The Philosopher Kings (36 page)

He looked stunned and delighted. There was no point pretending it hadn't happened, because he'd clearly seen the whole thing, and besides there were no tracks in the sand. “Joy to you,” I said.

Porphyry spun around. “Ikaros! Joy to you,” he stammered. “We were just … that is I … my sister was just showing me…”

“She's an angel!” Ikaros believed every word he was saying, but that didn't make it true.

I flew over to him in one swoop and sat down in the sand beside him. I pinched the skin of the back of his hand. “Real,” I said. “Not an angel.”

“So was Sophia—Athene—as tangible and corporeal as anyone else,” he said. “She never pinched me, but I brushed against her several times and touched her hands when we were acquiring art together. But if you're not an angel, explain to me what you are, and I'll figure out how it all fits together.”

I opened my mouth, but Porphyry interrupted before I could. “Don't tell him anything.”

He was standing, with his shadow falling over me. He had composed himself in the walk across the beach and no longer looked worried. “What? Why?”

“For one thing it's not only your secret, as you were just telling me. But I've just worked out the most important reason is that knowing for sure would break his heart.”

I frowned up at him. “How? You said before he'd work out how it fit together, and that's just what he said himself.”

“Yes. But I was wrong. I know Ikaros a lot better than you do. He's my sister Rhadamantha's father, so he's been around our house a lot all my life. He's my teacher. He thinks he wants to know, but—”

“I'm right here,” Ikaros said, plaintively.

Porphyry looked at him and smiled. “Tell me truthfully you want Arete to explain it to you, instead of letting you work it out for yourself.”

“Oh!” Ikaros put his hand to his heart. “A hit! And from my own disciple!”

Porphyry smiled and sat down. “What are you doing out here anyway? You shouldn't come this far alone. Your eyes aren't up to it.”

“I keep telling you, I can still see perfectly well in full daylight.” He was lying. “The debate ended earlier than I thought, and I came to get something that's hidden in the cave.” That part was true.

Porphyry's eyes flicked toward the cleft in the cliff.

“If that's where you're keeping the head of Victory I can just go in myself and take it now,” I said.

“And fly home to the City with it, and set it back in the temple,” Ikaros suggested. “While I work on my theory of how it is that you're a girl born in the Remnant City and grown up at a normal speed, but you can fly. You say you're not an angel, and I admit it does seem unlikely. Maybe it's because your mother was such an exceptional philosopher and you're developing angelic abilities because of that. Maybe if we all study Plato hard enough the entire next generation will be able to fly.”

I laughed, because while he was joking, he also half hoped he was right. “You really do believe in the perfectibility of humanity,” I said.

“Despite everything, I keep hoping. And from time to time I find some evidence.”

“Please don't tell anyone,” I said. “Once everyone knows I can fly they'll always be getting me to carry messages and rescue kittens from trees.”

“I won't tell anyone until I'm sure I have the right answer. But can I come to you with my guesses?”

“To me, or to Porphyry,” I said.

“And even if and when you have it right, perhaps you could incorporate it in the New Concordance anonymously, as in saying that a girl born in one of the Republics, rather than giving Arete's name?” Porphyry suggested.

“But her name perfectly encapsulates what she is. As does yours, of course. But I won't use it. You can trust me.”

I wanted to like him and trust him, but I couldn't. “Why were you so mean to Maia?” I asked.

Ikaros blinked. “Maia? I thought she accepted my apology?” He was sincere, which wasn't to say he was correct.

“You told her she doesn't love anybody!” I accused.

“Oh.” He looked abashed. “She told you about that?”

“It's still hurting her.”

“What happened was that Klio had been telling me about this German philosopher—”

“The Germans have philosophers?” Porphyry interrupted, astonished. I was astonished too. I'd read Tacitus. I imagined some hairy barbarian debating in the forests while avoiding the axes of his companions.

“This was later, after they were civilized,” Ikaros said, waving away the distraction. “They conquered Italy and claimed to be the heirs of Rome like everyone else. Anyway, this German had interesting theories about how minds work, and I was interested in them for a time, as best Klio could remember what she'd read years before. And one of his theses seemed to me to explain Maia's behavior, and I was foolish enough to mention this to her. I can see now how it was unkind. At the time I thought she'd be glad of an explanation.”

“You should tell her you were wrong,” I said.

“I will. I'm sorry that's still upsetting her.” He meant it. “Is that what Pytheas was talking about when he told me people have equal significance?”

“I don't know,” I said. “But can I trust you that you won't tell anyone about me being able to fly?”

Ikaros laughed again. “You're safe even if you can't trust me. I've never seen anything so lovely as the two of you coming in to land just then. But while I've tried to keep everyone from knowing how bad my eyes are, they know enough to know I'm not a reliable witness on something like this.”

“How much can you see, really?” I asked.

Ikaros sighed. “I can see shapes and colors, in sunlight,” he said, truthfully. “No detail. And the middle distance is where I can see best. I could see you better when you landed than I can now. It's just strain from reading too much in bad light.”

I wondered if Phaedrus would be able to heal him. I didn't want to raise his hopes without being sure.

“He doesn't want people to know. But I know, because I read to him and write things he dictates,” Porphyry said.

“Some things,” Ikaros teased, smiling. There was something about the way he said this that made me realize that he and Porphyry had the same kind of close teacher-pupil friendship that Ficino and I had had. “And I have a lot memorized. It's not so bad.”

“I trust you not to tell,” I said. “And Porphyry knows enough to tell you if your guesses are good.”

“Get the head,” Porphyry suggested to me, waving at the cave.

I went into the cave. It was dim after the bright sunlight outside, and I had to wait for my eyes to adjust. At first I couldn't see anything but the rippled volcanic rock, but then I noticed a shelf, just above my head. On it was a bundle wrapped in cloth. I pulled it down and unwrapped it. There was the serene and perfect stone face of Victory gazing up at me. What a stupid thing to die for, I thought, hating it. What a feeble recompense for all the years Simmea might have lived. And yet, how beautiful it was, even in this dimness. A masterpiece.

I wiped my eyes, tucked the head under my arm, and flew out of the cave. I circled the cove—I saw Ikaros's head move to watch me, and I settled to the sand again next to them. Ikaros took the head and ran his fingers gently over the contours of the face. He had tears in his eyes. He didn't even try to look at it. “Take it,” he said. “Fly back to the Remnant with it. I'll come to the conference, and see you and it there.”

“I'll help you back to the city,” Porphyry said to Ikaros.

I took the head and flew up again. I had no intention of flying all the way home with the head, but I circled over Ikaros and Porphyry's heads and set off southward. I came down in the woods near the City of Amazons and walked in with the head carefully covered up. I took it to the
Excellence
, where I stowed it safely in my hammock.

Then I went to find Father. “Porphyry wants to go to Delos when you go,” I said. “And I have the head of Victory, for what it's worth.”

 

29

MAIA

We held the conference in the Chamber. The Chamber was the oldest building in the City. I could remember when it was the only building and all the Masters slept in it, uncomfortable and excited on the marble floor. I'd been in it thousands of times since then, and usually I took the steps and went through the pillared portico without thinking of anything but the day's business. The day the conference began, I walked in with Axiothea and remembered that early excitement, and my young bones that didn't ache. We had been among the youngest of the Masters, and now most of the older ones were dead, of time and attrition, or in Ficino's case a sword through the ribs. Once I had looked forward to a time when the older Masters would be gone and we younger ones could make decisions. But then I had imagined the Republic growing stronger and more secure every year. I had believed the Children would become philosopher kings. I was older now. I didn't know whether I was wiser.

The room was arranged for debate, with rows of benches facing the rostrum. It was packed, with all the envoys and all the Chamber members who wanted to participate. There must have been nearly five hundred people present. The envoys sat at the front, and it was agreed that they had precedence in speaking.

The conference began with a simple direct prayer to far-seeing Apollo for clarity. It was given by Manlius, whose turn it was. There had been some argument about this, with Ikaros and Aristomache both wanting prayers of their own, either as replacements or additions. In the end this was a compromise—it didn't mention Athene. Yet it was impossible, in this room, not to think of her, not to remember her standing in front of us, nine feet tall, with the owl on her arm turning its head to watch us all.

Then we elected a judge—a chair, a moderator, to control the flow of debate. It had been agreed in advance that the voting for this would be by simple majority of all present. Pytheas stood. “I'd be a terrible judge,” he began. There was a ripple of laughter. “The person I'd like to propose, our chair here since Atticus died, was killed in the fighting in Lucia. I'd like a moment of silence for Ficino, missed now and always.” Tears came to my eyes. After the silence he went on. “I think our judge should be someone who has experience of more than one city, who went on the voyage, and has direct experience of the Lucian cities. I propose Maia.”

He hadn't warned me. Axiothea shoved me to my feet. “If elected I will serve, and strive to be fair,” I said. “It's an honor, but also it will be very difficult.”

To my astonishment, Ikaros seconded the proposal. (His hair was entirely silver now, and shaggy like a lion's mane.) Somebody proposed old Salutius, from Psyche; and Patroklus, from Sokratea, proposed Neleus, on the grounds that he had been on the voyage and was a Young One. Neleus declined, saying he had no experience and he thought I'd do a better job. I was elected, and made my way up to the front.

It was strange sitting where Athene had stood, where Krito had sat, and Tullius, Cato, and Ficino. It was strange to look at the hall from this perspective, the sea of faces. I had chaired committees, and even moderated plenty of debates, but none in Chamber. I put my hands on the carved arms of the chair, gripping them tightly. I had never imagined myself here. I had always seen myself in a support role, never imagined myself sufficiently respected to be chosen to judge an important debate like this. Well, I knew what Plato said about that. I took a breath and looked at Pytheas, who was still standing there. Neleus and I had been working on accommodation for the envoys and diplomatic issues. “Is there an agenda?”

Pytheas handed me a paper: 1. How to vote. 2. The Lucian question. 3. Choral ode. 4. Art raids. No more, no order of speakers or anything. I looked at him in exasperation. It was just like Pytheas: so generally excellent, with such unexpected lacunae. He shrugged.

“First, how to vote,” I said, to the room.

It was a contentious issue. By number of cities the Lucians outnumbered everyone else. They had sent thirty envoys. About half of them were originally Masters and Children from the Just City. The other half were refugees rescued and converted to Christian Platonism. None of them approved of Kebes breaking guest friendship, but they were all devastated by the loss of the
Goodness
. They had different opinions on different subjects, but they were all united in their sense of mission. They wanted to rescue victims of Bronze Age wars and teach them civilization. That's what they had been doing all this time, and they wanted to keep on with it. And it was immediately apparent to everyone that if we used democratic voting by city, with their eight cities they'd immediately and unquestionably succeed in that aim.

Aurelius, of Psyche, suggested that the Lucians be considered one city, as we had imagined they were before they were rediscovered—the Goodness Group as we had called them, or the Lost City. “A hundred and fifty people left with Kebes. Calling them one city and giving them an equal vote with us seems generous. Calling them eight cities seems ridiculous.”

“Each of our cities is bigger than Psyche, and though most of the people in them are volunteers, they have taken the oath of citizenship, they read and write, they know Plato,” Aristomache countered. “Many of our leaders came from the
Goodness,
but others have arisen from the people we rescued. We make no distinction between us. Adrastos here is an example. We found him as a boy fleeing a war in the Troad. He's thirty now, and he has spent the last twenty years with us. He's a gold of Marissa, a philosopher and a stonemason.”

“Like Sokrates,” Adrastos said, shyly, standing up when he was mentioned.

Patroklus, from Sokratea, suggested that we should give cities votes by population, but aim for consensus—any motion would need a two-thirds majority to pass. (It would be total population, as citizens were too difficult to count, because we all had different criteria for citizenship. Psyche didn't count women, Athenia didn't count people under thirty, the Lucians didn't count bronzes or irons, and none of us counted children.)