by Jo Walton
“Me too,” I said, passing the plate to Axiothea and sitting down on the floor beside Lysias. He and I leaned on the bed, and the other two against the wall, on the pillows. “I envy them. And even more I envy the next generation. The babies that will be born here. The native speakers, as you said once, Klio. Our children will do better at giving them the Republic than we did for our children, because we’re a pile of crazy idealists from all over time, and our children grew up here.”
“Sokrates thinks we’re wrong,” Axiothea said. “He’s teaching all sorts of people to question all sorts of things. When I first heard what he thinks about Plato, it really rocked me.”
“Sokrates doesn’t believe in the Noble Lie,” I said, sipping my wine.
“Sometimes it’s necessary, but I’d prefer to avoid it too,” Lysias said quietly.
“When a doctor—” Axiothea began.
“We all know the argument,” Klio interrupted.
“Would you have the Noble Lie debate with Tullius or Ficino?” Axiothea asked.
“Debate it in Chamber, you mean?” Lysias asked. “Maybe.”
“How about in public?” I asked.
“That would be tantamount to telling the children we’ve lied to them,” Klio said.
“We’re going to have to tell them sometime. Before we all die and they need to run things for the next generation,” Lysias pointed out. “They’re not supposed to read the Republic until they’re fifty, and then only the golds.”
“We’ll need to tell some of them. Some carefully selected subset.” Axiothea shook her head. “The real problem is all the old men who don’t want to let anything go.”
“Tullius,” I said.
“Not just Tullius. Others too. They’re men, they’re from societies where men have the power, they’re older, they’re used to being the people giving orders. They come here and they find out that they’re famous to people from future centuries. They’re not going to want to give that up, even to Philosopher Kings.” Klio frowned. “They don’t like debating me or Myrto. And Aristomache has stopped trying, even though she’s one of the sharpest minds here.”
“Ikaros will debate you,” Lysias said.
“Oh, Ikaros!” She looked quickly at me. “I think he has the opposite problem. Here he’s just like us. He isn’t the kind of famous he’d have wanted to be. He didn’t have the chance to be. But he’s brilliant. He wants his posterity to be here.”
“I think that’s unfair,” Lysias said. “When I heard that Pico della Mirandola was here, I was just as excited as when I heard that Cicero and Boethius were. And Ikaros is happy to be known by philosophers. He didn’t care about wide fame as long as the best people knew about him.”
“I’d never heard of him,” I said.
“Me neither,” Axiothea said. “But I’m a mathematician.”
“And I wasn’t anything,” I said.
“You were a scholar in a world that wouldn’t let you be,” Klio said, reaching over and patting my hand. “That’s a lot more than nothing. But I think I’m right about what Ikaros thinks about his posterity.”
“I think most of us want our posterity to be here,” I said. “Our legacy. I certainly do. And you know, in the normal course of time the old men will die off and there will be a time when we are old but alive and we can make the decisions about what to hand on to the children and when.”
“I thought of that when Plotinus died last year,” Klio said. “But when the children are fifty I’ll be nearly eighty, and even you will be almost seventy.”
“And our posterity will not be here,” Axiothea said. “We have no posterity. Athene told us that in the beginning. Doing it has to be enough.”
“It’s enough for me,” I said.
“I don’t think it’s enough for Ikaros, now Plotinus is dead,” Klio said.
“What more could he want? We’re living the good life. We’re building the Just City,” Lysias said. “We knew from the beginning that it wasn’t going to last, that it couldn’t. We’re all making sacrifices for that.”
“Like what?” Axiothea asked, pouring more wine.
“Like working so hard, and not having children,” Lysias said.
“But working hard is mostly fun, and all the children are our children,” I said.
“You don’t want children of your own?” he asked.
I emphatically did not. “They wouldn’t fit into the plan,” I said.
“You see,” Lysias said, spreading his hands.
“I don’t feel we’re making a sacrifice,” I said.
Klio nodded. “I think we’re very lucky to be here. Though I never imagined when we started that I’d spend half my time working with workers.”
“Me neither,” Lysias groaned. “And some of them are refusing to leave the recharger, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’d have taken a course on robotics if I’d had the least idea how much I’d need it. I was a philosopher. I just used them without thinking about it.”
“Are you sure you’d have been able to fit another course in?” Klio teased.
“It would have been a lot more use than German,” he said, and laughed. “Well, bless Athene for giving us the workers anyway, even if I wish she’d included some manuals and information on how they really work. Without them we’d be doing a lot of backbreaking work.”
“It is working, isn’t it?” Axiothea said. “Mostly sort of, like you said. But we are making it work. We’re proving Plato right.”
We grinned at each other and raised our cups in a silent toast.
18
SIMMEA
The games came first. I didn’t get through the heats except in swimming, where I came in third. Laodike won the long distance race for running in armor. I cheered so hard I almost lost my voice. Then Axiothea, who was next to me, pounded me so hard on the back she almost cracked a rib. Her good friend Klio of Sparta hugged both of us, and then hugged Laodike when she came up panting with the ribbons from her crown falling in her eyes. “A girl to win the race for running in armor,” Klio said, and her eyes were damp.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why not indeed?” asked Axiothea. “Some people say men are stronger.”
“They often are, but women tend to have more endurance,” Laodike panted. “Running in armor is at least as much endurance as strength.”
The next day was the festival of Hera. I was up before dawn to help make flower garlands. The workers had brought masses of flowers down from the hills and piled them in each hall. In Florentia they were piled downstairs in the courtyard. Six of us twined them into seventy headdresses and thirty-five garlands, and we were barely done in time. Anemones have terrible stems, and hyacinths drop little bits everywhere—thank Demeter for long sturdy daisies and twining roses that look wonderful together, especially with a few violets tucked in. By the time everyone arrived for breakfast, we were finished and congratulating ourselves. I was famished and ate two bowls of porridge, a big handful of cherries and an egg. Maia hugged me on my way out. “Good luck,” she said.
I was afraid the festival was going to drag out like the festival where we were all named, but they had learned something and it did not. There was music and dancing, and names were drawn ten at a time and announced in bursts, maybe every ten minutes or so. Then we’d all dance again as those ten went up the temple steps in their headdresses to have garlands bound around their wrists as they were married for the day.
Dancing is always fun, and dancing with friends to music and without set patterns is even better. I had a strange nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach and I tried to dance it down. One hundred and twenty-six male golds, any of whom I could end up married to. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to have a baby. I looked cautiously at the black stone statue of Hera, facing the great seated ivory and gold Zeus across the temple steps. “Give me the good for which I do not know to ask,” I prayed.
I avoided both Pytheas and Kebes. I didn’t want to think about either of
them. Kebes was called early and matched with Euridike from Plataea. Ficino bound the wreath around their wrists and Kreusa called out the blessing. Euridike was blushing, which really showed up on her fair skin. I danced more vigorously. Pytheas hadn’t been called yet. I could see him over on the far side of the agora in another dancing circle.
When my name was called my stomach clenched so hard I almost bent double. I let go of Klymene’s hand and walked towards the steps with my friends calling after me—wishes of luck and happiness. I was paired with Aeschines, from Ithaka. I knew him only slightly. He was very dark-skinned with big lips, a Libyan like my grandmother. We stood together shyly as Ficino bound the garland around our wrists. It was not one of the ones I had made; every hall had brought a supply. This one had poppies and anemones twisted in a white ribbon. I stared at it to avoid meeting Aeschines’s eyes. We walked down the steps carefully, and off through the crowd. I kept my eyes on the ground. I did not want to see or speak to anyone, most especially not Pytheas.
We crossed the square and walked down the street of Demeter, wrists together. The crowds were thinner here, and as we went on and came away from the sound of music we found ourselves almost alone. When we came to the plaza where the street of Demeter crosses the street of Dionysos, Aeschines stopped. “There are chambers down here,” he said, gesturing with his free hand.
“All right,” I said. We turned to the left. “Did they tell you about this?”
“Ikaros, one of the masters from Ferrara, explained it to all the boys of Ithaka and Ferrara,” he said. “I expect one of your masters explained it to the Florentines.”
“I wish Maia had explained it to me,” I said.
“Why, are you nervous?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I suppose it’s just because this is the first time and I don’t know enough about it. I saw my mother raped, and then more women were raped on the slave ship.” That had been the stuff of nightmare for years. “So I have some uncomfortable feelings.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
“Thank you.” I looked at him. He was tall and earnest and his brow was furrowed now as he looked down at me. He wasn’t flawless Pytheas, my best friend and secret beloved. But if I had hoped for that, I had also known that the odds were a hundred and twenty-five to one.
“Here,” he said. There was a low hall which I had used before. It was full of practice rooms where people learning the lyre could sit in bad weather. Some of the doors lay open and others were closed. In the open ones I could see mattresses covered with blankets. We went into one and closed the door.
“Are all the practice rooms going to be used for this?” I asked, trying not to look at the bed.
“I don’t know. Ikaros said this was where we should go.” He unwound the garland and rubbed his wrist. “That was a bit tight.”
I smiled. “This is a horribly awkward situation.”
“It would almost be better if we were complete strangers and could introduce ourselves.”
“I’m Simmea,” I said.
He laughed. “I know. And you’re a Florentine, and one of Sokrates’s pupils, and you did a painting of some girls racing. That’s all I know about you.”
“That’s more than I know about you,” I said. I sat down on the edge of the bed. “I think I’ve seen you with Septima?”
“She’s a good friend,” he said. “She knows so much.”
“I had a great conversation with her the other day about why the gods can’t change history,” I said. He took off his headdress and stood holding it awkwardly in both hands.
“There’s nowhere to put things,” he said, looking around. “I don’t want to drop this on the floor. Somebody must have spent a lot of time making it.”
“I made ones for us this morning,” I said. “They don’t take long, once you get the hang of it.” I took mine off and showed him the construction. “These big daisies make everything easy.”
Aeschines took my headdress and put them both down gently in the corner of the room. Then he came back over to the bed and sat down next to me. “Are you afraid?” he asked.
“More nervous and awkward and ignorant,” I said.
He put his arm around me and moved his face slowly towards mine. He then kissed me tentatively. “How was that?” he asked.
I laughed, because he sounded so much like somebody beginning a philosophic inquiry. “I think that was quite nice,” I said. “The problem is that there are all these things I’m trying not to think about—the slavers on the ship, and what happened to my mother. And I’m not quite sure what I am supposed to be thinking about.”
“You’re supposed to focus on sensation, Ikaros said. Like eating, when you just taste the food and you’re there in that moment, except also focusing on the other person and what they’re feeling.”
“But how can you tell?”
“Pardon?” He looked disconcerted.
“How can you tell what the other person is feeling? I have no idea what you’re feeling!”
“I’m feeling that you’re very nervous but kissing you was nice,” he said. “The other thing Ikaros said is that there’s no hurry. We’ve got all afternoon and all night. We don’t have to do it all in the first two seconds. We can be comfortable. We can try things.”
We tried various things to make ourselves comfortable. What worked best was standing naked and leaning into each other, the way we might when wrestling. That way, upright and with my legs firmly in a wrestling stance, nothing reminded me of anything horrible, and I could enjoy the feeling of Aeschines’s chest against mine. We kissed standing like that, and then he began to rub the sides of my breasts. He was so earnest and sensitive that I started to feel safe with him. I rubbed his chest, and moved my hand lower. When I touched his penis he made a movement as if electrified and, looking at his face, I saw that his eyes were shut and his head thrown back. I had often seen penises when swimming and in the palaestra, so they were no novelty, but I had never voluntarily touched one, especially not one that was awake. Aeschines’s was awake. I stroked it gently, experimentally. He twitched again. I began to understand what Ikaros had meant about paying attention to how the other person felt. I liked it. I was making him feel like that. I felt in control. This was good. Then his hands moved between my legs and I felt my breath catch.
Afterwards I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. “Did you like it?” Aeschines asked.
“Yes…” I said. “It was fun. I liked the way you liked it. I liked lots of things about it. I wish we could do it standing up.”
“We could try,” he said. “In a little bit, when I’ve rested.”
“Is that allowed?”
“Sure. We’re married until tomorrow morning. We can do it as many times as we want to before that. Ikaros was quite plain about that.”
We did it twice more. Standing up was definitely better for me, both in feeling in control and just generally comfortable. Later we slept uncomfortably together in the bed.
“So I guess we’re friends now,” Aeschines said as got dressed the next morning.
“We definitely are.” I smiled at him. “You could come and eat in Florentia with me tonight if you want.”
“That feels strange,” he said. “I didn’t know you, and now I know that you like doing sex standing up.”
“Don’t tell anybody!”
“Of course not!” He sounded shocked, which was a relief. “Boys do talk about it sometimes. I always thought they were lying. About getting girls to sneak off to the woods with them. Specific girls. And what those girls liked. It’s a kind of showing off they do when they jerk off.”
“Jerk off?”
He mimed with his hand. “At night, in the sleeping houses, standing round together with everyone doing that and nobody touching each other. Girls don’t do that?”
“Not equipped,” I said.
He laughed. “But nothing like that?”
“Not in Hyssop,” I said. “I neve
r heard of girls doing that, but that doesn’t mean they don’t. But I never heard of them sneaking off with boys, either.”
“Would you do that?” he asked.
“What? Sneak off to the woods with you? No. That would be wrong.” I wanted to get back to Hyssop and bathe in the wash-fountain before breakfast. “You’re not seriously suggesting it?”
“No, of course not.” I wasn’t sure whether he meant it or not.
“Dinner tonight, then?” I asked, my hand on the door.
“Sure.” He picked up the headdresses and garland from the corner. The flowers were dying, away from water for so long. “Do you want yours?”
“What for?”
“No, I suppose they’re done with now.” He turned them in his hands looking a little sad. “Well, I hope we do this again some time.”
“So do I,” I said, and meant it. I didn’t share the calculations of probability with him, though.
19
APOLLO
“How are you going to get out of it?” I had cornered Athene in the library. She was sitting in the window seat she liked, the one where she had a secret compartment in the armrest, reading Tullius’s newly printed monograph on the integrity of the soul.
“He’s getting old,” she said, putting it down on a mess of books and papers on the seat beside her.
“He is,” I agreed. “Ikaros flattened him in their last debate. And he’s been avoiding Sokrates.”
“He’s going to die soon, whatever I do. I know he’s vain and silly, but I’m very fond of him.”
“I am too. Even if you have to send him back to face his assassination, at least he got this extra length of his natural lifespan.”
“I hate that cold bastard Octavian,” she said. “Killing Cicero for political advantage. It’s like burning down a library to make toast. I could never warm to Rome again until Marcus Aurelius.” She picked up the book again, then hesitated and put it down. “Did you want to ask me something?”