The Philosopher Kings: A Novel
“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.)
There was much debate, and eventually this proposal was accepted, as being the closest thing to fair. I set up a hasty committee to come up with numbers over the lunch break. I fortified myself with soup and grapes in Florentia, while claiming that talking to anyone about the conference would violate my neutrality. “Ficino never said that,” Arete complained.
“Ficino had more practice than I have. I need to clear my head.”
On my way back to the Chamber, Neleus caught up with me. “You’re doing well so far,” he said. “I was terrified when Patroklus suggested me!”
“So was I when your father suggested me!” We smiled at each other. Neleus was one of the brightest of the Young Ones, and he had always been one of my favorite pupils, and one of Ficino’s too. On impulse, I pulled Ficino’s hat out of the fold of my kiton, where I’d been carrying it since Lucia. “I wonder if you’d like this. It’s silly really, it’s old and worn, and—”
“I’d really love it,” Neleus said, tears in his eyes. He reshaped the hat in his hands and jammed it on his head. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.” We walked along quietly together. Then to my surprise, Ikaros came bounding up through the crowd of people heading back into the chamber.
“Ficino! I’m so delighted—No. Sorry.”
Neleus turned to him in astonishment. He didn’t look a thing like Ficino, even in the hat. He was even darker-skinned than Simmea, and much broader-shouldered than Ficino.
“I did know he was dead,” Ikaros said. “But there are others here I knew were dead. I saw the familiar red hat, on a street where I had seen him so often, and for a moment I thought it was him. Sorry, young man.”
“How are your eyes?” I asked, remembering his eyestrain from translating Aquinas the day he apologized to me.
“Maia! You’re doing a wonderful job so far. Could I talk to you this evening after the session?”
He hadn’t known me, and he had thought Neleus was Ficino. And he hadn’t answered my question about his eyes. I realized he must be nearly blind. I felt profoundly sorry for him. “Of course,” I said. “I’ll wait for you on the steps afterward.”
We reconvened. Axiothea came up to announce the results of the numbers. Psyche was given five votes, the Lucian cities six each, Athenia and Sokratea twelve each, the City of Amazons fifteen, and the Original City twenty-five. “If all of Kallisti voted together, that would be sixty-nine, to Lucia’s forty-eight,” she said. Everyone laughed at the thought of all of Kallisti voting together.
“If the envoys from a city are divided, can the votes be split?” Aurelius asked.
“Certainly,” I ruled. “The envoys can divide the city’s votes as they choose.”
“And who are the envoys who will vote for the Remnant?”
“The Foreign Negotiations Committee, with Pytheas representing Simmea,” I said. “But no doubt they will listen to opinions.”
The Chamber was less packed now. Some people were lingering over lunch, and others had realized that this would go on a long time and be boring. However, as soon as we started properly it began to move rapidly and became fascinating.
“The issue of the Lucians,” I said. I’d been thinking how to address this. “First Pytheas will explain succinctly what happened on the voyage, and then Aristomache will explain what they were doing and what they want. Questions afterward. I’ll open up the debate to the whole room and we’ll have plenty of time for everyone. But let’s hear this quietly first.” I had caught both of them on my way to lunch and asked them to be ready.
Everyone in the room probably knew what Pytheas told them, but there were still some surprised gasps as he went through it. Then Aristomache came up and described the Lucian mission. “We have reading, plumbing, pottery, iron working, medicine, Yayzu, and Plato,” she said “How can we sit safely on an island while there are people out there who have none of these things? Join us, and help us spread civilization.”
Many agreed with her message, though some of us wanted to leave Jesus out of the lists of benefits. Kallikles spoke in support of Aristomache: “I was really shaken by what I saw on Naxos,” he said, describing the ignorance and poverty of the village he had visited. “People shouldn’t be living like that when we can help them. The Lucians like Adrastos prove it can be done. We should be doing it.”
Others, especially the Athenians, were horrified at the very notion. “Athene put us here where the volcano would wipe out every trace of what we do. We can’t go running around the Mediterranean interfering with everything! Who knows what harm it might do!”
I was sympathetic with that view myself. So was Klio. “We don’t know how history works,” she said. “But consider that it might be a wax tablet like the ones we use every day. After it has been written, it can be erased and rewritten. If we step out of the margins where Athene has set us, we could wipe out everything that comes after. What Kallikles said about helping those poor people sounds entirely good. But we don’t know enough. What if the Trojan War needs to come out of the poverty and dirt we saw in the Kyklades? If so we would be wrong to change it, however painful seeing it may be. What if people handed the secret of iron-making will be content to make iron forever and never move on to steel, as they would have if they’d discovered it for themselves? And we don’t know, we can’t know, what matters, or what is and isn’t safe to change. We have seen too much here of what comes from good intentions and ignorance. We should leave them alone to find the
ir own destiny and stay here on our island.”
Everyone had their own theory of history, and many aired them. Ikaros was absolutely sure that Athene wouldn’t have put us here if there was any danger. He believed in Providence, and his argument was essentially that we could only do good by trying to increase excellence.
Finally Patroklus argued that the people of the Aegean had their own Fate and that we had no right at all to change that, or to judge them for living differently from the way we thought right. “You have described their art. What right have we to impose our ideas of art on them instead? Perhaps they have religions and philosophies that are equally valuable. I’m not arguing in support of Klio, that we don’t know what it’s safe to change. I agree with that, but my point is different. What right have we to judge and to say what is better or worse?”
I called an end to the day without calling for a vote. “Lots of people haven’t had a chance to speak yet. We’ll resume in the morning.”
“You’re not setting up a committee on the nature of time?” Pytheas asked as I stepped down.
“Why, do you have any pertinent information for it?” He was always such a funny mixture. I remembered him as a boy, so intent on everything, so serious. They were all my children.
“Nothing that I want to talk about right now,” he said. “But it seems to me that the debate has been all about that, and only what Patroklus said was about whether we want to help.”
“I think there would be a clear majority for helping if not for the worry about time,” I said. “The suggestion that the Lucian cities are the cities Plato heard about was popular.”
“I suspect it’s what Simmea would have wanted.” He sighed. “It’s never easy, is it? But I think you’re doing very well in the chair.”
Ikaros was waiting on the steps when I came out. The sun was setting, and in this light I had to touch his arm to get his attention.
“Where shall we go?” he asked.
“Let’s go to my house,” I said.