Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) by Marcos Chicot Page B
Authors: Marcos Chicot
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reaction to the fact that he was attracted by Pythagoras’ words as a sailor was to the song of the sirens. Becoming a higher being with powerful faculties was a compelling dream, especially if someone showed you the theoretical path to achieve it.
He looked up, feeling as if he had just woken from a dream or a spell whose enchantment still surrounded him.
“Excuse me, but I think I need to retire.”
At that moment, Aristomachus leaned his small body forward with a nervous movement.
“I’d like to make just one comment. The inventor of the tetraktys ,” he respectfully bowed his head at Pythagoras, “can at times be too generous in his judgment of some of his enemies. For this reason, I feel obliged to point out…”
“Say no more!” Pythagoras reprimanded him.
Aristomachus stopped. He lowered his eyes, visibly agitated, his fists clenched. Suddenly, an expression of intense pain crossed his face and he began to speak again.
“He needs to know,” he said, turning hurriedly toward Akenon. “Cylon swore he’d take revenge on Pythagoras when he denied him access to the community. We all think the investigation should focus on him, however powerful he might be.” He lowered his head, and his voice faded to a whimper. “I’m sorry, master.”
A tense silence ensued. The other disciples fixed their gaze on the table, without reacting to their colleague’s words. Akenon examined them quickly, and found that Daaruk was nodding almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t looking at him, but Akenon perceived that his attention was directed firmly at him. He scrutinized his face, unable to detect any other clue, and frowned.
Does Daaruk want me to suspect Cylon, or Aristomachus himself?
CHAPTER 19
April 18 th , 510 B.C.
Boreas took the last few steps toward Falanto. A hideous smile contorted his face.
The old slave tried to retreat, but his back hit the wall. He looked up, his eyes bulging from their sockets in terror. The monster was a mountain of muscles about to fall on top of him. He tried to speak, beg for compassion, but no sound came from his trembling lips.
Boreas savored the moment. He was in no hurry. The time spent with Yaco had left him quite satisfied. Falanto had seen what he shouldn’t have and for that, he was going to kill him, of course, but he didn’t feel the need to brutalize him. Maybe the best thing would be to make it look like an accident. He was an old man. Boreas could strangle him without leaving marks on his body and then leave him in the kitchen. The others would think he had died of natural causes.
A noise was heard from upstairs. Boreas took his eyes off the old man and looked toward the top of the stairs.
“Father?”
It was one of Falanto’s sons.
“Father, are you down there?” another of his sons asked.
The sound of approaching footsteps was heard. Boreas frowned, turned quickly and picked Yaco’s tunic up off the ground.
Falanto saw the giant walking away from him and thought about escaping, but couldn’t move a single muscle. He also wanted to shout, though not so much to ask for help as to order his sons to flee from the beast.
Boreas took Yaco’s body as if it were a rag doll and began to dress it in the tunic. The boy emitted unconscious moans with every movement. When Boreas finished, it looked as if the torture had been confined to the adolescent’s face.
Falanto’s two sons came into the storeroom.
“Father!”
They helped him to his feet and looked at Boreas with a mixture of fear and hatred. For a few seconds they all studied each other in silence. The two young men were strong, accustomed to hard physical labor, but the giant could have crushed them with a swipe of his hand. At last, Boreas lifted Yaco’s body and shook the boy’s head in front of the three slaves.
Falanto’s sons looked at each other, uncomprehending.
Boreas drew closer and grunted fiercely as he shook the boy’s disfigured face.
“What he’s trying to
He looked up, feeling as if he had just woken from a dream or a spell whose enchantment still surrounded him.
“Excuse me, but I think I need to retire.”
At that moment, Aristomachus leaned his small body forward with a nervous movement.
“I’d like to make just one comment. The inventor of the tetraktys ,” he respectfully bowed his head at Pythagoras, “can at times be too generous in his judgment of some of his enemies. For this reason, I feel obliged to point out…”
“Say no more!” Pythagoras reprimanded him.
Aristomachus stopped. He lowered his eyes, visibly agitated, his fists clenched. Suddenly, an expression of intense pain crossed his face and he began to speak again.
“He needs to know,” he said, turning hurriedly toward Akenon. “Cylon swore he’d take revenge on Pythagoras when he denied him access to the community. We all think the investigation should focus on him, however powerful he might be.” He lowered his head, and his voice faded to a whimper. “I’m sorry, master.”
A tense silence ensued. The other disciples fixed their gaze on the table, without reacting to their colleague’s words. Akenon examined them quickly, and found that Daaruk was nodding almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t looking at him, but Akenon perceived that his attention was directed firmly at him. He scrutinized his face, unable to detect any other clue, and frowned.
Does Daaruk want me to suspect Cylon, or Aristomachus himself?
CHAPTER 19
April 18 th , 510 B.C.
Boreas took the last few steps toward Falanto. A hideous smile contorted his face.
The old slave tried to retreat, but his back hit the wall. He looked up, his eyes bulging from their sockets in terror. The monster was a mountain of muscles about to fall on top of him. He tried to speak, beg for compassion, but no sound came from his trembling lips.
Boreas savored the moment. He was in no hurry. The time spent with Yaco had left him quite satisfied. Falanto had seen what he shouldn’t have and for that, he was going to kill him, of course, but he didn’t feel the need to brutalize him. Maybe the best thing would be to make it look like an accident. He was an old man. Boreas could strangle him without leaving marks on his body and then leave him in the kitchen. The others would think he had died of natural causes.
A noise was heard from upstairs. Boreas took his eyes off the old man and looked toward the top of the stairs.
“Father?”
It was one of Falanto’s sons.
“Father, are you down there?” another of his sons asked.
The sound of approaching footsteps was heard. Boreas frowned, turned quickly and picked Yaco’s tunic up off the ground.
Falanto saw the giant walking away from him and thought about escaping, but couldn’t move a single muscle. He also wanted to shout, though not so much to ask for help as to order his sons to flee from the beast.
Boreas took Yaco’s body as if it were a rag doll and began to dress it in the tunic. The boy emitted unconscious moans with every movement. When Boreas finished, it looked as if the torture had been confined to the adolescent’s face.
Falanto’s two sons came into the storeroom.
“Father!”
They helped him to his feet and looked at Boreas with a mixture of fear and hatred. For a few seconds they all studied each other in silence. The two young men were strong, accustomed to hard physical labor, but the giant could have crushed them with a swipe of his hand. At last, Boreas lifted Yaco’s body and shook the boy’s head in front of the three slaves.
Falanto’s sons looked at each other, uncomprehending.
Boreas drew closer and grunted fiercely as he shook the boy’s disfigured face.
“What he’s trying to
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