The next day we moved on to Psyche. Psyche had been built entirely by humans, with no Worker assistance, and it bore a certain resemblance to Marissa and the other Lucian cities. They had lots of art visible, almost all of it stolen from us. The city was arranged in concentric rings around a small hill, and consequently was very difficult to navigate. It was supposed to be the physical model of the soul, but if so my soul didn’t understand it.
We were not offered guest-friendship—partly, we guessed, because of Euklides leaving. Psyche accepted applications for citizenship but did not allow emigration. We ate and slept aboard the Excellence. The ship felt strange. It had a different crew, people who had not been on the voyage, and who seemed like usurpers in the place of friends and familiar faces. A pimply ephebe only a year or two older than me kept sprawling on the coil of rope where Erinna and I had sat the night Kallikles told us about the Naxians, and I almost wanted to push him overboard for his effrontery.
In Psyche, Father had to meet what felt like an infinite number of committees. In direct opposition to Sokratea, Psyche was top-heavy with Masters. In addition, they denied women a place in public life, so everyone we met was male. Lots of them lied, though maybe I shouldn’t call it lying when people blandly assure you that they understand and sympathize. They were frequently and habitually insincere. They were also obsessed with numerology. I knew a little of it from Ficino, whose loss the people of Psyche genuinely regretted. Eventually, after days of obfuscation, Father had a meeting with a man called Aurelius who seemed to have the ability to make decisions. Father persuaded him to send envoys to the conference. It then took days more to persuade them to send their art, and we had to agree that it would be sent under armed guard and with hostages pledged for its return.
They wouldn’t let us sing before their Assembly, but we sang in the agora on the day we left. It wasn’t official. We just walked through the agora and stopped and began to sing. People clustered around, naturally, more and more of them, women as well as men. Afterward everyone tried to hug us and touch us—it felt very strange. Father said it was because they’d been moved and they wanted to make a connection. Many of them came to the quayside before the ship left, so we sang it again standing on the desk of the Excellence. On the last chorus, they joined in on “When the time comes to defend,” startling me.
“Wait until you hear the full choral version,” Father said, afterward. “Phaedrus is rehearsing them. They’ll sing it at the conference.”
We moved on to Athenia. Athenia looked just like home, except smaller. We stayed in a guest house and spent a lot of time with my brother Alkibiades. I was so delighted to see him that I was prepared to forgive Athenia a lot of its formality and rigidity. Alkibiades was a gold, naturally; he had also been a gold at home. He took us to his eating hall, Theseus—all the halls were named after Athenian heroes. There was a bronze statue of Theseus with the head of the giant Kerkyon in the hall, which I remembered seeing in the Athenian eating hall at home years ago. Alkibiades had good advice for Father.
“Talk about what happened to Mother. They’ll be sympathetic. We’re sick of art raids too. The Amazons keep raiding us. Talk about Plato. They think you’re compromised but essentially trying to do the right thing.”
“That’s about right,” Father said.
That night he asked me if I’d talk to Alkibiades and Porphyry about going to Delos. “It would be easier for you. It happened to you. You can explain it better. I can’t think how to bring it up. It was awkward with Euklides.”
“I don’t think it would be very easy, but I will if you want me to.”
The Athenians didn’t allow anyone under the age of thirty into their Chamber, not even envoys. Father said he’d have to sing alone, and that he could manage. Alkibiades and I went for a walk in the hills outside the city. They were planted with vines. “It’s good volcanic soil and they thrive here,” he said. “I’ve done a lot of work pruning them this year. We have vines and olives and barley, just as Plato says. No goats or sheep, though. We have to trade for all our cheese and leather. Fortunately, everyone wants wine.”
“When we went to Delos, Kallikles and Phaedrus and I acquired god-powers,” I said. I hadn’t been able to see how to tell him, so I just blurted it out.
He stopped walking. “What?” I could tell he didn’t believe me. Though he was fond of me, I’d been so much younger when he left home.
“Really. We can all do things. And Father says he’s going to try to take Euklides there, and you and Porphyry if you want to go.”
“What kind of powers?” He was still only half-believing.
“I can tell when people are telling the truth, so I can tell that you don’t believe me. And Kallikles can change the weather and call lightning, and Phaedrus can heal people and control the volcano.”
“It would be hard to demonstrate knowing the truth,” he said, skeptically.
“Oh, and I can fly as well,” I said. “Look.” I swooped up into the air, and had the satisfaction of seeing my favorite brother’s mouth fall open.
We discussed it as we walked on. Before we’d gone much farther he had decided he definitely didn’t want any powers of his own. “It’s not my kind of thing. I don’t want to be a god. I just want to be an ordinary philosopher king, like everyone else.” He intended to tease, but he was absolutely serious and meant it. That really was what he wanted. “We’re trying to do Plato right here, as Athene intended, as Plato intended. And we’re all volunteers—not the babies born here, but even they have the choice when they become ephebes to swear their oath or leave for one of the other cities.”
“That’s the same with us,” I said.
“Yes, that’s part of why we think you’re essentially all right in the Remnant. I came here because I believed we should be following Plato more strictly, and I’m happy here.”
“Even with the Festivals of Hera?”
“The Festivals of Hera are great!” He grinned at me. He was telling the truth. “No courtship, no ambiguity, no will-they-or-won’t-they, everything organized simply for you, and most of the time no need to worry about it. Perfect!”
“And you haven’t fallen in love with anyone or anything?”
“Oh, sure.” He shrugged, a little too casually. “Agape. That’s also great. I’ll introduce you to Diogenes later. He’s in my troop, but he’s in Solon, not Theseus. He’s originally from Psyche. He had to escape to get here, as they hate to have their Young Ones leave. You’ll like him. I hope Father does.”
“I’m sure Father will,” I said, loyally. I felt a pang when I thought of Erinna, and pushed it away. A bird rose up singing from the vines, and we tilted our heads back to follow it up the sky.
“I’m happy,” he said, looking back at me. “I like it here. I have Diogenes and all my friends. I have my studies and my exercises and my troop. I enjoy my hobby work among the vines. When I’m thirty I’ll be able to vote in Chamber, and when I’m fifty I’ll be able to read the Republic. If you can stop the stupid art raids so that we only fight about important things, that would make everything better. But I don’t want to change anything about my life. I don’t want strange powers messing up who I am and all my friendships. I don’t need to be able to fly like that bird to be happy watching it fly. I don’t want something else I can’t tell Diogenes.”
“I’m so glad you’re happy,” I said. “It does seems strange to me that you don’t want powers when you could have them.”