by Jo Walton
“Love wisdom,” I said, sniffing. “I do love wisdom, Maia, and I love the city, and you’d better take him away now.”
She took him out of the room. I could hear him begin to howl again, then as she went away the sound of his wailing grew quieter. She came back with a different baby, a girl, much bigger, pale-skinned and blue-eyed. Maia showed me how to nurse her, and as she had said it helped that the baby already understood. “It’ll be a day or two before there’s proper milk, but this will help it come,” she explained.
She sat down beside me. “In my time, if you’d had a baby at eighteen it would have defined your life. You’d have had to look after it whether you knew how to or not. You’d never have had time to be a person or to think. You’d have been a mother and that’s all.”
“Aristomache said that. She said she had to choose between love and children, or a life of the mind.”
“Aristomache was one of the lucky ones who had the chance to choose. Lots of women were stuck without any choice. Here you can have the baby and still have your life. You don’t appreciate how fortunate that is, how few women have ever had that through all of history.”
It was true if I could trust them, and for the most part I truly did.
“Even here and now, more of the burden falls on women,” Maia went on. “I’m in here helping you right now, not in my room reading or thinking, where the male masters are. And you’re giving birth while whoever the father is sleeps peacefully. But you won’t be here helping the next generation through labor and wiping up the blood. You’ll be organizing which of the iron girls do that work.”
The pale baby let my nipple fall out of her mouth and Maia took her away. When she came back I had almost succumbed to exhaustion.
“Are you falling asleep?” Maia asked.
“Sorry. I was. I should go back to Hyssop.”
“You can sleep here. It’s probably not a good idea for you to walk just yet. Lie and rest where you are. But while you’re still awake I want to say something. You really are going to be one of the people making all the decisions here. Lots of the masters are old. Even those of us who were relatively young ten years ago are getting older. When these children grow up even we will be old. You’ll be the ones watching them and deciding who pursues excellence, who among them will be gold and silver, or bronze and iron. It’s a big responsibility.”
“It seems so far away when we can’t make any decisions at all now. We can’t even read the Republic, even though we’re going to be the ones making it work.”
“You’re still so young,” Maia said, pulling a cloak up over me. “You still have a lot to learn, and a lot of wisdom to acquire. But one of the things Plato says in the Republic is that the purpose of the city isn’t to make the guardians the happiest people in the world, it’s to make the whole city just. It’s absolutely true that you might be happier if you could have one lover or if you could know which was your own child. But the whole city would be less just. Think about that.”
My eyes were closing, and I let them close. I could hear her moving things around and then leaving the room. I could hear a baby, not mine, crying somewhere, and then the sound stopped. I was more exhausted than I had ever been from running in armor. I slipped down towards sleep. If Plato had been trying to maximize justice, what did that mean? This was the Just City, of course it was, we had always been told that. But why justice, not happiness, or liberty or any other excellence? What was justice really? I smiled. I’d have to debate it with Sokrates when next I saw him. I could be sure he’d be onto it like a terrier after a rat.
27
MAIA
I was exhausted before I arrived at Chamber. I would have skipped it and gone to bed, but Lysias had particularly asked everyone on the Tech Committee to be there. It was a little more than nine months after a festival of Hera, and so naturally we were coming to the end of birthing season. We were training some of the iron girls who’d given birth themselves in midwifery as well as childcare, but we didn’t have enough of them yet, and most of the burden of helping them through fell on us—specifically, on the female masters. Everyone agreed that birth was a female mystery. I agreed myself. Nobody wants men around at a time like that. But the constant work of midwifery wore me out.
The Chamber was busy. It was a big room. We had never filled it, and we didn’t now. But everyone seemed to be there. I spotted Lysias talking to Klio and went to join them. “Everything all right?” I asked.
“Up all night with babies,” she said. “And I’m leaving a girl in labor to be here—but she has one of her sisters with her who has been through it, and it seems to be uncomplicated so far. They know to send for me or Kreusa if they need to. How about you?”
“I think Florentia is done for this season, and there’s only one girl in Delphi who’s still due.”
“We need to space the festivals out more,” Lysias said. “Two a year. Or even just one.”
“I’ve been saying that for ages,” Klio said. “I suggested that the first time it was ever discussed. And Plato says as often as necessary, not three times a year.”
“We also need more doctors,” Lysias said.
“Plato’s quite explicit about medicine and—”
At that moment Tullius called for order and Klio fell silent.
“Before we hear the usual committee reports, Aristomache of Olympia has an important discovery she wants to bring to everyone’s attention,” Tullius said. His voice was shaking with age but still powerful.
Aristomache went to the front. The way we organized Chamber now was a compromise. Tullius and some of the others would have liked it to be like the Roman Senate, with everyone in status order. Others would have liked it to be all democratic consensus and informality. We sat where we wanted, not in order of seniority, but we did not speak unless called on, and then we went up to the rostrum to speak. Tullius was the President of the Chamber, and if he was speaking or didn’t want to take the chair, then the chairmanship of the meeting rotated among the oldest men—and they were all men. Aristomache was one of the oldest women among the masters. Generally we voted openly by a show of hands, but on occasion when there was some particularly close or divisive question we would vote with black and white stones.
Aristomache stood quite relaxed at the rostrum, staring out at all of us. She looked very serious, but then she usually did. “Some months ago, Sokrates talked to us about the possible intelligence of the workers,” she began. “Many of us concluded that it was a hoax. There’s new evidence—a message inscribed on Mulberry house. The message is written in Greek using the Latin alphabet, and it appears to be a response to Sokrates’s questions. This reopens the whole issue.”
Lysias tensed beside me, stood, and was recognized. He walked down to the rostrum. Aristomache stepped to the left in debate position. “Last time we concluded that it was a hoax organized by Kebes. The only compelling evidence against was that the message was in English. He could easily have constructed a message in Greek in the Latin alphabet. Anyone could.”
“The message was carved high up on the building,” Aristomache said. “Higher than anyone could easily reach. It was also incised in stone.”
“There are ladders, and they’ve mostly had a little instruction in sculpture. Has Kebes?”
I was about to confirm that he had, when Ficino did it. He came forward. “He had the standard course, he would have learned that. He had no particular aptitude or interest. But he could have done it.”
“Do you believe he did?” Aristomache asked.
“He’s a difficult boy. I can’t say one way or the other what he might do,” Ficino said. “I’ve had trouble with him. Many of us have. There was that prank where he broke the statue of Aphrodite, years ago. But he seems to have settled down and improved under the influence of Sokrates.” Ficino went back to his seat. He nodded at me as he passed by.
“Was Kebes involved with the discovery at Mulberry?” Lysias asked.
“He found it,” Aristomache admitted
. There was a murmur throughout the Chamber at that.
Sokrates strode forward. He never liked the forms of Chamber and tended to ignore them and do what he wanted, but now, although he did not wait to be acknowledged, he walked down to the rostrum before turning to face all of us.
“It is still possible it might be a hoax, and I continue to consider that theory. But this matter is so important that while we wait for more evidence, I urge you to act. Acting will not hurt anything if we are wrong, and not acting will be very injurious if we are right.”
“What action do you want?” Lysias asked.
“What I called for last time,” Sokrates said. “An end to the removal of memories from the workers, and an opening of dialogue with them. You agreed to the latter but not to the former, and such was the vote of the Chamber. Now I want the workers informed that they may write on the paths, so that if they want to they can answer me immediately.”
“What was the message carved on Mulberry?” Tullius asked. Aristomache read it aloud.
“That isn’t evidence either way,” Tullius said. “It could be what a worker would say, or what a mischievous boy would imagine a worker would say.”
“Leaving aside the question of Kebes, if there’s a chance it’s genuine we need to stop tormenting the workers and begin to talk with them,” Sokrates urged.
“We can’t manage without the workers,” Lysias said.
“If the workers are slaves then there is a debate to be had,” Sokrates said. “You say the evidence isn’t yet conclusive. I agree. I am asking only to be able to collect more.”
“That’s fair,” Tullius said.
“If they’re slaves, then we need to treat them better and allow for the possibility of eventual manumission and immediate free time,” Aristomache said.
“That’s nonsense,” Lysias said. “What would they do? What could they want?”
“Those are excellent questions to which I would very much like answers,” Sokrates said. “Do you have any ideas?”
Lysias shook his head.
“If they are thinking beings we can’t keep them enslaved,” Aristomache said, flatly.
There was a rustle as people shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “Plato isn’t against slavery,” Tullius said. Slavery was one of those issues where time divided the masters. I myself was horrified at the thought. But Tullius had kept a houseful of slaves in Rome. It was different for him. “And if there ever were natural slaves, the workers are clearly that.”
“Let’s not have this argument,” Lysias said. “Not until we know whether we need to. The workers are machines. Tools. It still seems much more likely to be a hoax. I’m sorry, Sokrates, but that boy has taken in many of us before now and then turned and mocked us. He could well be doing the same to you.”
“I believe Kebes, but I understand that you have reason not to believe him,” Sokrates said.
Kebes had always been a troublemaker, from the very beginning. I knew him well, because he was a Florentine. He had run away several times—once he had even been flogged for it. Only since he had become friends with Sokrates had he seemed to settle down to work to become better. We had argued for a long time over whether he deserved the gold. We’d only decided he did because by definition any friend of Sokrates was a philosopher.
Lysias nodded and spread his hands to Sokrates and to Aristomache. “What do you want?”
“I want all the workers told that they are allowed to inscribe writing on the paths if they want to answer me,” Sokrates said.
“Might it not be unsightly?” Tullius asked.
“How could a Socratic dialogue be unsightly?” Aristomache asked. I laughed, and so did most of the Chamber.
“You’ll do it?” Sokrates asked.
“If it’s the will of the Chamber,” Lysias said.
“If it’s Kebes playing a hoax this will soon expose him,” Sokrates said. “Somebody will catch him doing it. Or somebody will see a worker doing it. So far both incidents have been small and easy to hide. The more there are, the more they will be visible.”
Tullius called for a show of hands, which went overwhelmingly for Sokrates.
“And the issue of removing their memories?” he asked.
“You don’t understand how much we need the workers!” Lysias said. “They do so much for us, some of it things you wouldn’t notice unless it wasn’t being done. Eventually the children will take over most of it, but right now we can’t manage without them. If they are free-willed and being compelled as slaves, which I don’t believe, we’ll have to find some way to persuade them to do the work. For now, we need them as they are, which means making them work when they freeze up in the feeding stations. There’s no evidence at all about why they do that. Even if you trusted it, this message says they don’t like the feeding stations. They’re just malfunctioning. If your cloak is falling off, you re-pin it. It’s the same thing here. Athene gave them to us as tools. She wouldn’t have given us slaves.”
Manlius stood and was recognized. “Athene isn’t all-powerful or all-knowing,” he said. “She might have been mistaken about the nature of the workers.”
“A vote?” Sokrates suggested. There was another show of hands, which Sokrates clearly lost.
“Moving on to reports,” Tullius said, as Sokrates and Lysias went back to their seats, but Aristomache remained at the rostrum. Tullius looked at her wearily. His kiton was hanging loose, and he seemed thin and worn and tired.
“Another point,” she said, her voice reaching to the back of the hall as Lysias slipped back into his seat beside me. “Entirely separate from the question of the workers. I want to call for a debate on slavery. Are we for it or against it? Is it just?”
“Not now,” said Tullius.
“I call to have such a debate scheduled,” she said.
Tullius called for a vote, and hands went up all over the room. I raised mine and so did Klio. Lysias kept his firmly down. “It’s too divisive,” he murmured. “Why alienate them when it’s a non-issue? I could wring that boy’s neck.”
The vote for the debate was carried, and we moved on to reports from committees, most of them boring. I gave the literature report—numbers of books printed, old and new. A boy in Megara had written an epic on Hektor, which was approved for printing. Nyra of Ithaka suggested that Simmea do a painting for the cover, as they were delighted with her painting for their hall. This was duly authorized. I was very glad I’d have such good news for her. It was hard on the girls giving birth and walking away. It would have been easier if they had been able to forget altogether, but all the babies needed feeding regularly. The other committees reported. I almost dozed off. It was agreed that the debate on slavery would be held at the next monthly meeting.
Sokrates came up to us as we were leaving. “How will you give the news to the workers?” he asked Lysias.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s a case of changing parameters, which isn’t easy. I’ll probably use a key.”
“Can I watch?”
“Certainly, though if you’re wanting to check on my integrity you should know you won’t understand any of it.” Lysias drew himself up stiffly. I put my hand on his arm, which was like a bar of iron.
“He was just interested,” Klio said.
“Nobody really understands how they work,” Sokrates said. “I least of all, I know that. And I don’t distrust your integrity, I just want to learn more about them.”
“All right,” Lysias said. He nodded to Sokrates, who nodded back. “It will be quite a lot of slow tedious work.”
“I’ll help you do it. Tomorrow—is that all right?” Klio asked. “I need to get back to a baby.”
“Tomorrow, after breakfast, and thank you,” Lysias said.
Klio nodded.
“I’ll be there,” Sokrates said. “At the feeding station?”
“Yes,” Lysias said, looking resigned.
We wished each other joy of the night and left. Lysias walked beside me, in
silence. “Do you really think it was Kebes?” I asked after a little while.
“It’s by far the most likely explanation.” Lysias was staring straight ahead. “They are more advanced than the workers of my own time. But they work the same way. Look how much we’re being asked to believe, that they have intelligence, free will, and that they’ve managed to learn Greek?”
“I think it’s harder for you to believe it than it is for me, because you understand them better. For me there’s something a little magical about them. Steam engines were a wonder of technology for me. I can as easily believe that the workers can think as that they can prune a lemon tree.” I paused for a moment, thinking about it. “For the people from even earlier times, with even less knowledge of how machines work, it would be even easier to think of them that way.”
“And that’s why Sokrates, who’s from the earliest time of any of us, feels so sure they’re sentient?” He had been walking quite rapidly, now he stopped, I almost bumped into him.
“It may be why he started talking to them in the first place,” I suggested.
“It’s just a hoax and a waste of my time,” Lysias said. “But he needn’t have thought I wouldn’t do it. That hurt.”
“I don’t think he did think that.”
“Oh yes he did. I know him. Come on, let’s get you home before you fall asleep in the street and a worker comes and carves no on you!”
28
SIMMEA
I slipped down into exhausted sleep, and the sleep didn’t rest me and the exhaustion didn’t go away. Even worse than the exhaustion was the lethargy. From the time when I woke the morning after giving birth, I could hardly bring myself to stir. Worse again was the indifference. I didn’t care about anything. Everything was too much effort. I hadn’t fainted at all when I was pregnant, but I began to faint all the time as soon as the baby was born. Sometimes I couldn’t go for an hour without fainting. These fainting spells kept up for a month, during which time I seldom went anywhere except between Hyssop and the nursery. I seldom went to Florentia to eat, I ate things people brought me. I never felt hungry, but when I had food I wanted it. When I did go to Florentia I grunted at my friends and stared at Botticelli’s Winter while remembering distantly that I had once loved it. I fed babies three times a day. I bled heavily and constantly. I slept voraciously and woke still tired and with my breasts aching.
