition. Being so close to the armies entailed a certain amount of risk. They might encounter a group of scouts from either side. Besides, if the battle went according to plan, he intended to join Tellus and take on a more high-profile role in their next steps against Croton. Reaching Tellus would be dangerous after the battle, with thousands of men drunk on blood and violence around them.

Boreas will be my safe conduct.

The Sybarites had behaved exactly as he wanted. What was unfolding was the consequence of the strings he had been pulling in Sybaris up to a week ago. After the battle the time would come to pull them again, but until then he would remain on the sidelines. As for the Crotonians, thanks to his influence over Cylon and his followers, he had succeeded in getting them to confront Sybaris.

They’ve been really stupid. If, instead of abstaining, they had voted in favor of handing over the aristocrat refugees, they’d have kept the peace
.

A brief laugh escaped him. It was truly gratifying to be able to push so many people to suicide, from grand masters—Aristomachus had been so pathetic and predictable—to entire cities.

But that wasn’t what was making him smile as he watched the two armies preparing for battle. What delighted him at that moment were the other strings he had pulled through Cylon. The Crotonian politician had arranged meetings for him with the corrupt hoplites in his employ, and through them he had managed to reach many more Crotonian soldiers.

In total, one in five officers in the Crotonian army had received his gold.

Damned Milo…

Branco, the Spartan, was riding in semi-darkness, carrying out the final inspection of the Sybarite troops. He hadn’t slept all night because of Milo, and he was tired and bad-humored. Much as he disliked admitting it, the Crotonian general had shown notable military ingenuity. Using just a few men, he had managed to make the Sybarite camp get out of bed six or seven times throughout the night. At times it had seemed they were being attacked from one side, when suddenly they would detect hundreds of hoplites silently advancing toward the other end of their camp. They would think that was the real attack, and run chaotically to and fro, thinking they had been the victims of a diversionary maneuver, only to realize it was a new ruse.

Thanks to Ares, they weren’t real attacks, because the camp was pandemonium the whole night long.