Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the fire. Stand over there, by yourself, in the corner.”
    Yaco still didn’t understand what was happening, and moved away from the flames, greatly relieved. He was completely flushed and thin trails of smoke rose from his clothes. After Glaucus’ enraged shouts, he had started to burn but hadn’t dared move away from the enormous fire.
    At least the ointment worked , thought Akenon, slightly more at ease.
    His relief quickly vanished in the tension of the situation. Glaucus was walking around the hall observing the runners’ panting faces. His movements were erratic, his fists clenched, and he breathed with difficulty, as if he himself were running.
    “Stop,” he ordered suddenly. “Now walk slowly.”
    He placed himself in the middle of the sweating human flow. Everyone watched him with fear, whether they were slaves, free servants or his own relatives. Glaucus threw his head back and closed his eyes. His nostrils were dilated, sucking in as much air as they could.
    For a few minutes, only the sound of two hundred people tip-toeing could be heard, trying to pass unnoticed through that smell of sweat and rot. Akenon thought everyone had passed the Sybarite. Maybe Yaco had not deceived him.
    “Stop.”
    Glaucus’ command was barely a whisper. He lowered his head and stood for a few moments with his eyes closed. From where he stood, Akenon saw a few tears escape from the Sybarite’s closed eyelids.
    Everyone had stopped walking and waited expectantly, their eyes glued to the ground. Glaucus turned around and walked to the people who had just passed him, looking at them with no expression other than one of extreme weariness. Then he moved a few steps away from the wheel of runners.
    “Camiro, come here,” he said in a hoarse voice.
    A young, attractive man separated himself from the group and advanced cautiously toward his master, who sniffed the air around him.
    “Go. You,” he pointed at an old woman, “come here.”
    He breathed the air around the woman for a few seconds.
    “Go.” The woman scurried away. “Thessalus, come here.”
    The man he had called walked forward from the group. He was about thirty and had a kind face, accustomed to smiling, though now it reflected only fear. Glaucus smelled his neck and then his chest. Without changing his expression, he kneeled heavily and sniffed between his legs as if he were a dog.
    “Help me up.”
    Thessalus was tall and strong, but he was barely able to lift Glaucus to his feet. When the fat Sybarite was standing again, he took a calm breath and, suddenly, with surprising force, struck Thessalus so hard he knocked him to the ground.
    “Damned son of a bitch, I trusted you implicitly. I took you out of the gutter, and this is how you repay me!”
    Thessalus remained on the floor, with one hand over his ear. A trickle of blood appeared between his fingers. His lips trembled, but he dared not move or reply. Glaucus had become incensed once more, his face apoplectically red.
    Akenon wondered what the punishment would be for the unfortunates. Probably not even Glaucus knew. In spite of Eshdek’s warnings, until that night Akenon had thought the Sybarite was a reasonably level-headed man. During the days he had spent in his palace he had seen him eat for hours at sumptuous banquets, but he had also seen him weep at the delicacy of some of the musical and dance performances he organized daily.
    Although Eshdek had told Akenon only that Glaucus was a passionate man, and slightly unpredictable, what was palpable in the atmosphere right now was pure violence and hatred.
    Glaucus’ expression hardened. He turned toward one of the doors.
    “Boreas!”
     
     
    A silence descended on the hall, so dense it was hard to breathe. In the overheated atmosphere, impregnated with the stench of the ointment, a single plea was heard.
    “No, no, please, no.” From the floor, Thessalus shook his head desperately, terrified at hearing the giant’s name.
    The enormous Thracian