“It wasn’t clear whether the old woman properly understood what we were asking, or if she thought we were saying we were from Minos,” Kallikles said. “It was horrible. I wanted to help them somehow. Give them my knife, or better, teach them how to make iron and wash. Teach them philosophy! But at the same time I couldn’t wait to get away. The way the old woman was talking to Maecenas, ducking her head as if she thought he’d strike her!” He shook his head.

“You can’t help them, it could break history,” Maia said.

I turned to her, surprised out of myself. The deck lights had just come on, giving everything a warm golden glow. “What do you mean break it?”

“If Kallikles taught them how to make iron it could change everything. Not that village, maybe, but imagine if the Trojans had iron weapons and the Greeks only bronze! Trying to help them could ruin everything!”

Ficino laughed, and we all turned to him. “We don’t know that. It could be what sets history right. Nobody knows much about what happened in Greece before the Trojan War. Maybe the Age of Iron began because Kallikles taught these primitives how to make it.”

“I don’t actually know how,” Kallikles admitted.

“I expect it’s in the library.” Erinna said. I wanted to turn to look at her, and I normally would have, but I kept still.

“We could send out expeditions to teach them medicine and technology,” Kallikles said. “We could really help them.”

“That would be wonderful,” Erinna said.

Maia tutted. “And if Troy had iron and didn’t fall?”

I was breathless again at the thought. I had imagined Ficino going to Troy’s aid despite knowing they would lose, now I imagined him going and changing everything.

“And what would happen then?” Ficino asked. “A different history starting from here where Troy never falls and Rome is never born? I don’t think that’s possible. We’re here, we’re free to act, anything we do is already part of history. We won’t change everything. We’re embedded here. We’re in a secret forgotten part of history, but history can’t be changed. We know what’s coming. We’re safely tucked in the margins of history. Athene saw to that.”

“You have a lot of faith in her still,” Maia said, sharply.

“In Providence,” Ficino said. “If these people need help and we can give it, perhaps that should be part of our mission. If we’re going to do it then it’s already part of what we will do. And it might relieve some suffering.”

“But what would happen if we tried to change history?” Erinna asked. “If we deliberately did something—if we told Paris what would come of him stealing Helen. If we told Helen?”

“They’d do it anyway. Lovers are idiots!” Ficino said. I felt my cheeks heat again. “It would be better to warn Priam about the wooden horse.”

“I wonder if they’re discussing helping the village in the council now?” Phaedrus mused.

“I wonder what Father’s saying,” Kallikles said.

“Why aren’t you on the council?” Ficino asked Maia.

“It’s only six people, so they can make decisions quickly,” she said. “But why aren’t you?”

“They’re all Children,” Ficino said. “There aren’t many Masters on this expedition, and while there are plenty of Young Ones, you wouldn’t expect them to have positions of responsibility yet.” He turned to Kallikles. “You should tell your father what you’ve been saying to us, about wanting to help. It’s a question for the whole Chamber back home, but it’s a question we shouldn’t forget.”

“And we should debate whether what we do can change history,” Maia said. “It’s another thing we should have asked Athene while we had the chance.”

“I’ll definitely tell Father,” Kallikles said. “But if we can change things, it wouldn’t necessarily make them worse. We could make them better.”

“But it’s all connected. We can’t change anything without changing everything. If Priam knew about the wooden horse, there would be no Rome,” Maia said.

I resolved to ask Father about history as soon as I could safely get him alone.

The ship stayed at anchor that night. I didn’t go down to my hammock beside Erinna. I wrapped myself in my cloak and slept on deck, badly. When I was awake I fretted about my inappropriate response to Erinna’s hand. She had meant friendly comfort, and my body had undoubtedly felt lust. I wrestled with the twin horses of my soul, as Plato urges. When I fell asleep, I dreamed about history as a broken rope, lashing about and pulling the sails out of trim as the ship prepared for a storm. Every time I woke the real ship was barely moving beneath me, and I fretted about my feelings for Erinna. I liked her. I respected her. She was a wonderful friend. Maybe I even loved her. She seemed to like me, but of course not in any inappropriate way. She was four years older than me. Then every time I slept again it was the same dream, the cut rope, the uncontrollable sails, the oncoming storm clouds. A light rain woke me an hour before dawn, a little early for my watch but I got up anyway, re-draping my blanket into a cloak to keep off the weather.

Only a few of the Nyx watch were awake, as the ship at anchor didn’t need much attention. We nodded to each other. One of them was my brother Neleus, who came forward to wish me joy of the morning. “Do you know where Father is?” I asked him.

“Asleep down below, I think. But he’ll be up soon.” Neleus nodded to the east where the sky was starting to pale. Father inevitably woke at sunrise. Naxos was a dark bulk immediately to the north of us. The rain was chilling me. I walked over to the rail. Neleus walked beside me. “They’re out there somewhere,” he said.

My mind was full of Erinna and the Naxians, and I frowned at him, puzzled. “Who?”

“The Goodness Group,” he said, his hands clenching into fists. “We’ll find them. We’ll avenge Mother. I know you want that as much as I do.”

I put my hand on his arm. “I grieve for Mother, but I don’t know whether vengeance will help.”

“It’ll help me,” he said. “I feel I let her down.”

“Oh Neleus, you didn’t,” I said.

“She was always so exacting, and I didn’t meet her standards.” He was staring out over the dark water, not looking at me.

“It’s true what Father said. She loved you. I often felt I didn’t meet her standards either.”

“You and I are all that’s left of her now,” he said, turning toward me.

“Well, genetically,” I agreed. “But all the people she taught, all the pictures and sculptures she made, that lives on.” For as long as the City lives, I thought. Not into posterity, because there is none. Unless we can change history. If we can change history, then her legacy could really last.

Father came up from below, yawning. I waved to him and he came over to us. “Joy to you both,” he said, and we repeated the wish.

“I need to know something about how the universe works,” I said.

He looked over to the little island he had been looking at the day before. “There’ll be a temple there one day,” he said, quietly. “A temple to me. It’ll be there by Homer’s day. We’re here early. But I don’t know exactly when.”

“Can we change history?” I asked.

He and Neleus both stared at me. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Can things we do, here and now, change what will happen in the future?”

“Yes. Of course. But not things that the gods know about, not things that are already fixed.”

“So there’s only one time?” I asked.

“Right. It’s as if time’s a scroll, and we haven’t read all of it but it’s all there, and once we’ve read it, that’s fixed. But it all scrolls along in order when you’re inside it. From outside, it’s different.” His chin wavered. “I remember explaining it like that to Simmea and Sokrates.”

“So for instance we could teach the people on Naxos medicine and iron working and navigation and philosophy, and it wouldn’t change the outcome of the Trojan War?” I asked.