The Just City

by Jo Walton

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  This is for Ada, who took me to Bernini’s Apollo.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  1. Apollo

  2. Simmea

  3. Maia

  4. Simmea

  5. Maia

  6. Simmea

  7. Apollo

  8. Simmea

  9. Maia

  10. Simmea

  11. Maia

  12. Simmea

  13. Apollo

  14. Simmea

  15. Maia

  16. Simmea

  17. Maia

  18. Simmea

  19. Apollo

  20. Simmea

  21. Maia

  22. Simmea

  23. Maia

  24. Simmea

  25. Apollo

  26. Simmea

  27. Maia

  28. Simmea

  29. Maia

  30. Simmea

  31. Apollo

  32. Simmea

  33. Maia

  34. Simmea

  35. Maia

  36. Simmea

  37. Apollo

  Thanks and Notes

  Books by Jo Walton

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Wherever you go, there are plenty of places where you will find a welcome; and if you choose to go to Thessaly, I have friends there who will make much of you and give you complete protection, so that no one in Thessaly can interfere with you.

  —PLATO, Crito

  The triremes which defended Greece at Salamis defended Mars too.

  —ADA PALMER, Dogs of Peace

  Yes, I know, Plato; but if you always take the steps in threes, one day you will miss a cracked one.

  —MARY RENAULT, The Last of the Wine

  If you could take that first step

  You could dance with Artemis

  Beside Apollo Eleven.

  —JO WALTON, “Submersible Moonphase”

  1

  APOLLO

  She turned into a tree. It was a Mystery. It must have been. Nothing else made sense, because I didn’t understand it. I hate not understanding something. I put myself through all of this because I didn’t understand why she turned into a tree—why she chose to turn into a tree. Her name was Daphne, and so is the tree she became, my sacred laurel with which poets and victors crown themselves.

  I asked my sister Artemis first. “Why did you turn Daphne into a tree?” She just looked at me with her eyes full of moonlight. She’s my full-blooded sister, which you’d think would count for something, but we couldn’t be more different. She was ice-cold, with one arched brow, reclining on a chilly silver moonscape.

  “She implored me. She wanted it so much. And you were right there. I had to do something drastic.”

  “Her son would have been a hero, or even a god.”

  “You really don’t understand about virginity,” she said, uncurling and extending an ice-cold leg. Virginity is one of Artemis’s big things, along with bows, hunting and the moon.

  “She hadn’t made a vow of virginity. She hadn’t dedicated herself to you. She wasn’t a priestess. I would never—”

  “You really are missing something. It might be Hera you should be talking to,” Artemis said, looking at me over her shoulder.

  “Hera hates me! She hates both of us.”

  “I know.” Artemis was poised now, ready to be off. “But what you don’t understand falls within her domain. Ask Athene.” And she was off, like an arrow from a bow or a white deer from a covert, bounding across the dusty plains of the moon and swooping down somewhere in the only slightly less dusty plains of Scythia. She hasn’t forgiven me for the moon missions being called the Apollo Program when they should have been called after her.

  My domain is wide, both in power and knowledge. I am patron of inspiration, creativity, poetry and music. I am also in charge of the sun, and light. And I am lord of healing, mice, dolphins, and sundry other specialties I’ve gathered up, some of which I’ve devolved to sons and others, but all of which I continue to keep half an eye on. But one of my most important aspects, to myself anyway, has always been knowledge. And that’s where I overlap with owl-carrying Athene, who is goddess of wisdom and knowledge and learning. If I am intuition, the leap of logic, she is the plodding slog that fills in all the steps along the way. When it comes to knowledge, together we’re a great team. I am, like my sister Artemis, a hunter. It’s the chase that thrills me, the chase after knowledge as much as the chase after an animal or a nymph. (Why had she preferred becoming a tree?) For Athene it’s different. She loves the afternoon in the library searching through footnotes and linking up two tiny pieces of inference. I am all about the “Eureka” and she is all about displacing and measuring actual weights of gold and silver.

  I admire her. I really do. She’s a half-sister. All of us Olympians are pretty much related. She’s another virgin goddess, but unlike Artemis she doesn’t make a fetish of her virginity. I always thought she was just too busy working on wisdom to get involved with all that love and sex stuff. Maybe she’d get around to it in a few millennia, if it seemed interesting at that point. Or maybe she wouldn’t. She’s very self-contained. Artemis is always bathing naked in forest pools and then punishing hunters who happen to see her. Athene isn’t like that at all. I’m not sure she’s ever been naked, or even thought about it. And nobody would think about it when they’re around her. When you’re around Athene what you think about is new ways of thinking about fascinating bits of knowledge you happen to have, and how you might be able to fit them together to make exciting new knowledge. And that’s so interesting that the whole sex thing seems like a bit of relatively insignificant trivia. So there were a whole host of reasons I was reluctant to bring up the Daphne incident with her.

  But I really was burning with the need to know why Daphne turned into a tree in preference to mating with me.

  I went to see Athene, who was exactly where I expected her to be and doing exactly what I expected her to be doing. She fights when she needs to, of course, and she’s absolutely deadly when she does—she has the spear and the gorgon shield and she knows everything about strategy. But most of the time she’s in libraries, either mortal libraries or Olympian ones. She lives in a library. It looks like the Parthenon in Athens on the outside, and on the inside it looks like … a giant book cave. That’s the only way to describe it.

  There’s one short stumpy pillar just inside, where the owl sits napping with its head curled around under its wing. Generally the spear and shield and helmet are leaning against that pillar. There’s also a desk, where she sits, which is absolutely covered with scrolls and codices and keyboards and wires and screens. There’s exactly one beam of sunlight that comes in between two of the outside pillars and falls in exactly the right place on the desk to illuminate whatever she’s using at the moment. The rest of the room is just books. There are bookcases around the walls, and there are piles of books on the floor, and there are nets of scrolls hanging from the ceiling. The worst of it is that everything is organized—alphabetized, filed, sorted, even labelled, but nothing is squared off and it all looks li
ke the most awful mess. I never go in there without wanting to straighten it all out. It bothers me. If I’m going to see her, often I ask her to meet somewhere comfortable to both of us, like the Great Library, or the Laurentian Library, or Widener.

  As I said, we make a good team—but we generally make a team as equals. I don’t tend to go to her as a suppliant. I don’t tend to go to anyone as a suppliant, except Father when it’s absolutely unavoidable. It’s rare for me to need to. And with Athene, on this particular subject, it made me deeply uncomfortable.

  Nevertheless I went to her library-home and stood in the beam of light until she realized it had widened to the whole desk and looked up.

  “Joy to you, Far-Shooter,” she said when she saw me. “News?”

  “A question,” I said, sitting down on the marble steps outside, so I wouldn’t have to either hover in the air or risk treading on a book.

  “A question?” she asked, coming out to join me. She lowered herself to the step, and we sat side by side looking out over Greece spread out before us—the hills, the plains, the well-built cities, the islands floating on the wine-dark sea, the triremes plying between them. We couldn’t actually see the triremes from this distance unless we focused, but I assure you they were there. We can go wherever we want, whenever we want, but why would we stray far from the classical world, when the classical world is so splendid?

  “There was a nymph—” I began.

  Athene turned up her nose. “If this is all, I’m going back in to work.”

  “No, please. This is something I don’t understand.”

  She looked at me. “Please?” she said. “Well, go on.”

  As I said, I don’t often come in supplication, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know the words. “Her name was Daphne. I pursued her. And just as I caught her and was about to mate with her, she turned into a tree.”

  “She turned into a tree? Are you sure she wasn’t a dryad all along?”

  “Perfectly sure. She was a nymph, a nereid if you want to be technical about it. Her father was a river. She prayed to Artemis, and Artemis turned her into a tree. I asked Artemis why, and she said it was because Daphne wanted it so desperately. Why did she want to become a tree to avoid me? How could she care that much? She hadn’t made a vow of virginity. Artemis told me to ask Hera and then said maybe you would know.”

  Grey-eyed Athene looked at me keenly as I mentioned Hera. “I thought I didn’t know, but if she mentioned Hera then maybe I do. What’s at the core of what Hera cares about?”

  “Father,” I said.

  Athene snorted. “And?”

  “Marriage, obviously,” I said. I hate those Socratic dialogues where everything gets drawn out at the pace of an excessively logical snail.

  “I think the issue you may be missing with Daphne, with all of this, is to do with consensuality. She hadn’t vowed virginity, she might have chosen to give her virginity up one day. But she hadn’t made that choice.”

  “I’d chosen her.”

  “But she hadn’t chosen you in return. It wasn’t mutual. You decided to pursue her. You didn’t ask, and she certainly didn’t agree. It wasn’t consensual. And, as it happens, she didn’t want you. So she turned into a tree.” Athene shrugged.

  “But it’s a game,” I said. I knew she wouldn’t understand. “The nymphs run away and we chase after.”

  “It may be a game not everyone wants to play,” Athene suggested.

  I stared out over the distant islands, rising like a pod of dolphins from the waves. I could name them all, and name their ports, but I chose for the moment to see them as nothing but blue on blue cloud shapes. “Volition,” I said, slowly, thinking it through.

  “Exactly.”

  “Equal significance?” I asked.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Interesting. I didn’t know that.”

  “Well then, that’s what you learned from Daphne.” Athene started to get up.

  “I’m thinking about becoming a mortal for a while,” I said, as the implications began to sink in.

  She sat down again. “Really? You know it would make you very vulnerable.”

  “I know. But there are things I could learn much more quickly by doing that. Interesting things. Things about equal significance and volition.”

  “Have you thought about when?” she asked.

  “Now. Oh, you mean when? When in time? No, I hadn’t really thought about that.” It was an exciting thought. “Some time with good art and plenty of sunshine, it would drive me crazy otherwise. Periclean Athens? Cicero’s Rome? Lorenzo di Medici’s Florence?”

  Athene laughed. “You’re so predictable sometimes. You might as well have said ‘anywhere with pillars.’”

  I laughed too, surprised. “Yes, that about covers it. Why, do you have a suggestion?”

  “Yes. I have the perfect place. Honestly. Perfect.”

  “Where?” I was suspicious.

  “You don’t know it. It’s … new. It’s an experiment. But it has pillars, and it has art—well, it has very Apollonian art, all light and no darkness.”

  “Puh-lease.” (That wasn’t supplication, it was sarcasm. The last time I used the word it was supplication, so I thought I’d better clarify. But this was sarcasm, with which I am more familiar.) “Look, if you’re about to suggest I go to some high-tech hellhole where they’ve never heard of me because it’ll be a ‘learning experience,’ forget it. That’s not what I want at all. I am Apollo. I am important.” I pouted. “Besides, if they think the gods are forgotten, why are they writing about us? Have you read those books? There’s nothing more clichéd. Nothing.”

  “I haven’t read them and they sound awful, and the only thing I want to get from high-tech societies is their robots,” she said.

  “Robots?” I asked, surprised.

  “Would you rather have slaves?”

  “Point,” I said. Athene and I have always felt deeply uneasy about slaves. Always. “So what do you want them for?”

  Athene settled back on her elbows. “Well, some people are trying to set up Plato’s Republic.”

  “No!” I stared down at her. She looked smug.

  “They prayed to me. I’m helping.”

  “Where are they doing it?”

  “Kallisti.” She gestured towards where Thera was at the moment we were sitting in. “Thera before it erupted.”

  “They’re doing it before the Republic was written?”

  “I said I was helping.”

  “Does Father know?”

  “He knows everything. But I haven’t exactly drawn it to his attention. And of course, that side of Kallisti all fell into the sea when it erupted, so there won’t be anything to show long-term.” She grinned.

  “Clever,” I acknowledged. “Also, doing Plato’s Republic on Atlantis is … recursive. In a way that’s very like you.”

  She preened. “Like I said, it’s an experiment.”

  “It’s supposed to be a thought experiment. Who are these people that are doing it?” I was intrigued.

  “Well, one of them is Krito, you know, Sokrates’s friend. And another is Sokrates himself, whom Krito and I dragged out of Athens just before his execution. If Sokrates can’t make it work, who can? And then there are some later philosophers—Platonists, Plotinus and so on, and some from Rome, like Cicero and Boethius, and from the Renaissance, Ficino and Pico … and some from even later, actually.”

  I was suspicious, and a little jealous. “And all of these random people in different times decided to pray to you for help setting up Plato’s Republic?”

  “Yes!” she sounded wounded that I doubted her. “They absolutely did. Every single one of them.”

  “I have to go there,” I said. I wanted to try being a mortal. And this was so fascinating, the most interesting thing I’d heard about in aeons. Plato’s Republic had been discussed over centuries, but it had never actually been tried. “Where are you getting the children?”

  “Orphans, slaves
, abandoned children. And volunteers,” she said, looking at me. “I almost envy you.”

  “Come too?” I suggested. “Once you have it set up, what would stop you?”

  “I’m tempted,” she said, looking tempted, the expression she has when she has a new book she very much wants to read right now instead of fulfilling some duty.

  “Oh do. It’ll be so interesting. Think what we could learn! And it wouldn’t take long. A century or so, that’s all. And it’ll have libraries. You’ll feel right at home.”

  “It’ll certainly have libraries. What will be in them is another question. There’s some dispute about that at the moment.” She stared off at the clouds and the islands. “Being a mortal makes you vulnerable. Open. Love. Fear. I’m not sure about that.”

  “I thought you wanted to know everything?”

  “Yes,” she said, still staring out.

  We didn’t have the least idea in the world what we were letting ourselves in for.

  2

  SIMMEA

  I was born in Amasta, a farming village near Alexandria, but I grew up in the Just City. My parents called me Lucia, after the saint, but Ficino renamed me Simmea, after the philosopher. Saint Lucy and Simmias of Thebes, aid and defend me now!

  When I came to the Just City I was eleven years old. I came there from the slave market of Smyrna, where I was purchased for that purpose by some of the masters. It is hard to say for sure whether this event was fortunate or unfortunate. Certainly having my chains struck off and being taken to the Just City to be educated in music and gymnastics and philosophy was by far the best fate I might have hoped for once I stood in that slave market. But I had heard the men who raided our village saying they were especially seeking children of about ten years of age. The masters visited the market at the same time every year to buy children, and they had created a demand. Without that demand I might have grown up in the Delta and lived the life the gods had laid out before me. True, I would never have learned philosophy, and perhaps I would have died bearing children to some peasant farmer. But who can say that might not have been the path to happiness? We cannot change what has happened. We go on from where we stand. Not even Necessity knows all ends.