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.