The travel was more eventful than the last time he was on a ship. His old bowels didn't take well the shaking of the boat; he spent most of the journey either sleeping in his room or vomiting on the deck. He lost weight, and the captain of the ship couldn't hide his worries any longer.
"We'll reach Athens in two days. You should disembark there."
Pythagoras wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. "No."
The captain held out a goatskin and helped Pythagoras drink of it. "I fear for your life, sir. You could rest for a while in Athens, and board another ship later."
"Don't worry," he said with a less than assuring smile. He gulped down a mouthful of water but choke on it and coughed for several second. The captain rubbed his back until he felt better. Pythagoras gave him back the goatskin. "I have to go to Neapolis. If I wait too long, I may never be able to."
.
A week later, Pythagoras was on the deck, throwing up overboard, when the cry of a sailor made his heart pound. "Neapolis right ahead!"
With his old and tired blue eyes, he checked the horizon and, there it was: a beautiful city, its white walls in stark contrast with the dark forest behind. The palace, gold and marble, was a bright spot, visible even from so far away. The sight warmed Pythagoras' heart, which skipped a beat.
The warmth spread in his chest and became painful. Breathing was difficult, his lungs two balls of fire inside his ribcage. In agony, he fell on his knees as his body failed him. Clutching the rail between weak fingers, he looked at Neapolis and his heart finally stopped. As death drew dark curtains on the world, he smiled. "I'm coming, Icarus," he said with his last breath.
He was buried in Neapolis, and King Jason, helped by his sons – the old King could barely stand on his own anymore – attended the ceremony.
Pythagoras' body still lay under the ground. What became of his soul, nobody knows.
