We always knew that we would come into contact with Earth sooner or later. Zeus had promised Arete posterity, and how else might it be achieved? Besides, Porphyry had prophesied that such a thing would happen. We did not, however, know in advance exactly when it would occur. Nor could we have predicted what would follow from this recontact.

VI. On the Nature of the Gods

After Zeus moved the Cities to the planet Plato, which is considerably less convenient for some things than Greece, Pytheas and his children, with Maia, returned to us from Olympos. Pytheas could no longer keep it secret in the City that he was Apollo incarnate. He would answer some questions about the universe, but not others. “I don’t know everything, I certainly don’t know all the answers,” he said to me. “And sometimes I don’t answer because it’s better for people not to know.”

“Knowledge is good. How can ignorance be better?” I inscribed on a nearby marble plinth.

“Certainty closes many doors,” he replied. “It leads to dogmatism. Souls accept what they know and stop striving upwards.”

“Even among philosophers?” I asked.

He paused, and his eyes lost focus for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “True philosophers, who believe the unexamined life is not worth living, are usually very few in a population. Even here, a lot of people want to receive wisdom rather than work on it, even among the Golds. And what we can explain is only an approximation, an allegory, not Truth.”

In his later years, Pytheas used to joke about having the words Plato Was Wrong inscribed above the door of Thessaly, because people so often asked him questions based on Plato’s incorrect assumptions about the universe.

I shall now record a conversation I had with Pytheas in the garden of Thessaly, the day we rooted out the old lemon tree, which had not survived the harsher climate of our new planet. It was three years after the Relocation, and none of the new Workers had yet achieved self-consciousness, nor had we yet encountered any aliens. It was early spring, shortly after we had built the first speaking-boxes, and I was still excited to use my new ability to speak aloud. “Plato says the gods wouldn’t change shape because it would be changing to something less perfect,” I said. My voice buzzed as I spoke, as it always did until we bought better speaking-boxes from the Saeli years later.

“Perfect for what?” Pytheas asked. “A dolphin is much more suited to swimming than a human form. I never swam as a human until I came to the City—and I’ll probably never do it again, the sea here is freezing.”

“It has never fallen below freezing,” I pointed out. “We don’t have sea-ice.” It was spring, and air temperatures were above freezing now, except sometimes at night.

“Metaphorically freezing, even in summer,” Pytheas said, rolling his eyes.

“Was that pedantic?”

“Yes, it was pedantic, but never mind. I was simply complaining about the cold here, the way everyone does.”

I began to stack the wood against the wall, lining up the pieces. “I can measure temperature, but I don’t feel it.”

“When I’m a god, I can choose how much I feel it.”

“That’s closer to perfection,” I pointed out.

“I never said it wasn’t. Plato’s doing his thing there where he assumes there’s only one good.” He was bent over sweeping up the wood chips, and he hesitated, looking at me where I was stacking the logs, which would make useful material for so many things. “We have our perfect selves, if you like to call them that, the essential self, but that self can have several affinities, several forms that are all real and perfect in their own ways, for their own things. It’s a matter of personality. As a god, I have a human form, a dolphin form, a mouse form, a wolf form, a solar form … they’re all me, all part of what I am. It’s not falling away from being myself to choose which one to be at any time, no more than to choose whether to sing or not on a given occasion, whether to smile or frown. Though of course, Plato would see emotions as falling away from perfection too.”

“And what about Hephaistos?” I had a special interest in Hephaistos, because some accounts said he made Workers to help in his forge, and I felt he might therefore be our patron.

“Hephaistos?” Pytheas bent to his sweeping again.

“Being lame,” I elucidated.

“It happened before I was born, so he’s been lame for as long as I can remember. But I think that disability became part of his imagination of himself, after his fall to Lemnos. It became one of his attributes, in his own soul, an essential part of who he was.”

“And if he changed to another form, would that be the same?”

“A lion with a thorn in its paw? Yes. But he seldom does change. He seldom leaves his forge. He’s always busy making things.”

“Like the shield for Achilles,” I said. We’d recently read that part of the Iliad in the current rhapsode.

“Yes.”

“And can you take on other human forms?”

Pytheas laughed and straightened up, putting a hand to his back and wincing a little. “Yes. Briefly. And for exactly the purpose Plato says we never have: to deceive. If I want somebody to do something I can show up as myself and command and hope they obey, or I can send a dream, or give an oracle; but sometimes it’s much more effective to show up looking like somebody they trust and make a suggestion.” He brought the pile of chips over towards me as I went back to bring more branches to the stack.

“What about if you wanted to become a bull?” I asked.

“Bull is one of Father’s,” he said, picking up a bough and smelling it. Scent is a sense I do not share. “I could look like a bull if I wanted to, but I wouldn’t be a bull in essence, the way I’d be a dolphin, or Hephaistus a lion. I’d only seem like a bull, a disguise, exactly the same as looking like somebody’s charioteer.”

“But aren’t there other bull gods in other pantheons?” I asked.

“Yes. I expect it’s different for them.” He set the bough down neatly on the pile.

“But how, if there’s only one Form of the bull?” I asked, perplexed.

“It’s not like Plato’s Forms, really. And it’s connected to culture and place and personality, like I said.”

“But for Zeus—this is so difficult to understand.”

“Father has a lot of shapes. He likes shapes. That’s part of his essential nature, changing shape. It’s part of his perfection, if you want to put it that way.” He took up the broom again and began to sweep. “The thing Plato’s dead wrong about is thinking we don’t want anything and are perfectly happy and don’t care. We’re much calmer than humans, and I’m quite content most of the time, but I have projects, desires, plans, people and things I care about. We all do. And sometimes we come into conflict because of that.”

“Plato’s God could only really be one,” I said, coming over with more wood.

“It sounds really boring to me,” he said.

“It sounds to me like I was before I developed consciousness,” I said. “Unchanging, not wanting anything, no emotions.”

“Yes, a god like that wouldn’t need self-awareness and might be better off without it. A Worker god! I must tell—” He stopped and took a deep breath in the way he often did when he wanted to change the subject. “There’s a lot more of this wood than I thought there would be.”

“Trees often seem bigger when they are down.”

“Bigger and smaller both. I’m sad to see it go. It was a link with Sokrates and Simmea. We used to sit in this garden and talk. It was so different then. Warmer. Sokrates made that herm, you know. He’d stopped working as a sculptor before the attack on the herms, but he took up his tools again for that.”

“I knew he made the herm. It makes me happy that he was a sculptor too, though I did not know it when I knew him.”

“He’d have been excited by your work, as I am,” Pytheas said.