he sailed out of the east in a blaze of mystery and settled in the Greek colony at Croton, towards the southwestern end of Italy. Pupils flocked to him. In short order, most of the city’s eminent citizens had signed up to his school, including a local strongman called Milo. Pythagoras taught ascetism, contemplation and mathematics. When his zealous pupils noticed that their local rivals, the Sybarites, lived a decidedly un-Pythagorean life of hedonistic luxury, they destroyed Sybaris.
But not everyone took to Pythagoras. Government by the wise is necessarily elitist: the unwise and foolish feel excluded, and tend to resent it. And there’s never any shortage of fools. One night, Pythagoras’ enemies in Croton rose up, burned down his home and massacred his followers. Pythagoras barely escaped. He lived out the rest of his days in exile, not far from Taras. You can still see his house from the road, though it’s now built into a temple complex.
We passed it on the second day, and I insisted on dragging Euphemus over to have a look.
‘Where did Pythagoras get his wisdom from?’ I asked aloud, remembering Agathon’s question to Archytas. ‘You hear a lot about his students and followers, but nothing about his teachers.’
Euphemus studied the plain little house. Next to the stout-pillared temple, it didn’t look like much more than a lamp store.
‘I met a man from Croton, once, on Crete. He told a tale that Pythagoras went down to the underworld, like Orpheus, but instead of bringing back a woman, he brought back wisdom.’
I remembered the tomb that Agathon had cracked open, the gaping hole in the hillside. ‘What could you possibly learn that would be worth that journey?’
Euphemus shrugged. ‘It’s just superstition.’
* * *
On a dark day when the clouds raced low, we reached Thurii. I saw it from far off, a city on the plain, hemmed in by mountains and the grey sea. As we crossed the bridge over the Cratus, past the white temple to Artemis that marked the city limits, Euphemus pointed to the river below. Thick weeds billowed in the stream, clutching the fragments of fallen columns that littered the riverbed like the bones of a lost army.
‘The drowned city of Sybaris. Say what you like about the Pythagoreans, but you don’t want to get on the wrong side of them.’
Thunder rolled down off the mountains and rumbled across the plain. The clouds closed ranks like a shield wall. Raindrops punched rings in the river surface.
Euphemus looked at the sky. ‘It’s going to be bad.’
By the time we reached the city walls, we were both wet as fish. I had to shout to the gateman to make myself heard.
‘Dimos’ house?’
The storm had swept the streets bare. We hurried down the broad avenue, past empty shops and grand temples. Dim figures crowded under the porticoes like the shades of Hades; above, carved monsters crouched on the gutters and spat streams of water at us.
‘The city’s going to be drowned again if we’re not careful,’ Euphemus bellowed in my ear.
‘At least we’re not at sea.’
Lightning flashed, thunder hard on its heels. With a bray of terror, one of our mules jerked his bridle out of my hand and galloped down the street out of sight. There was no point trying to catch him. Euphemus and I dragged the other mule another hundred yards, to the house the gateman had described.
A slave opened the door, hanging back to avoid the rain spattering the threshold.
‘Is this Dimos’ house?’
The slave nodded.
‘Is Agathon here?’
‘For all the gods’ sakes.’ Euphemus elbowed me out of the way, pushed past the slave and shook himself off like a dog. ‘Does it matter? Let’s get out of this rain.’
We stood in the hall while the slave fetched water and washed the mud off our feet. Another slave went to find his master. A third had the thankless task of unloading our mule in the rain. Soon Euphemus’ baggage was dripping another puddle onto the floor.
‘Welcome,’
But not everyone took to Pythagoras. Government by the wise is necessarily elitist: the unwise and foolish feel excluded, and tend to resent it. And there’s never any shortage of fools. One night, Pythagoras’ enemies in Croton rose up, burned down his home and massacred his followers. Pythagoras barely escaped. He lived out the rest of his days in exile, not far from Taras. You can still see his house from the road, though it’s now built into a temple complex.
We passed it on the second day, and I insisted on dragging Euphemus over to have a look.
‘Where did Pythagoras get his wisdom from?’ I asked aloud, remembering Agathon’s question to Archytas. ‘You hear a lot about his students and followers, but nothing about his teachers.’
Euphemus studied the plain little house. Next to the stout-pillared temple, it didn’t look like much more than a lamp store.
‘I met a man from Croton, once, on Crete. He told a tale that Pythagoras went down to the underworld, like Orpheus, but instead of bringing back a woman, he brought back wisdom.’
I remembered the tomb that Agathon had cracked open, the gaping hole in the hillside. ‘What could you possibly learn that would be worth that journey?’
Euphemus shrugged. ‘It’s just superstition.’
* * *
On a dark day when the clouds raced low, we reached Thurii. I saw it from far off, a city on the plain, hemmed in by mountains and the grey sea. As we crossed the bridge over the Cratus, past the white temple to Artemis that marked the city limits, Euphemus pointed to the river below. Thick weeds billowed in the stream, clutching the fragments of fallen columns that littered the riverbed like the bones of a lost army.
‘The drowned city of Sybaris. Say what you like about the Pythagoreans, but you don’t want to get on the wrong side of them.’
Thunder rolled down off the mountains and rumbled across the plain. The clouds closed ranks like a shield wall. Raindrops punched rings in the river surface.
Euphemus looked at the sky. ‘It’s going to be bad.’
By the time we reached the city walls, we were both wet as fish. I had to shout to the gateman to make myself heard.
‘Dimos’ house?’
The storm had swept the streets bare. We hurried down the broad avenue, past empty shops and grand temples. Dim figures crowded under the porticoes like the shades of Hades; above, carved monsters crouched on the gutters and spat streams of water at us.
‘The city’s going to be drowned again if we’re not careful,’ Euphemus bellowed in my ear.
‘At least we’re not at sea.’
Lightning flashed, thunder hard on its heels. With a bray of terror, one of our mules jerked his bridle out of my hand and galloped down the street out of sight. There was no point trying to catch him. Euphemus and I dragged the other mule another hundred yards, to the house the gateman had described.
A slave opened the door, hanging back to avoid the rain spattering the threshold.
‘Is this Dimos’ house?’
The slave nodded.
‘Is Agathon here?’
‘For all the gods’ sakes.’ Euphemus elbowed me out of the way, pushed past the slave and shook himself off like a dog. ‘Does it matter? Let’s get out of this rain.’
We stood in the hall while the slave fetched water and washed the mud off our feet. Another slave went to find his master. A third had the thankless task of unloading our mule in the rain. Soon Euphemus’ baggage was dripping another puddle onto the floor.
‘Welcome,’
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