Pythagoras Dreaming

PYTHAGORAS DREAMING

Barry Klemm

Published by Smashwords

copyright 2014 Barry Klemm

www.barryklemm.com

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Contents

Chapter 1. The Death of a Dream

Chapter 2. The Burning Beanfield

Chapter 3. The Prefect of Croton

Chapter 4. The Academy of Croton

Chapter 5. The Song of the Universe

Chapter 6. The Wall of Numbers

Chapter 7. The Flight from Croton

Chapter 8. The Temple of the Muses

Chapter 9. The Unspeakable is Spoken

Chapter 10. The Secret of the Numbers

Chapter 11. The Numbers and the Chaos

This is not really an historical novel—the life of Pythagoras is too bound up in myth and legend and the various sources too jumbled and contradictory for any such thing to be possible. I have mixed and matched freely, choosing those bits that best suited my purpose without regard for the reliability of their origin.

The Ancient Greeks did not use the decimal system—they counted by fives and related all numbers to geometric shapes—one is a dot or circle, two a line, three a triangle, four a rectangle etc.— which is why to this day we sometimes call numbers figures. Expressions such as square root or even the number two would have meant nothing to them. Similarly I have couched all mathematical terms, political systems and philosophical ideas in their modern form in order to render them comprehensible to the reader.

Most of the philosophical views of Pythagoras have been borrowed from Bertrand Russell who would probably have scowled at the way I’ve tinkered with them.

These events took place in around 500 B.C.—the exact date, like everything else here, isn’t certainly known.

Chapter 1. The Death of a Dream

THE SKY CRACKED OPEN with thunder and lightning and through the jagged canyon of rain swept clouds came screaming the banshee Furies, blood on their lips and fire in their eyes and the vengeance of the gods in their icy hearts. Down to the spume they hurtled to race across the surface of the surging sea, their skeleton fingers trailing through the wave tops, those black robes almost invisible against the storm clouds and the tormented night. Their screaming blotted out the thunder and the pounding waves as they swooped upon the defenseless ship, their glare enough to cause the sail to spontaneously combust, their breath splintering the timbers of the hull. Any poor souls aboard must have rushed below, knowing they were lost but their screams of terror were pitiful squeaks compared to the voices of the Furies. And so the helpless vessel was driven wide, toward the rocks that waited to gore its hull and smash it and everything in it to splinters on their jagged edges.

Hippasos, Hippasos, I knew the doom in your soul. And I remembered then the prophecy of the oracle, the all-seeing Pythias— And the storm will bring with it the death of a fabulous dream, and the greatest hope of humanity will crack like the spine of the ship when it hits the beach and be shattered like the surging debris amid the surf.

Oh Zeus, mighty Zeus, don’t let it be my dream. Don’t let it be mine.

*

Milo brought them to me himself, entering quietly—he moves with remarkable stealth for such a big man. He waits until I acknowledge his presence—it is a game we often play. I pretend to be asleep, he pretends to try not to wake me as if he has forgotten my power to sense the presence of any mind, whether I am sleeping or awake. Either way, I will know he is there and tempt him to disturb me, but he waits, silently, and it is always me who has to speak first.

What is it, Milo?

He allows a little pause and, I suspect, a tiny smile of victory.

You have visitors, Great Father.

At this hour?

Yes.

It hardly matters what hour it is—in fact I am only guessing. That he entered so quietly is my only clue that it is probably night—the room seems dark but my eyesight is so poor these days that it is hard to tell. I am allowed to receive visitors only for one hour in the morning and the afternoon, otherwise my only company is Milo, and Xephanope, and Lysis and Nicarete who is my physician. They alone, through all my hours of slumber less sleep, and I can read all of their minds better than they can themselves.

Hippasos is here to see you, Great Father.

There had been a pause—perhaps I had nodded off for a moment.

What does he want?

He wishes to take his family and leave the Academy.

He is free to come and go as he chooses, as are we all.

Except perhaps those of us bedridden and unable to leave their room.

I don’t really want to see Hippasos—I’m not even sure if I remember who he is. My memory of terrestrial things is so poor these days. But I know too that Milo would not have allowed this visit without an important reason—still I make him explain.

Pythagoras, he wants you to give him your blessing.

He can’t have it. I want him to stay.

Free to come and go, yes, but you can’t have them running to and fro willy-nilly.

Then you’d better tell him that yourself.

On my flesh, I can actually feel Milo’s scowl. My mind playing tricks again. I wonder if he is actually speaking, or just allowing me to read his thoughts. No, you can’t put such a gruff tone into your thoughts.

Oh, very well, Milo. Show him in.

*

My father was a gem engraver and when I was a boy he would take me on his knee and allow me watch him cut the stones. I would hold them, entranced by the perfection of their gleaming facets, but mostly I was proud of the skill with which he transformed those rough dirty stones into such beautiful gems. When I was older, he taught me his secret.

I don’t transform the stones at all. The perfection is already there, locked up inside the stone. My skill is to know which way to cut to bring forth that beauty.

It wasn’t until I became his apprentice and began to do it myself that I knew what he said was true. Any rough irregular stone could be cut and ground and polished and made into a thing of beauty. The rare ones were valuable, and usually more radiant, but all were beautiful—the crudest piece of granite could be made to shine with smooth brilliance, the coarsest lump of iron could reveal a breathtaking solid drop of blood. But all of them, when they first came to hand, from the richest diamond to the coolest emerald, was a coarse rough stone that offered no clue to the beauty hidden within.

I walk out on the road and picked up a handful of gravel, and gazed at the distant clump of boulders, and tried to imagine their secret perfection. The scabby bark of a tree that hides the superb scrolls of the grain of the wood inside, the heart of shining glass in the sand between my toes, all perfection and harmony and beauty in the world lay hidden from the eye and needed knowledge and skill to bring it forth. Everything had its secret heart and in that heart was exquisite perfection. The answer to everything was a secret code, all you had to do was learn the code and perfection and all knowledge and all beauty would be yours. Find the way to cut the stone of life and reveal the wonders within.

And I went out into the world to seeking that cosmic code.

*

Milo has moved me from my bunk to the chair that stands beside—just three paces distance and I am exhausted, as much by the pain and the effort. He has thrown a cloak about my shoulders and it weights heavily, stooping me forward. Milo stands at my side, ready to steady me if I begin to fall. His massive hand on my shoulder constantly presses to keep me awake. It is all too difficult—I have no time for Hippasos nor anyone else.

Great Father, give us your blessing and wish us safe journey.

Hippasos? I peer at him in the yellow oil light and slowly the blur comes into focus. Oh yes, of course, I know him well. Why do you want to leave, Hippasos?

I don’t want to leave. I must go. I can say no more.

His fear pervades the room, startling everything. The oil lamps seem to flare at it. Inanimate objects hide behind their shadows. So great is his fear that it envelopes all other thoughts. I can no longer sense Milo’s presence although his steadying hand tells me he is still here. I cannot even sense my own thoughts. Everything is Hippasos and his jangling nerves. I can smell it too, nauseatingly. I must try to calm him. Haven’t you been happy here?

The best years of my life, Pythagoras, are those I have spent here. I came with nothing. Now I have a good business and a fine wife and two children almost full grown. My life here has been happy and fulfilling. The best days I have ever known, but they are over now.

Hippasos speaks unevenly, and seems to be glancing over his shoulder constantly even though nothing can touch him here.

Our work has hardly begun...

Others must carry on. I must go.

If you must, then go. But are you leaving in anger?

Anxiety replaces his naked fear—his brain is no longer running from me. He seems smaller, suddenly. Perhaps he has fallen on his knees before me—it’s hard to tell. No. That is forbidden. It is merely that his aura of panic has diminished.

Oh no, Pythagoras. Not anger, never. I will always love you, and remember with joy my time at this great Academy.

Then what? What is it I see in your eyes? Fear?

I see nothing in his eyes. I know only the terror in his soul. And rightly so, for he is doomed and there is nothing can be done. He really just ought to get on and have the pain and anguish over with. That is the only way for him now.

Please, Great Father, I can’t speak of it.

Nor can I oblige you to do so. Go if you must. But I warn you, the omens are bad. There are evil signs in the Numbers, and I have been having dreadful dreams.

I can’t help that, he says bravely. What more warning can I give him? You are dead, my friend. Face it and be done with it.

I see grave danger.

I will have to face the danger.

Only the foolish ignore the omens.

Pythagoras, Great Father to us all. Give us your blessing.

I cannot. You must stay.

No, we must go. And if not your blessing, then wish us safe journey.

Your journey will not be safe. You face the gravest dangers.

Is that all you have to say, Great Father?

I’m sure it is. If he goes he is doomed. If he stays I still probably cannot save him. What else can there be? One thing more, just to be certain.

Is the rest Unspeakable, Hippasos?

He will not answer immediately. I remain silent, as does Milo. If he is to betray us, it will be now. In the end, he can only commit himself with a meek voice, trembling, weeping perhaps. Yes, Father, it is.

Then we cannot speak of it.

No, Great Father, we cannot.

So the interview is over, and the rest mere words lost in the mellow thickness of the smoky, musky atmosphere of the room.

Then go, if you must. But I have warned you of the danger.

No chance of a blessing?

I cannot defy the omens.

I will miss you, Pythagoras. Thank you for the warning. But we must leave.

What is it that you fear more than the omens?

If I stay, the Unspeakable will be spoken.

I see.

I must go where there is no danger of the Unspeakable being spoken.

There is no such place.

Still I must go there.

The omens are against you. You have no chance.

Goodbye, Great Father.

Farewell, my friend.

*

Its origins lie in the barbaric orgies of the Orphic mysteries. In order that a man’s soul might be perfect when reincarnated in the next life, it must first be purified in this. And the form that purification takes is in the numbers. The numbers are everything—all things known, every object in existence, each moral quality, all forms of politics and social conditions, and all inner beings, or souls—all of these things are actually numbers. The contrast of opposites is everything, the two sexes, day and night, waking and sleeping, all of it is given expression by odd and even numbers and blended by the harmony of mathematical perfection. So they are the laws that govern our lives—necessarily those same laws that govern the very universe itself.

*

Something crashes out there, tearing me awake. Milo is there, huddled in his cloak, bringing a tray of food that he sets down beside me. Why does he bother? But Milo has always bothered.

Is there a storm, Milo?

Yes, Pythagoras. Quite a blow, in fact.

It’s the Furies.

No. It’s just a storm.

Milo’s voice is weary, exasperated, defeated. He sits with a groan in his favourite spot, on the step at the head of my bunk, leaning back against the pillar. He knows I can’t see him there, but also that he cannot hide his feelings from me.

Hippasos is gone? And his kin?

Yes. They’ve gone.

The Furies are now pursuing them.

Yes. I think you succeeded in putting the fear of death into him.

Yet he still went?

Obviously something else scared him more.

Yes, there is a very exasperated tone in his voice. He doesn’t usually allow his feelings to show so nakedly. Men are likely to get torn limb from limb if he loses his temper so he keeps a tight reign on it, but he is angry now, and willing to share his anger with me. I feel almost honoured. Why are you angry with me, Milo?

It might at least have offered him your blessing.

It wasn’t possible, Milo. You know that.

I’m not sure of what I know any more.

All harmony is in the numbers, Milo. Hippasos was all discord. Couldn’t you feel it yourself?

He was scared out of his wits, if that’s what you mean.

And rightly so, for he had everything to fear.

I tried to persuade him to wait until the storm had passed but there was no holding them back.

It would make no difference.

I keep thinking I should have gone with them to protect them.

You couldn’t protect them from everything forever. There was nothing you could do Milo, I assure you.

In any case, if there is danger, my place is here, guarding you Pythagoras.

I am not in danger.

How can you know that so certainly?

The Numbers, Milo. Will you never find faith in them?

Eat your dinner.

I’m not hungry.

You’ll feel better if you eat.

I hear thunder.

There’s a storm.

The Furies...

It’s just a storm.

*

I was born and raised on the glorious island of Samos, a paradise on earth with its fine harbour against the backdrop of distant rugged mountains. At the time it was a centre of art but not a lot of learning, and I was sent to Miletus on the mainland to be instructed—amongst others—by the Great Thales and Anaximander, both of whom were very old men at the time. Then I travelled to Egypt to learn from the priests the wonderful geometry with which they built the pyramids, and to Babylon to understand their astronomy and see the remarkable mechanics of the hanging gardens.

When I returned to Samos, I soon realised that my homeland’s beauty and splendor was poisoned at the source for all that cultural and artistic and economic development was entirely the result of the local tyrant who was named Polycrates, curse his soul for eternity. He was really just an elaborate pirate and had subjugated the surrounding islands as well as Samos where he built his palace and was well on the way to establishing a rich little empire at the expense of everyone except himself. I never saw him, even though my father was his favourite jeweler, for my mother hid herself and we children in the cellar whenever he was around. He was a fine cultured aristocratic gentleman with a divine right to rape any woman he fancied and cut the throat of any child to ensure he got his way.

Polycrates, having made an enemy of everyone around him, sought a trade allegiance with Egypt and invited the Pharaoh’s envoys to witness the splendor of his small but powerful kingdom and they were sufficiently impressed to arrange an audience on the Nile. But the Pharaoh was a shrewd old devil and offered a condition. Polycrates, he declared, was a very lucky man to have got where he was but all that good luck was bound to run out in the end. What he needed to do was take his most valued possession and throw it into the sea, whereby he would have had some bad luck to counterbalance the good. Then, perhaps, an allegiance might be considered.

Polycrates searched his vast riches for that which he valued most, and finally came up with a brilliant emerald ring. It was the largest and finest emerald that anyone knew of, magnificently cut and mounted, and had been made as a gift to his most beloved wife. He got it back because he had been obliged to strangle her with his own hands when she failed to provide an heir after two years of marriage. Yes, that would be the very thing with which to impress Pharaoh and so he took a ship outside the harbour and threw the ring far out into the sea.

Two days later, a fisherman arrived at the palace gates bearing the largest sea trout anyone had ever seen. He wished to make a gift of it to Polycrates because it just wasn’t safe to own anything that might in some way be regarded as better than that possessed by the tyrant. But when the fish was prepared and presented to Polycrates, there from its innards fell the emerald ring. Polycrates was enraged and took every revenge he could think of. My father had cut that stone and I had actually helped him cast the ring. I returned from a hunting trip to find the house ablaze with the slaughtered bodies of my mother and siblings inside and my father hanging from a tree out the front. My youth ended in that instant—I could offer no assistance, I asked no questions, there wasn’t any time for grief. I turned and headed for the distant mountains as fast as I could go.

*

I see you, Milo, in my never ending waking dream. I see you riding out into the rain, teeth gritted against the stiff breeze, bared muscles of your