The Philosopher Kings (27 page)

“Do you know my father?” It was something about the familiar way she said his name that made me ask.

“Oh yes. I'm Auge. I used to share a sleeping house with your mother. She was doing agape with Pytheas even back then.”

I didn't want to break the news about Mother's death to another of her old friends. “You're the sculptor? I love your work. The statue in the harbor in Marissa especially.”

She blushed. I introduced her to Phaedrus, and she introduced me to her children, a boy of fourteen and a girl of twelve. The judges were still arguing. She introduced me to a few more of the people in the crowd, and insisted on sharing her picnic with us—cold lamb and cucumber yoghurt rolled in flatbread, delicious. I hadn't thought I'd be able to eat while Father's life hung in the balance, but once I smelled it I was ravenous. “I think they'll call it a draw,” Auge said. “What else can they do? Then everyone will have to be satisfied.”

The judges were still arguing when we finished eating. “What do you usually use this colosseum for?” Phaedrus asked.

Auge looked uncomfortable. “Competitions. Drama. Animal fights. Gladiator fights. There are a number of Romans among us. They suggested it. And the locals we recruited enjoy things like that.”

“We have drama in the City now,” I said. “And some of us went to an animal fight in Marissa.”

“And of course we hold assembly here, and we also use it for punishments and executions,” Auge said.

Phaedrus looked at the wooden post. “So your punishments are public?”

Auge nodded. “As for drama, we've often wished we'd brought copies of plays when we left. That's something we'd be very keen to trade for. How did you start allowing performances?” Phaedrus started telling her about the vote that allowed drama.

The shadows were growing long when Aristomache stood up again.

“We want to hear you both again before we come to a decision,” she said.

“The same work, or something else?” Kebes asked.

“The same original composition,” she said. She gestured to Father. He had been standing quite still and expressionless all this time, though Kebes had been exchanging sallies with people in the crowd. Now he smiled, still calm and perfect but deadly. He swung his cloak deliberately so that it draped from the other shoulder. Then he picked up the lyre and turned it carefully upside-down. He then began to play, the same complex tune as before, perfect, even though all the strings were in the opposite places, and he was using his left hand. He sang again, lifting up his voice and filling the space.

Kebes sat stunned for a moment, then roared to his feet. “This is blatant cheating!”

Aristomache raised a hand to cut him off. Father had not missed a note. He raised an eyebrow, and she nodded to him to continue. He played the upside-down lyre, left-handed, through all the complexities of the song, flawlessly, just as if it were the natural way. This time there was perfect silence as the last note died away.

“It's not against the rules of a musical competition to make things more difficult for yourself,” Aristomache said, answering Kebes.

“Nobody expects you to do as well,” Father said, smoothly. “Your instrument isn't made for it.”

But Kebes for the first time looked uncertain. He guessed that if he played as he had before, the judges would find for Father, who had done something more difficult. He frowned hard and turned the syrinx over. Of course he shouldn't have tried. It wasn't meant to be played that way, and he hadn't practiced, which Father certainly must have. Kebes blew, but what came out wasn't the same rippling hypnotic music as before but a discordant babble. The crowd laughed, with an uncomfortable edge. Kebes righted his instrument and played as he had the first time. But he didn't have the same confidence, and without the energy of the crowd the Myxolydian music felt hollow.

There was no doubt what the judges were going to decide. They didn't take long in their deliberations this time. Aristomache stood. “We have a majority,” she said. “We will each give our votes. I vote for Pytheas.”

“Pytheas,” Erinna said.

“Pytheas,” Ficino echoed.

“Matthias,” Klymene said, staring straight in front of her and not meeting anyone's eyes.

“Pytheas,” Neleus said, very firmly.

“Pytheas,” Nikias said, in the same tone.

“Matthias,” Sabina said.

“Pytheas,” said Alexandra.

“Matthias,” concluded Erektheus.

“That's six for Pytheas and three for Matthias, so Pytheas has won. But I beg you Pytheas, be merciful.”

And as she spoke that word, Kebes shouted “Fix!” He grabbed a sharp knife from the collection on the ground and rushed at Father. But I hardly noticed, because throughout the crowd people were drawing weapons and attacking those of us from the
Excellence
. It was what Erinna and Maecenas had predicted. The whole colosseum erupted into chaos.

 

21

ARETE

The shape of the colosseum, the steps where people were sitting and the clear aisles for moving about, were on our side. The preparation and the weapons were all on the other side. Kebes's people had been ready and planning angles of attack, picking out victims in advance. It all seemed to happen in a split second.

Phaedrus drew his knife. I had no weapon. Auge leaped to her feet, scowling, and I shrank away, but she was bellowing “Is this what we call guest friendship?” She took a hammer from her belt and knocked away a blade that was coming for me. She thrust me down toward her children, who were clinging together and cowering under the step. “Stop this at once!” she bellowed. “These are friends. There are children here. Are we savages?”

Father and Kebes seemed to be wrestling by the wooden pole. A woman was lying dead at Phaedrus's feet. There was shouting everywhere, a cacophonous din that roared in my ears. I looked around. There was fighting here and there in the crowd, but no more near me, where people seemed to have listened to Auge and were looking ashamed of themselves. The man who had attacked me was backing away, sheathing his sword. But on the other side of the colosseum I could see a group of people with blades charging down the clear aisle toward the stage, making for the place where the judges were sitting. Without thinking I leaped down toward them—it began as a leap and ended as a flight, or I would have smashed to the sand.

I landed beside Father's swords, still lying neatly where he had put them down. I bent and picked them up, one in each hand, and ran toward the attackers. Erinna saw me coming and stood, taking a step toward me. She reached for the bigger sword in my left hand, and I gratefully gave it up to her. She put it up just in time to block an attacker. I blocked another, much more clumsily, and ducked away from a third, kicking at his knee as I did. I didn't have any idea what to do in a fight that wasn't just friendly wrestling in the palaestra. I was too young for weapons training. The smaller sword felt very heavy in my hand. Neleus came up beside me and punched an attacker hard in her side. “Give me the sword,” he said, and I did. He swung it at her throat as she came forward again, nearly severing her head. She vanished at once. The one I'd dodged fell over as he was coming for me again—I discovered later that Nikias had thrown the white stone at his temple.

All through the crowd people were shouting out for peace and friendship and civilization, and even for excellence. I flew over a man with a sword who was coming at me and pushed him back onto Erinna's waiting blade. Neleus was still fighting the last of the group, but his opponent looked desperately around and then threw down his sword to surrender, and that was the end of it.

Kebes was bound to the pole, where he had wanted to bind Father. It seemed as if people had been falling everywhere, but in fact we learned later there were only nineteen dead from
Excellence
, and fourteen from Lucia.

As the last man surrendered, Erinna and I grinned at each other. Then an instant later I realized that one of the bodies at our feet was Ficino. His hat had fallen off and was lying on the sand. I knelt beside him and Erinna knelt at his other side. He had taken a sword thrust and was bleeding but still alive. “Amazons,” he said, trying to smile. “Trojan heroes couldn't have done better. Don't grieve for me, my dears. I've had a wonderful life, and what a way to die, at ninety-nine, fighting to defend arete.”

“We'll get you home to Florentia, and you'll live another ninety-nine years and fight plenty more battles for Plato yet,” Erinna said, but there were tears in her eyes.

“Phaedrus!” I called, as loudly as I could. “Ficino needs you!” Phaedrus could heal him, mend whatever was wrong. Phaedrus came down the stairs running, but Father heard too, and he was nearer and got there first. Father bent over, and Ficino saw him.

“Apollo!” he said, surprised. For a moment I couldn't tell if he was swearing or recognizing Father. “Of course!” He sounded the way he did when I made a really conclusive point in debate. Then he laughed delightedly, and coughed up a bubble of blood. A flood of bright red blood followed it, bursting out of his mouth and taking his life with it. By the time Phaedrus reached us he was gone, leaving nothing but blood on the sand, and his battered old hat beside it.

Phaedrus wiped his eyes, and turned to Aristomache, who was clutching her arm. “Are you a doctor? I think it's broken,” she said to him.

He set his hand on it. “Just a bad bruise, I think,” he said. “But let me strap it for you.”

“Aristomache, now that the riot seems to have died down, I want you to speak to Kebes,” Father said, as Phaedrus was finishing.

“Good heavens, is he still alive?” she asked.

Father gestured to the pole, where Kebes was writhing against the iron rings, where Father had bound his wrists and ankles. Aristomache took a step toward it. Auge came down the stairs and onto the stage. “You, Timon!” she roared, pointing at a man in the crowd. “You're a king this year, and you weren't fighting. Come here.”

The man came forward. The crowd hushed. “If you're a doctor, go around to the left. If you're wounded, go there where the doctors are. If not, sit down,” Timon said, firmly, taking charge. People obeyed him. Phaedrus went over to the left where some other people were gathering. He started helping the wounded.

“Are you responsible for this disgraceful behavior?” Auge asked Kebes.

“For the fixed contest?” Kebes answered, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “No. For my friends who weren't ready to watch me murdered? No.” He was lying.

“Yes he was,” called the man who had resheathed his sword before Auge's anger. “He told us to be ready to fight if he shouted fix.”

“And he had us ready to attack the judges,” the man on the ground confirmed.

Timon looked at Aristomache. “Death is the penalty for attacking guests,” he said. She nodded. “Those who surrendered or thought better of it are condemned to iron for ten years,” he went on. The man near me collapsed in sobs. “As for Matthias—”

“Don't I get to speak?” Kebes asked.

“Ficino is dead,” Aristomache said, as if that were sufficient to convict him, as indeed it was in my eyes too.

“Good,” Kebes said. “I hated him, hated all the Masters, you included. I hate Kallisti and everyone who stayed on it. I wanted to be ready in case Pytheas cheated, that's all, and as you can see, he did. For us, seizing the ship and killing the sailors was the best way. Now we can sail to Kallisti, where they're weak and divided, and conquer them all.”

He wasn't looking at her, he was looking at the crowd, at his people, who had loved him. Some of them looked at him with agreement, but too few.

“This isn't what Yayzu would have done,” Auge said.

“It's what the Knights of St. John would have done,” Kebes replied.

“I won the contest,” Father said. “And even leaving aside guest friendship and inciting riot, he broke his oath to abide by the decision of the judges.”

“I did not break my oath!” Kebes shouted. “We attacked because you cheated. I told them to be ready if I shouted fix. I kept my oath, and would have accepted a fair verdict against me, but not this!”

“Kill him, Pytheas,” King Timon said. “This is a civilized city. Do to him what he was going to do to you.” The crowd cheered loudly.

Father looked to the tools, spilled on the grass now, then at Kebes where he writhed on the pole, and lastly at the crowd in the stands. “If this is your justice,” he said. He looked over toward me, and then past me. “Neleus? Help me please.”

Neleus went over to him and gathered up the knives. Then he knelt beside him holding them as Father began to cut.

Erinna and I stayed where we were, crouched on the bloodstained sand beside Ficino's hat.

Kebes began swearing at Father, calling him names, accusing him of all kinds of vile crimes. Father began with a shallow cut down the breastbone, and then began carving the skin off. Kebes kept on yelling and taunting. Father didn't respond and just kept on cutting, until Kebes shouted out “And Sokrates didn't love you! And Simmea didn't love you!” Then Father paused for a second and looked at him evenly.

“Both of them loved you, in their ways, but both of them loved me more.” Then he lowered his voice so the crowd couldn't hear and said, “Now tell me, did Athene give you the syrinx? Why? When? And how did you learn that music? Tell me, and I'll kill you quickly.”

“Oh you're enjoying this!” Kebes shouted, and began another torrent of abuse.

I'm sure it's not true that Father deliberately used the dull knives to make it take longer. It's just that he didn't have much experience with flaying the skin off a living man. Who does, except Kebes himself? I'd never considered before the way skin folds over muscles and fat and bones, certainly never seen it. Kebes abused him on and on for as long as he could, and Father kept asking his questions, patiently, but after a while it was mostly screaming.