“I didn’t know how long was long enough, and by then it had been a long time and it was awkward because of that.” I brushed my hair back off my face and realized that our hands were still bound together. I started to unwind the garland.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought—”

“You thought I was a coward and wouldn’t go through with it?” she suggested.

“I thought I was,” I said. “Do you want to?”

“It’s not a case of want, it’s a case of our duty to the city and the gods. We were married in front of Zeus and Hera. All over the city today, everyone is being married in front of the gods, so that there can be more children for the city.”

“You’re right,” I said.

“I don’t like you, Pytheas. I don’t trust you. It isn’t just what you said to me, it’s other things. You’re arrogant. You think so much of yourself. You don’t pay any attention to most people. I was only ever friends with you because I knew you were Simmea’s friend and she likes you. And when I had that cowardly moment you covered for me. That was good. But afterwards what you said just made me feel that you despised me—that you didn’t even see me. But this isn’t about you. This is about our sacred duty.”

“I said you were right.”

“Where are we going?”

I stopped walking. “They told me there were empty practice rooms with beds in them.” I waved vaguely. We had passed the turning to the street of Dionysos and had to go back. We walked now without talking. She was a pretty girl with nice breasts, soft and dovelike, as I had always thought. I wondered what our son would be like—a hero, certainly, but what kind? How strange it would be to watch him grow up day by day. The masters wouldn’t let us know which child was which, of course, but I would know. If I didn’t instinctively know I could ask Athene, but I thought even incarnate I’d be able to tell.

We came to the hall and went inside, hands still bound. Inside most of the doors were closed, but we found an open one far down the hall and closed the door. Only then did I unbind the garland. The wild rose branch twined in it had pricked my skin, leaving little beads of blood around my wrist. As I was licking them, Klymene dropped her kiton with as little fuss as if we were in the palaestra, and stood looking at me.

I had never before mated with a woman when we hadn’t been playing the game of running away and catching. I had always been the one catching. I had mated for the joy of ecstasy, in a sudden passion for some woman, or to conceive children. Usually when I fell in love it was with men, who in my own time had minds with more to offer me. I have fallen in love with women, but it’s rare. Sometimes women have refused me. (Cassandra and Sibyl were out for what they could get and deserved what they did get. In my opinion.)

This woman did not want me, but she was obedient to duty. I had to go to some considerable effort of imagination to want her, and to find duty in myself and the desire for a son. It helped that this was her first time, so I could instruct her into a position where I didn’t have to look at her face. Her face was like stone, and would have made it impossible. It was probably more comfortable for her too. She didn’t want foreplay—in fact she specifically refused it. “Let’s get on with it,” she said. I arranged her face down on the bed.

Father’s big on rape. He likes to turn himself into animals or even weirder things and swoop down on girls and carry them off. I’ve always liked the chase, whether it’s chasing a nymph through the woods or a seduction. Sometimes at the end of a seduction it’s been almost like that. I remember once in Alexandria, a woman called Lyra. Sunlight through a shuttered window falling across white sheets. She was a professional card player, and I’d beaten her in the game when she’d put herself in on cards she thought were unbeatable. She wore a veil and made up her eyes with kohl. There had been a moment when she let the veil fall that was almost like it was with Klymene. But once we were in bed she’d been greedy, more like a man, seeking her own pleasure, crying out. Klymene wasn’t like that at all.

Klymene wanted the result of this mating, but not the process. But enduring it was her choice. Having it happen at all was her choice. I would have undone the garland and gone off, and if we’d told nobody, nobody would ever have known, any more than Athene’s partner, dreaming of Catullus, would ever know. That would have been my choice, to regret this match and let her be. We were in this room and this bed and I was in her body because she had chosen it, because it was our duty. I thought of Lyra’s eyes above the veil. I tried not to think of Daphne. I thought of all the ones who had wanted me, who had met passion with passion and desire with desire, who fell in love with me and wrote poetry about it for the rest of their lives. Eventually, that was sufficient.

20

SIMMEA

It was with a mixture of relief and disappointment that I greeted the arrival of my monthly blood at the next new moon. Of the seven of us in Hyssop, four bled and three did not. Klymene was one of the ones who did not. She had been unusually tight-lipped about her experience during the festival. “Well, it took all my accumulated bravery,” was all she had said in answer to my tentative question. Aeschines had eaten with us in Florentia twice and I had eaten with him in Ithaca once—sardines and bitter greens, delicious. I’d seen other new friendships that had come out of the festival. But not for Klymene.

We were in the wash-fountain getting clean one morning when Makalla suddenly said: “Maia said we shouldn’t count on being pregnant even if we don’t bleed. We should wait until next month to be sure.” She sounded apprehensive.

“I’m delighted to be pregnant,” Klymene said.

“Because you won’t have to go through that again?” I asked, rinsing my hair.

“Well, not for some time anyway,” Makalla said.

“It wouldn’t be as bad as that another time,” Klymene said. “No, I’m just glad to be having a baby, to be doing my duty and making a new generation of citizens.”

“I am too,” Makalla said. “I just don’t want to count on anything before I can be sure.”

For a moment I was sorry I wasn’t pregnant too. I felt left out and lazy. Immediately I wondered what Sokrates would think about that and began to interrogate the feeling. It was nonsense. I’d tried as hard as anyone. Maybe next time it would work. It was a pity it wouldn’t be Aeschines again. I liked him and he liked me. But there was always the hope that it would be Pytheas.

I spent that time working on the calculus with a small group Axiothea had drawn together of people who really liked higher mathematics for its own sake, and not as a means of mystical revelation. Mystical revelation through numerology was very popular, especially in halls that had Neoplatonist masters. What we worked on had no practical application I could see but the joy of learning it. I loved it.

Of course I also painted a great deal, and debated constantly with Sokrates. Debating with Sokrates remained a delight and a terror. I was getting better at it, but he still surprised me frequently. It honed my mind, so that in debate with others, I was considered formidable. Pytheas and Kebes too learned Sokrates’s methods, and grew in debate. We began to wonder whether we could challenge the masters. Listening to debates was one of our most popular forms of entertainment—Tullius against Ikaros on the benefits of synthesis against original research, or Ficino against Adeimantus on the virtues of translation. I began to have an idea that I might one day challenge one of the younger masters, perhaps Ikaros or Klio.

One day I went running in the mountains and met Laodike and Damon, returning from a run. I didn’t see them often any more; the division into silver and gold had made a difference. They looked awkward, and I tried hard to be especially friendly, sharing some figs I had brought. We sat in the shade of a rock to eat them. “You’re not running straight up the mountain any more, then?” I asked.