The Philosopher Kings (23 page)

“Once Kebes is dead, we can make agreements.”

“But you can't just walk up to him in the street and run him through, and then carry on with the others as if you didn't do it,” Neleus said. “You'll have to either make it seem as if you didn't do it, or else tell everyone why. Unless you could find a pretext. Or fake an accident somehow.”

“You're right,” Father said. “I need to find a way of killing him that's personal and acceptable and doesn't destroy all possibility of friendship between our cities later. I wonder whether they allow duels?”

“It doesn't seem likely,” I said, appalled.

“Kebes probably wouldn't agree to one anyway. He's fought me before, he knows I'm better.”

“Does he know that you hate him?” I asked.

“Yes. Though he has no idea how much more I hate him now that I know what he did to Simmea. I wish I'd killed him long ago when I had his neck under my hand in the palaestra.”

“Why didn't you?” Neleus asked.

“He was her friend and she valued him,” Father said, sobbing openly now. Maia was coming toward us. I waved her away, but she kept coming. “She thought he was her friend and he did that to her.”

He put his hands up to his face, pushed away from the rail and went below before Maia reached us.

“What's wrong with Pytheas now?” Maia asked.

Neleus and I looked at each other. “Just missing Mother,” I said.

“I miss Simmea myself, but—” she shook her head. “I had thought the journey was doing him good.”

“It is,” I said, truthfully. “He hasn't been like that anything like as often since we set off.”

“I suppose it's hard for him to deal with knowing it wasn't the Goodness Group who killed her,” Maia said, staring after him. “He was so hoping for spectacular revenge. You'd think he'd realize it does no good. It wouldn't matter how much he avenged her, he wouldn't get her back.”

Neleus grunted and went off after Father.

We were lost for two more days and stopped for water twice before we found somewhere that matched our charts. Father told me that he knew exactly where we were all the time, but of course he couldn't let anyone know, other than by suggesting a direction, and they wouldn't always listen. I didn't have that sense, and neither did Phaedrus or Kallikles, but Father said it probably was just familiarity with the geography.

Once we knew our location we crept south along the shore of Asia until we passed Lemnos, which was full of savage villages. We didn't go ashore. Then we reached Lesbos, where we arrived at a well-built city of marble columns and whitewashed stone houses with red tile roofs on the north shore. The
Goodness
was tied up at the wharf. It looked just like the
Excellence
except that it seemed to be missing a mast and the sides were visibly patched with wood of different shades. I wondered how difficult it was to maintain her without Workers.

“We have missed the festival,” Aristomache said sadly, as we tacked into the harbor under a blazing noon sun. “Today's the last day. There'll be nothing left but gladiatorial combats. And I was hoping your father would compete. I remember his music.”

“If his lyre didn't get drowned in the storm I'm sure he will compete if there's a chance,” I said. “And even if we have completely missed it, I'm sure he'd play for you. There's nothing he likes better than singing, except maybe composing.”

We were close enough now to see that people on shore were rushing about in evident surprise. “We're not going to be able to tie up the way we did at Marissa, there's only room for one ship,” Erinna said.

After the envoys went ashore and negotiated with the Lucians, we arranged to anchor in the harbor, keep one watch aboard ship at all times, and send everyone else ashore in the little boat. “And no swimming!” Caerellia said, firmly. “We're in civilization here and don't you forget it!”

I went ashore with Aristomache and Maia and Neleus. Erinna had gone in an earlier group, with Ficino, though she had patted my arm and nodded when Ficino had said he'd see me ashore. Father had also gone ahead, his lyre slung over his shoulder, but he was talking to somebody on the quay. He finished his conversation and came over to join us. “The
Goodness
was in Troy when Simmea was killed,” he said.

“Oh Pytheas, you didn't still think we might have done it?” Aristomache asked, putting her hand on his arm.

“I wanted to be sure,” Father said.

“He's been a little crazed with grief ever since it happened,” Maia said, in that language she and Aristomache shared.

“Death is a terrible thing without salvation,” Aristomache replied, in the same language.

“What's that?” Neleus asked, perplexed.

Father and I exchanged glances, and I saw that he understood, as I did.

“Sorry,” Aristomache said. “Come on. Most people will have gone to the agora. It's Easter day, we celebrate Yayzu risen. Tonight we will eat lamb and bread.”

Lucia was decorated for festival, with flower garlands set on pillars, just the way we did it at home. It seemed very familiar, laid out on the same pattern as our cities and as Marissa, with broad streets leading to a central agora. On the top of the hill was a colosseum. We passed another huge marble Madonna, also garlanded with flowers. “Auge?” I asked.

“She's our best sculptor,” Aristomache confirmed, clearly proud of her. “She lives and works here, but her work stands in all our cities. This is Our Lady of Peace.” It was lovely. I could hear choral singing as we came toward the agora. A man passing handed me a honey cake from his basket. Everything seemed peaceful and pleasant. Father took a honey cake but tucked it into his kiton. I wondered suddenly whether I'd seen him eating in Marissa, or just sitting at the table moving food around? He took hospitality very seriously. Well, I had bitten into my honey cake, so it was too late. These people were my friends. I took a colored egg from a smiling girl, and Aristomache gave her a coin. I'd never get used to paying for things.

In the agora, outside a temple, there was a gruesome wooden statue of a man being tortured. He was fixed to a cross by nails through his palms and feet, he had scars of whipping, and his face was distorted by pain. It was painted in full color, just to make the blood and everything more obvious. It was hideous, and yet also beautiful. I couldn't look away from it. There were a couple of paintings in the Botticelli book that I now realized were also depictions of this story—in one he's flanked by an angel and a person dressed in long hair, with a sad old man and a dove hovering behind. In the other a person and an angel are flinging themselves around at the foot of the cross. I had always wondered what was going on in those pictures. But Botticelli's man pinned to the cross seemed peaceful and happy, and also the least interesting thing in the pictures. Here he was clearly in agony.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Yayzu,” Aristomache said.

“They did
that
to him?” I said, appalled. I looked at Father. Clearly he had very good reasons for not letting people know he was really a god.

He smiled down at me. “Not a nice way to die,” he said. “Suffocation is what actually killed them. It took days sometimes. It was a Roman method of extreme punishment.”

“Why do they have that there?” I asked, as Maia opened her mouth to defend her beloved Romans.

“Yayzu returned from the dead,” Aristomache said. “And through him, so will we all. He conquered death, not just for himself but for all of us through all of time. He went through that to save us all. Looking at the cross reminds us not that he died, but that he went beyond death, and so will we all.” Even Maia looked moved. Father smiled again, a smile that made me uneasy.

Just then I spotted Ficino and Erinna on the other side of the agora, deep in conversation with a group of strangers. Ficino was always easy to pick out in a crowd because of his red hat. I waved, but they didn't see me. I was looking at them, so I was surprised when I looked back and saw that a burly man in a floppy Phrygian cap had joined us. He was wearing leggings and a tunic, not a kiton. Since it was a festival, I assumed it was a costume for a play. He was about Father's age, clearly one of the Children.

“Aristomache, Maia, Pytheas, joy to you,” he said. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“Kebes,” Father said, nodding. I took an involuntary step backward. This was Kebes? Apart from his fancy dress, he seemed so ordinary.

“Joy to you, Matthias,” Aristomache said, seeming delighted to see him. “I've been doing my best to explain to everyone what we've been doing, but you'll be able to do it so much better.”

“And what have
you
been doing?” Kebes said, mostly to Father.

“Walking in the steps of Sokrates,” Father said, calmly and evenly, and, typically, speaking perfect truth even if it wasn't very helpful information.

I took a step forward again, so I was next to Maia, who hadn't said anything at all. She glanced down at me, looking worried, and that drew Kebes's attention to me for the first time. He looked at me, and then quickly at Father, and then he laughed. “Not so much with the agape, then, Pytheas?”

I didn't see Father move, but suddenly Kebes was on his back on the ground with his cap in the dust. He had a shaved circle on the top of his head.

Maia grabbed Father, and the crowd that had been moving to and fro across the agora crystallized around us, and other people also grabbed Father. Aristomache bent over Kebes as he was starting to get up. “Simmea was killed by pirates recently,” she said to Kebes, directly into his face. She was about half his size and more than twice his age, but she clearly wasn't afraid of him.

Kebes froze as he was, up on one elbow, clearly shocked. “Killed?”

“Also,” Father said, calmly, as if continuing a debate, standing quite still and ignoring the people holding onto him, “What did you imagine you were doing calling your city after my wife?”

Kebes face immediately closed up again.

“What?” Maia asked, puzzled.

“Lucia was Mother's childhood name,” I said. Maia looked down at Kebes and let go of her grip on Father.

“I had no idea she was dead,” Kebes said, getting up. He was a head taller than Father, but I hadn't noticed it until now. He dusted himself off, then picked up his hat. He looked at me again, and didn't laugh this time. His expression mingled grief and anger.

“So why did you call the city after my mother?” I asked, while I had his attention.

“We all wanted light,” Kebes said, looking truculent. “It's a coincidence.”

Aristomache and most of the strangers in the little crowd around us looked satisfied. Father looked as if his face was carved from marble and couldn't change expression. I didn't believe Kebes. Moreover, even though I didn't know him and couldn't possibly tell, I knew he was lying. It was certain knowledge—another divine power unfolding itself in me.

“Look, no hard—” Kebes stopped, looking at Father. “I suppose there are hard feelings on both sides. But she's dead. Let's agree to leave each other alone.”

“I don't suppose you'd care to wrestle a bout in the palaestra?” Father asked, the essence of politeness. People were still holding on to his arms, but he wasn't struggling at all.

“No, I really wouldn't,” Kebes said. “But I'll tell you what. The music competitions are over. But we could have another, just the two of us, tomorrow. Extend the festival a little. Compete in a different sphere. That way there will be no damage done.”

Father was smiling one of his most terrifying smiles now. “But what if I want to do damage?”

“Do it with your lyre,” Kebes said.

Father had won every musical competition he had entered in my lifetime, and probably before it as well. If Kebes knew how good he was in the palaestra, Kebes must also have also known how good he was at music. I didn't understand why he would even make such a suggestion, unless he was hoping to deflect Father's anger by giving him a victory that wouldn't hurt.

“I know what you did to her,” Father said, intent on Kebes, ignoring the people still holding his arms and the large circle of people gathered around us listening.

“I didn't do anything to her you didn't do too,” Kebes said, deliberately glancing at me. “Did I give her a child?”

I stepped between them before Father could throttle Kebes in broad daylight in the agora before half of Lucia and half the crew of
Excellence.
“You are talking about
my mother
,” I said. “And she's dead.”

“Nothing against you, little one. And I'm very sorry she's dead,” Kebes said, looking down at me. “I loved her. And she loved me.” He meant what he was saying. But that didn't mean it was true, only that he believed it.

Father put a hand on my shoulder, and I realized they must have let him go and that he was ready to thrust me aside to get to Kebes. “This music contest,” I said, quickly. “What's the prize?”

“A heifer,” somebody in the crowd said. I hadn't asked because I wanted to know. I didn't take my eyes off Kebes. Now that he was looking at me, I could see by his eyes that he hadn't offered it thinking it was an easy way to lose. He was sincerely confident of winning. But I was just as confident that nobody could beat Father at music. (He is the god Apollo. He
invented
music.)

“No,” Kebes said, looking at Father over my head. “Not a heifer. How about if, instead, the winner gets to do what they want to the loser? That's what this is about, isn't it? We've always hated each other. This way we both have a fair chance.”

Father's hand on my shoulder seemed to become heavier. There was a hiss of drawn breath from the crowd. Maia was frowning. Saying
do what they want
seemed better to me at that moment than saying
kill
. But why would Kebes suggest it? He was lying when he said they both had a fair chance. He believed he would win. How could he?