On the women’s committee, Kreusa, originally a hetaira from first-century Corinth, explained the use of menstrual sponges. We voted by acclamation that this method would be the usual and standard method of the Republic. We did not even present it to the full Chamber. Workers could easily harvest the sponges. We knew the men wouldn’t recognize or care about their significance. We had agreed that the masters should not have children of our own, and Kreusa told us about silphium root, which had the ability to prevent conception. We agreed that it should be available to all female masters who wanted it.
I was the only woman on the committee to select art, on which Ficino, Atticus, and, inevitably, Ikaros, also served. Plato is very clear about the purposes of art, and what forms of it should be permitted in the Republic. We were divided on whether we should have only original art or allow copies. This was an issue on which passions ran high, and on which Ficino, Ikaros and I were united—the children should see only originals if they wanted to learn excellence. We should ask Athene to allow us to rescue lost and destroyed art to adorn the city. Copies, especially copies created by workers and more than once, would make them see art in entirely the wrong light.
Atticus and some of the others argued against us. “We have already decided that the eating houses will be copies of buildings in the cities they are named for,” he said. “If the workers can build them, and if it won’t harm the children to see a hundred and forty-four copies of architecture, then how can art be different?”
“It would be better if we could get the original buildings too,” I said. “But it’s not possible. It is possible to get the art.”
“It might be possible to get some buildings,” Ficino said. “Sophia isn’t just wise, she’s powerful as well.”
“Were there enough suitable buildings that have disappeared?” I asked. “I don’t know about Greece, but when I was in Rome it looked as if every brick and piece of marble was being reused in some other building.”
Ikaros shook his head. “It’s completely different. It wouldn’t be better if we could get original buildings, because the real problem then would be that the buildings wouldn’t be so suited to our purposes as the ones we will build. The design for the sleeping houses, for example, is elegant and ideal.” He was on that committee as well, of course. “We want them to be identical and classical and useful, and that’s how they are. We don’t want the city to be full of repetition because that would teach the wrong lesson. The sleeping houses will all be the same; the palaestras where the children will exercise will be functionally the same, but have different decoration, for variety. And the same goes for the eating houses, temples, libraries, and practice halls. We want everything to be as well-suited to what we need it for as can be. Making new buildings in the style of old ones is best for that, for buildings. They won’t really be copies, not functionally.”
“Functionally?” Atticus repeated, frowning.
“The buildings for our city have different functions from the buildings in any existing city. Even if we had all the choice in the world, it would be difficult to find sufficient buildings with big eating halls and kitchens and rooms of the right size for classes,” Ikaros explained. “Ideally they’d all be new designs by wonderful architects, but as it is, we’ve decided to take the features of the old buildings, in the styles of the cities the halls are named after, and have the workers reproduce them on our buildings.”
“But why couldn’t we do that with art as well?” Atticus asked. “The workers could just as easily reproduce that.”
“But the original art best fits the Platonic purpose,” I said.
“Plato says art should show good people doing good things as an example to the children,” Atticus said.
“Yes, and also be an example of beauty, to open their souls to excellence,” I added.
Ikaros looked approvingly at me. “Yes! And when it comes to art, the best is definitely the originals.”
“Jupiter!” Atticus swore. “They won’t be able to tell if they’re originals or copies.”
“Their souls will,” Ficino said.
Eventually we won the day, which the three of us celebrated at dinner with cold water and barley porridge. Ficino and Ikaros shared memories of wines they had drunk together in Florence, and discussed how long it would be before the grapes the workers had planted could produce a vintage. We pretended to be mixing our water with wine, in best classical practice, and Ikaros pretended to grow a little drunk, whereupon Ficino reproached him by quoting Socrates on temperance, and Ikaros pretended to be abashed. I had never spent a pleasanter evening nor laughed so much.
Back on the committee the next day, it became apparent that Ficino and Ikaros wanted to save everything.
“The Library Committee is sending an expedition to the Great Library of Alexandria to rescue everything,” Ikaros said. He also served on that committee. “Manlius and I are going. We’re going to have it all, all the written work of antiquity, though we will of course control access to it. Why not all the art we can find?”
“We have to be selective and make sure it fits what Plato wanted,” Atticus said.
“How could it not?” Ficino asked.
“Before we allow it into the city we need to examine everything to make sure it does,” Atticus insisted. We all agreed to this.
We put together a complete program of art rescue through the centuries. It all had to fit the message we wanted the children to understand from it, and of course it had to be on classical themes. There was a huge amount of art potentially available from the ancient world—it was heartbreaking that so much had been destroyed. I entirely agreed that we should save as much as we could. There were many lost works available from the Renaissance which were also deemed likely to be worthy. Athene took the men of the Art Committee on several expeditions. To my astonishment and delight, they brought back nine lost Botticellis, snatched from the Bonfire of the Vanities.
“At first I pretended to be a Venetian merchant and tried to buy them, but Savonarola wouldn’t listen. In the end we stole them and replaced them with worthless canvases we’d bought,” Atticus said, laughing.
“Who ever met a Venetian who could only speak pure Classical Latin?” Ikaros teased.
“Look at the Judgement of Paris,” Atticus gloated, taking it off with him to show Tullius.
“Does that show good people performing good actions?” I asked, quietly, so that Atticus wouldn’t hear.
Ikaros grinned at me. “Some of these show mysterious people performing mysterious actions. But they do lift the soul.”
“They certainly do,” I said.
Ficino spread out another, smiling. “These will hang in the Florentine dining hall,” he said.
“Do you have a woman master for Florence yet?” I asked. “Because if not, I’d really like to volunteer.”
“So you can see these every day?” Ficino asked, looking proudly at Winter.
“Yes, and because, though I’m not a Florentine I loved Florence so much,” I said.
“I’ll think about it. I should find out whether there’s anyone with a better claim,” he said. “What would you think would be the best Florentine building to emulate as the eating hall?”
“Oh, it’s hard to choose, because it was all so beautiful,” I said. “Perhaps the Baptistry? It’s a shame the Uffizi wouldn’t really be practical, even though that would be the best setting for these wonderful Botticellis.”