“You like it. There. You’re mine. You’re mine. I’ll show you. You’re mine, mine, you always were, you were meant to be, mine, my Lucia, mine.”

“No!” I said, horrified at what he was saying. “Stop it! I’m here for the city. I’m not doing this for your fantasy!”

“Say my name,” he said, not stopping or even slowing down. “Lucia. My Lucia. Say my name.”

If I had hated him it would have been different. But he was my friend, even ramming me up against the wall and panting on my face. Maybe with his name I could reach that part of him. “Matthias,” I said. “No. Stop. Listen to me.”

But as I said his name he spilled his seed inside me. I could feel his penis jerking away as it gushed out. He carried me over to the bed then and put me down. I rolled away from him, breathing deeply.

“You liked it,” he said, less sure of himself now.

“I’m not yours,” I said.

“You still think you’re his?” he asked. “After that?”

“I am my own,” I said, turning to face him. “I don’t belong to anyone. Pytheas doesn’t try to own me.” Though he had claimed me as a votary, which was disturbingly similar. But he had only done that to protect me from Athene. And after all, he was a god. And what he had offered me was exactly everything I most wanted—to make art, to build the future, to help each other become our best selves. “He honors me.”

“I honor you!” he protested. “We were meant to be together. We were chained together. And now we were chosen together.”

“Things like that are accidents, not fate,” I said. “And don’t you think I should have a choice?”

“Yes, I do, but I think you should choose me.” He put his hand out to my face, awkwardly. “You’re mine. You’ll have my baby. We can run away together before he’s born, build a house, have a family. We can do this every night, have more children. My mother, my sisters, were lost, but I still have you and we can make a new family.”

“Matthias! Will you listen to me?”

He stopped.

“I’m not your mother or your sisters. I have made my choice. I choose the city. And as a lover I choose Pytheas. I’m here in this room with you right now because I choose the city and the city chose us to be together now. I may have your child,” though I hoped the silphium would work and I would not, “but if I do, I will give it to the city to grow up here and be a philosopher. I don’t want to run away, as I’ve told you thousands of times. I don’t want to destroy the city.”

I had said this often enough before, but either he hadn’t listened or he had twisted it in his mind and thought I meant I wasn’t ready. Even though he’d often heard me arguing with Sokrates for the merits of the city, he reacted as if I had struck him. “You can’t mean that. You’re mine.”

“I can. I do.” I got up and picked up my kiton.

“You don’t have to go. We can stay all night. We can do it again.”

“We can stay, but we’re not obliged to. I’ve done what I was obliged to do and I’m leaving.” I put my kiton on.

He stared at me in horror. “What—”

“Kebes, I’m your friend, but I’m not your property. I can choose what I want.”

His face crumpled for a moment. Then he lowered his head and scowled. “I don’t care anyway,” he said. “You’re not so special. You’re nothing but a scrawny flat-faced buck-toothed Copt.”

I laughed. “That’s true. And I am also a gold of the Just City.”

“I didn’t mean it. Come back.” He got up and put his hand on my bare shoulder.

I pushed past him to the door. “I won’t mention this again if you don’t.”

“Where are you going?”

I hadn’t thought about it, but as he asked I knew. “I’m going to Thessaly.”

The streets were quiet, though I passed numerous pairs of workers engaged in written dialogues. Pytheas’s vision of the streets being entirely paved in them was coming true. To my surprise, Sokrates was at home and answered the door to me at once. “Simmea! Joy to you. Is everything all right?” He drew me inside. There was nobody there. A book was open on the bed where he must have been reading it.

“Joy to you, Sokrates. I was drawn with Kebes, and it was … awkward,” I said.

“Oh dear. And it will be difficult for Pytheas.”

“It will.” We went out into the garden. “I told Kebes I was coming here, so he won’t. But you’ll probably have to talk to him later. He thinks he owns me, and he just doesn’t.”

“I can talk to him and try to make that clear to him,” Sokrates said. “Pytheas will be more difficult.”

“I don’t know whether he will.” I was still sticky and uncomfortable between my legs as I sat in my usual place beneath the tree. When I leaned back my back felt bruised where it had been banged into the wall. “It’s going to be so awkward with both of them.”

“I don’t know how Plato could have imagined that this would make everything easier,” Sokrates said.

I laughed and rolled my shoulders to try to loosen my back. “If it wasn’t for his wanting women to be philosophers, I’d imagine that he thought wives were a fungible resource. Have you read the Republic?”

“With a great deal of attention. But I’m afraid I can’t lend it to you, I have promised not to.” He sat down beside the limestone Herm he had carved himself during the Peloponnesian War.

“Not to lend it to me?” I was astonished.

“Not to lend it to any of you.” He stressed the plural.

“Pytheas has read it, of course.”

“Of course he must have. Before he came here.” Sokrates nodded. “How fascinating he is! I entirely understand your being in love with him. I don’t even accuse him of having used his powers to beguile you, as he seems remarkably fond of you in return.”

“He doesn’t have any powers here. He’s just so amazingly wonderful,” I said. I couldn’t help smiling when I thought about him. “But being incarnate makes him vulnerable in odd ways, and I can help him with that.”

“You don’t ever feel that he wants to take more of you than you want to give? That’s what they say about the gods.”

“Never. Pytheas wants me to be my best self.” That was the problem with Kebes. Kebes didn’t see me, or my potential best self. He saw something he imagined as me, something he called Lucia. I hadn’t been Lucia for a long time now. “And I want Pytheas to be his best self.”

“And I want the same for both of you,” Sokrates said.

“You’re in love with him too,” I said, realizing it as he spoke. “And so you must know he doesn’t take more than you want to give.”

“As long as you want to give everything.” Sokrates smiled wryly. “I have loved Athene and Apollo all my life, and between them they have consumed most of it.”

“But aren’t you better for it? In your soul?”

“I wouldn’t want to be any different,” he admitted.

“And you love Pytheas the same way I do!” I was pleased, thinking it through, excited and not even a shred jealous. I trusted Sokrates, and this was something we shared. If we were both in love with Pytheas, then we could talk about it and maybe define agape more clearly. I leaned forward eagerly with my hands on my knees, ignoring the twinge in my back.

“I love both of you, of course,” he said, gently, clearly disconcerted.

“I know, and when it comes to philia I truly love you too, but that’s not what I mean, though of course that’s also really important.” I took a breath to compose my thoughts more clearly. “I love you and you love me, as teachers and pupils who are friends love each other.”

“Yes,” he agreed, cautiously.

“But you love Pytheas the same way I do. Agape.”

He shook his head. I had argued with Sokrates about many things over the course of years, and had rarely seem him this disconcerted. “Not the same at all. I’m an ugly old man. I joke about being helpless before his beauty, but—”

“And I’m an ugly young girl, and he’s Apollo, he’s thousands of years older than both of us. But he has chosen both of us as votaries because age and beauty are trivial; what really matters to him is excellence. What’s on the inside of our heads. And both of us can help him, we can give him new ideas and new ways of thinking!” I said all this as fast as I could get the words out. “It does make it a bit different that you don’t have any eros to struggle with conquering. But it’s still agape, and still very similar.”