The Just City (26 page)

“You can be passionate enough in debate,” Aristomache said to him, sharply “Do others the courtesy of assuming the same.”

“I wanted to talk to him urgently about something I just found out,” I said. “And can something only be a matter of philosophy or of love, do you think, Master Ikaros? Are there no other subjects fit for conversation?”

“She has you there,” Sokrates said. “Let us consider the benefits and disadvantages of bisecting the world, and leave Simmea to quest for Pytheas in peace.”

I left, and walked decorously through the city, aware now of how I seemed to others. I smoothed my hair and breathed evenly. What was I upset about anyway? That Pytheas and Klymene had had their encounter? That was random chance, and I knew he'd been married to someone—to three people, as I had. What difference did it make that it was Klymene? None. What upset me was that he hadn't told me, that he hadn't brought it to me for dissection and examination. Whatever had happened with Klymene didn't matter. It was his silence about it that threatened our friendship. Ten months, and he hadn't said a word about it.

I found him at last coming out of a practice room, not the ones on the street of Dionysos which had been used for the marriages but the ones on the street of Hermes on the south edge of the city. “I've been making a song. Let's go up on the wall,” he said when he saw me. We climbed up the steps and stood on the wall. It was late evening and there was nobody else there. The breeze was blowing from the mountain, bringing with it a slight smell of sulphur. The wall was twice the height of Pytheas and perhaps his height across, with a little parapet. It was possible to walk all around the city on top of the walls, because the walkways went over the tops of the gates. There were no sconces up here, but we could see by the lights below, and by starlight. The stars were particularly bright that night. I knew their names and histories and the orbits of all the planets. I could see Saturn very clearly. It gave me some perspective on my human problems.

“Klymene told me,” I said, quite calm now.

“Oh.” He stared out into the darkness. “I've been wanting and wanting to talk to you about it, but it was so awkward if she didn't want you to know.”

He couldn't have said anything better. The hurt and anger went out of me. I sat down on the parapet and he sat down on the flat slab of the walkway below me.

“I've been wanting to ask you about it, but now I don't know what to say. Is she all right?”

“She's fine,” I said. “She's had the baby. It's a boy. She says he looks exactly like you.”

“I can't wait to see him,” he said. “And Kryseis is pregnant too.”

“So am I,” I said.

“Wonderful. Congratulations. It'll be so nice to have another generation of children.”

“I was wondering how many they want. The same number, surely, which means two children each, but if they want to have a festival every four months then there'll be a lot more than that.”

“We should ask Sokrates,” he said. “A city of heroes. What a thought.”

“Klymene said it was horrible. She didn't talk about it. But she said it was good preparation for childbirth.”

He shuddered. I could feel it. “She willed it, but she didn't want it,” he said. “I've been thinking about it for a long time, and I think that's what it was. I didn't want it and I could barely summon the will. She hates me.”

“I don't think she'll ever be able to forgive you.”

“The whole thing's so horribly awkward, even when you don't get matched with somebody who hates you.”

“Oh yes,” I agreed fervently.

“And it doesn't even work. Half the people I know have actually paired off and are sneaking off to meet up in hiding to keep doing it. Some of them are in love and some just want to have more sex.” He shook his head.

“Two people have asked me for that,” I confirmed.

“Not that bastard Phoenix?”

“No…” The night was dark, I couldn't see his face. “Would you care?”

“He's scum. I don't like to think of you with him. Or even Aeschines.”

“I like Aeschines.”

“His head is solid bone.”

I laughed. “Nonsense. He's very kind, and he's certainly not stupid, even if he's not as fast in debate as you or Kebes.”

“Or you,” Pytheas said.

“Are you jealous?” I asked.

There was a pause. I could hear gulls crying out to sea, and from the practice rooms down below where somebody must have left a door open came the sound of a lyre playing one phrase over and over.

“I don't know,” Pytheas said at last. “Maybe, yes. I don't know if this is what jealousy feels like. I certainly didn't like the thought of you sneaking off to meet Aeschines.”

“I'm not doing it. But he did ask.”

“A question in return. Are you jealous of Klymene and Kriseis and Hermia?”

I was glad I'd thought it through. “With Klymene, mostly I was upset because it was important and I knew it must have been difficult for you and you hadn't talked to me about it. That was what was important. Not what happened. But I am a little jealous that she has had your baby. And … if you were sneaking off together I might be jealous. And I do keep hoping that we'll get chosen together.”

“Plato says—”

“I know what Plato says. Plato says my soul is burning because it wants to grow feathers. Ikaros accused me of having the wrong horse in charge of my chariot. But I don't think I do.”

“You don't know what I was going to say Plato says. You haven't read the
Republic
.”

“Oh, and you have?” Then I realized he meant it. “You mean you
have
? How? When? Can I read it? I really want to. Did Sokrates lend it to you?”

“Never mind how and when. I can't tell you. Please don't ask me about that. And much as I'd love to get hold of it for you, I can't think of any way for you to read it.”

“But what does he say?” I was bouncing up and down with excitement.

“What Plato says is more interesting than whether what I feel is jealousy?”

I hit him on the shoulder. “Tell me!”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes! Tell me!”

“Plato says the masters should cheat to get the best babies for the next generation. He says they should expose any babies born to people not the best. He says they should choose mates that will produce the best children, and let us think that it's chance.”

“And are they doing that?” I asked. “How could we tell?”

“I tested it. I didn't win any contests, deliberately. And my name was the second out of the urn on random drawing.”

“But it could have been anyway. There were what, maybe eighty names? And you're assuming that they're assuming you're the best … no, I suppose we can assume that they're assuming that.” He so evidently was, on any grounds anyone would consider. There really wasn't any question.

“Being chosen doesn't conclusively prove anything. But it was an experiment worth trying. If I'd
not
been chosen it would have shown that they weren't following Plato. Though can you imagine that? Them
not
following Plato?” He laughed, and pulled himself up to sit on the parapet beside me.

“Then they might expose my baby. If that's what they're thinking, and what they're thinking in having potentially so many more children than they need.”

“Your baby will be one of the best. They know you're really clever. They want good minds.” He didn't sound very convincing.

“But how can you judge a good mind in a newborn? And it'll look like me.”

“Like a swimming champion. They want swimming champions.” He put his hand over mine, where I was hugging my belly again. “They're not stupid enough to do that. Don't you trust them?”

“For what?” I asked, my immediate retort now when asked about trust. “To have good intentions? Absolutely. To look at a scrawny baby with a flat face and think it should be kept? Not so much.”

“I—you don't—”

“I don't have a flat face?” I asked, incredulous.

“I didn't know you knew,” he said, awkwardly.

“What, did you think I was
blind
?”

He paused. “I didn't think it mattered to you.”

“It doesn't. I don't think about it. It's just the face that happens to be on the outside of my head. It's the inside of my head that's interesting. But if you think I'm not aware of what other people think when they look at me you must think I'm stupid. Every time I ever got into a silly childish fight with anyone it would be the first thing they'd say: flat face, rabbit teeth.”

“I didn't.” He sounded confused. “I didn't say that when we had a fight.”

“We didn't have a silly childish fight, we had a mature sensible fight,” I said, and giggled. “Even before we met Sokrates.”

“It's just … your face,” he said. “You wouldn't look like you without it.”

“I know. It doesn't matter. Think how ugly Sokrates is. I was just thinking what the masters would think, looking at my baby and deciding whether to expose it.”

“I'm sure they won't. They know how clever you are. And Nikias is clever too. I don't think they'll expose any of the gold children in this generation.” He sounded sure now.

“I didn't know you knew Nikias?”

“He's in my lyric composition group. He wrote a song about you.”

“He did?” I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or horrified.

“I told him if ever he sang it again I'd push his teeth down his throat.”

“Ah. Thank you. I think.”

He laughed. All this time his hand had been on top of mine on my belly. Now he moved it and patted my cheek. “Plato doesn't mention what happens when you're doing agape and then there's eros with other people. He never talks about it on the same page.”

“We're doing agape?” I asked. My voice sounded strange in my ears.

“If we're not then I don't know what agape is.” He put his arm over my shoulders and I leaned against him. “I have lots of friends in lots of places. Many of them are extremely loyal. I'm very fond of some of them. There are people with whom I've had eros. Klymene and I have a son together. But I never needed any of them. I need you. Not forever. Almost nothing is forever. But here and now, I need you.”

“I'm here,” I said. I kept still, but my mind was buzzing. “In the
Republic
, what is the aim of the city? What is it they want to produce?”

“The theme of the dialogue is justice—morality. But it goes a long way from there. Plato wants perfect justice, in a city or in a soul. In a practical way what they want to produce is philosopher kings: people who truly understand the Truth, and agree on what it is, and pursue it and keep the city in pursuit of it.”

“Really?” Compared to that, even agape with Pytheas seemed like a small thing. “What an amazing dream.”

“Aiming high, unquestionably.”

“Aiming for the best excellence. I always knew they were.” I felt vindicated. “I wish they'd let me read it. I want to say that to Sokrates.”

“They're afraid you'd see the bit about them cheating with the lots and stop trusting them.”

“They're idiots.”

Pytheas laughed. “On the one hand you admire their vision, on the other you've noticed their flawed nature?”

“Yes. I mean they're not philosopher kings themselves, so how can they guide us into that? Or not us, the babies I suppose.”

“Some of them would love to be philosopher kings. Ikaros, for example. Tullius. They almost think they are.”

I yawned. It was very late now. “Do they think we will be? Or the babies?”

“Plato doesn't say.”

“Oh, I wish I could read it!”

Pytheas shook his head. I could feel it through my body. “Would you want Kebes to read it? How about Damon?”

“Deception is never right. We're not children to be given medicine hidden in a spoonful of honey and a bedtime story. How could we get to be philosopher kings starting from lies and secrets?”

“Try all that on Sokrates. He might get you a copy.”

“It's Ficino I want to try it on. He might understand. I don't want a clandestine copy for me. I want everyone to be able to read it and discuss it.” I stood up. “It's really late. I should go to bed. See you tomorrow at Thessaly?”

 

25

A
POLLO

I don't know what Agape is.

In my opinion, Plato would have been better off sticking to poetry. There are cultures, charming cultures some of them, that have a word for love of a close friend, specifically excluding a romantic or sexual partner. You can use that word to your grandmother, or your child, or your best friend, but not to your husband or lover. The Celts, who call me Apollo Bellenos or Apollo Ludensis, (Shining or Playful, both epithets that suit me) have a word like that. Not so the Greeks. There's a word for family love, that can't be extended to people outside blood family. Eros was obvious, eros was erotic love, and the word also covered romantic obsessions. Philia I understood perfectly well, philia was the dominant note of my being, friendship, sometimes very close friendship. Agape was supposed to be this amazing passionate but non-sexual love. Plato was always going on about it. It would be all very well, except that you're supposed to yearn for each other and suppress it.

Plato wrote this wonderful poetic dialogue called the
Phaedrus
in which Socrates makes speeches about love. There's a metaphor about a charioteer controlling a chariot with one lustful horse and one heavenly horse, while pursuing a chariot drawn by a god with two heavenly horses. I am a god. But when I was in the city as a mortal I, didn't have any more difficulty controlling my metaphorical horses than I do on Olympos. I didn't have any
less
difficulty either.