Necessity Read online

  “They’re gods,” Thetis said. “That’s different.” She hesitated, then went on. “I used to think that I couldn’t hope to be a philosopher, because of how I looked. When I was a little girl, I mean. Marsilia’s older, and she was brilliant, and also she looked like one, of course. And so it was what everyone said, that it was clear that she’d be a Gold, that her metal shone through. Whereas to me, they said I was pretty as a picture or that somebody ought to sculpt me. Everyone except Grandfather. Pytheas. He always treated me as if what I thought mattered. Dad was busy running the city, and Ma was away at sea so often, and in classes they tended to treat me as if I had to be empty-headed and thistledown-weight because I was pretty.”

  “Not only pretty, beautiful,” I said. “But that shouldn’t have been all they saw.”

  “That’s right,” she said, and gave my arm a little pat. “I realize that now, but I didn’t at the time. And so I didn’t work hard, which you probably remember from that year we took classes together, and when they classified me Iron it simply seemed appropriate.” The crowds had thinned out, and we had the street to ourselves except for a Saeli pod walking the other way, arms entwined.

  “But do you like your work?” I asked.

  She smiled, and I caught my breath, to see a smile like that from so close. “I love it,” she said. “Plato was right. It’s so good to have our work carefully chosen for us and to feel every day that in doing what I love I am helping make the City better.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I feel exactly the same.” I hardly ever admitted it. Everyone complained, and so I did too, to fit in.

  “And it is the same,” she said. “You work out at sea, hard work, dangerous, feeding us all. And I work with the tiny babies in the nursery, both the ones there full-time and the ones whose parents leave them with us for a few hours a day, or a few days now and then. I always have six or seven babies in my care, and I love them, and I love looking after them. And as they get older and need instruction they move up to teachers, but I still see them. There must be twenty children who call me Ma Thee, as well as my present little lovelies. They need me, and the City needs me there, and I am far far better suited to working with babies from birth to two than I should have been to anything else I could have done.”

  “So you don’t resent Marsilia being consul?”

  “I’m excited about it!” We were getting closer to Thessaly, but she stopped again, and I stopped too. The stones beneath our feet were incised with old debates. “All that was when I was younger. I don’t feel like that now. I’m happy with who I am. I was only talking about that because of Grandfather, trying to explain. He never made me feel stupid, or like I’m not achieving what I could, or any of that. When we were going to take our oaths and become ephebes, he talked to me about what the oath meant, and what the City meant, and I felt he loved me and he understood who I was. He could be strange sometimes, which is only to be expected. He was a god! But he saw that I was nervous and uncomfortable, and he explained it all to me, and he was right, and the Guardians were right.”

  She smiled, sadly. “Dad and Ma and Marsilia are always busy. I could always go to Grandfather and tell him about the babies. The funny, ordinary, adorable things they do. It made him smile. He’d say he didn’t have enough conversations about ordinary human things. And sometimes I’d be there when people came, important people, and at first if that happened I’d try to leave, but he pressed me to stay and make small talk with them, to set them at their ease, so I’d do that. And once he told me that Simmea used to do that for him, and he never worked out how to do it. He knew he had to offer them something and talk about insignificant things first, but he always felt awkward doing it and wanted to jump right in to whatever they’d really come about. He said he admired the way I could do it naturally and make them feel comfortable.”

  I couldn’t say anything. Saying I’d been in love with her for years and that this made me love her all the more would have been wrong, but there wasn’t anything else I could think of to say. I nodded.

  “I’d make a terrible consul. But Marsilia is a splendid one, exactly like Dad. And she’d be awful at looking after babies, and I’m really good at that. It wasn’t only our looks, it really was our souls. So sometimes I think looks do reflect souls.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Though what I remember Plato saying about that seems to be a bit different from the way you see it. But how can you think Marsilia would be awful with babies? What about Alkippe?”

  She smiled again. “Alkippe’s seven years old. And now she’s old enough, Marsilia’s the best mother in the world for her, teaching her things, and Alkippe’s so bright, she soaks it all up. But for the first three years I looked after her. If I hadn’t wanted to, I think Marsilia would have left her in the nursery full-time. The year she was two, Marsilia was away on a mission to Lucia. Alkippe hardly noticed.” Thetis smiled. “She’d notice now, though! If Marsilia had to go away again she’d take her with her, I think. But she won’t. She’s consul, and she’s fixed here for a year.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Though I don’t know how she manages to make time for everything she does and working on the boat.”

  “She enjoys it,” Thetis said.

  “Thee—” I stopped.

  “What?”

  I gathered up my nerve. “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you like this. Maybe we could do it some more. On days when your grandfather hasn’t died, I mean. And if you want to talk about the funny things the babies did, or anything.” I knew I was babbling, and I was trying hard not to sound threatening, or too eager. I knew from Marsilia that Thetis always had plenty of men buzzing around, and women too. It would have been more surprising if she didn’t, looking like that.

  She looked wary and took her hand off my arm. “Aren’t you married?”

  “No?” I was puzzled. Who could she think I was married to? I’d never really looked at anyone else, they all seemed to be little ripples compared to the tidal wave that was Thetis. I’d messed about with boys when I’d been a boy myself, and I volunteered at every Festival of Hera, but that was the extent of my experience. “And anyway, I didn’t mean it like that—or not only like that. I didn’t mean anything I couldn’t have meant if I had happened to be married. But I’m not.”

  “But I thought you were married! I always see you with children?” She sounded puzzled. “Like down at the dock earlier.”

  “Camilla is Aelia and Leonidas’s daughter,” I said. “I was wondering who you thought I’d married.”

  “And I had sort of wondered who you did marry. But I don’t see you very often, and whenever I did you seemed to have little children with you, so I thought…”

  “Aelia and Leonidas died at sea, five years ago. Camilla is eight, and Little Dion, Di, is six. We always knew them and loved them, and so Dion and I look out for them, when they’re free and we are, and we do all tend to be together having fun at festivals and that kind of thing. So I see why you would have seen them with me.”

  “Yes, I do see,” she said. “But Jason—”

  I interrupted her while I still had the courage. “I feel about twelve years old saying this, but let me say it. I really like you. I can’t say I don’t find you attractive. I’m not a stone. But I really did mean that I enjoyed talking, and with what you were saying about talking to Pytheas about the babies I thought maybe you wanted somebody you could talk to like that, probably more than you want admirers, which you can’t possibly be lacking.”

  “I’ve enjoyed talking to you too, and I’d certainly like to do it again,” she said, and she kissed my cheek.

  We walked on. I wasn’t feeling the cold at all now, even though the wind was scattering the clouds above us. I put my arm around her again. I wasn’t sure what any of this meant, but whatever it was, it made me happy.

  Thessaly seemed to be simply an old sleeping house, like all the sleeping houses of the old city, with the name carved above the door. The history didn’t show. The
door was closed, but the sconce above it was shining brightly, casting out a gold radiance and lighting up the words carved in the flagstones where we were walking: “Read, write, learn.” As we came close, something big swooped over our heads. We both ducked, instinctively. There are no birds on Plato, but of course I’d seen Arete flying, and naturally I assumed it was her, come to Thessaly for her father’s memorial. She didn’t usually fly down so low as to part people’s hair. I looked up, and was amazed to see a young man, naked, with winged sandals and a flat hat. He was looking down at us and grinning. Nobody with half a brain could have been in a moment’s doubt as to who he was.

  “I should be going,” I said.

  “No, stay with me,” Thetis said, not taking her hand from my arm.

  “But…” I indicated Hermes, now settling gracefully to the ground a little way up the street. Also, I was starting to be aware that I was wearing trousers, that well-known mark of barbarians and people who work out of doors in cold weather. I have a kiton for special occasions, but nobody had warned me that this would be one.

  “Half my family are gods,” she said.

  “Yes, I know, but—” It was different for me, I was going to say, but she didn’t give me time to finish.

  “You should think what it’s like growing up being part of the other half of the family. Never let them think you’re inferior. Come on.” She put her hand on the door, but Hermes had stepped up before she opened it.

  “Joy to you,” he said, glancing at me then focusing on Thetis, naturally. He was naked, apart from the hat and the sandals. It was usual to exercise naked, though most of the palaestras had been enclosed and heated a long time ago. (The few that hadn’t were only popular in the middle of summer.) Being naked in the street was unusual though, and what was especially odd was the way he seemed comfortable naked outdoors on a chilly evening. He was out of context, and not only in that way. We had gods, of course. Half Thetis’s family were gods, as she’d said. But Hermes was different. We worshipped him! And he hadn’t grown up here. All of this went through my mind while he was still greeting us, and then as Thetis started to speak and introduce us I thought that there were ways he was more like an alien, and maybe that was a useful way to think about him. He spoke Greek; well, so did the Saeli, that didn’t mean they really understood us. He was a Greek-speaking visitor from another culture, like they were.

  “Joy to you,” Thetis said. “I am Thetis of the Hall of Florentia and the Tribe of Apollo, Iron of the Just City. This is Jason, Silver of the Just City. And you, no doubt, are Hermes the son of Zeus?”

  “The tribe of Apollo?” Hermes echoed, smiling. “Is there a tribe of Hermes too? Or does that mean you’re one of my brother’s descendants?”

  “Yes, Pytheas was my step-grandfather,” Thetis said, calm and self-possessed. “I suppose that makes you my step-granduncle. No, step-half-granduncle. This could get confusing.”

  “Don’t call me step-granduncle, it makes me seem so much older than you!”

  “When in fact you’re thousands of years older than me?” Thetis countered. He looked younger than either of us, barely more than an ephebe, perhaps twenty.

  “And yes, you have a tribe too, and I belong to it,” I said, as boldly as I could. This was not the way I had imagined interacting with my patron god.

  “Charming, delightful,” Hermes said, smiling and looking around at Thessaly and the other nearby sleeping houses with appreciation. He patted the trunk of an olive tree affectionately. “What a lovely place.”

  6

  MARSILIA

  Thessaly was packed. I’d never seen it so full of people. The noise was ear-splitting. Over the roar of conversation I could hear Alkippe and the other little ones shouting as they chased each other in the garden. Pytheas wasn’t immediately visible, so I assumed he wasn’t there. All my uncles were, and Arete, along with most of Grandfather’s close friends, all my cousins, and what felt like half the city. It seemed as if all my relations and everyone who knew Pytheas and hadn’t needed to be in Chamber had squeezed themselves in here. Thessaly was a standard-size sleeping house, and there really wasn’t room for everyone, even packed so tightly together that there was hardly room to move. Ma and Uncle Fabius were mixing wine in one corner and some of my cousins were passing it around. There were so many people that even though I was looking around to see whether Grandfather was attending his own wake, it took me a moment to notice the naked man talking to Thetis.

  He was young, and he was gorgeous, and even in profile across the room I recognized him instantly. He didn’t seem to have aged a day in the eight years since I’d seen him. Of course, he had been naked then too, which might have helped. “Poimandros,” I said. He looked up as I said it, even though he could hardly have heard me across the room. His eyes met mine with absolutely no sign of recognition.

  I know I’m not Thetis. I’m used to that. By most measures I’m better than she is. I’m a Gold. I had chaired a meeting that day which made decisions about the future of the planet, the future of humanity. I can haul a net of fish unaided over the side of the boat. It shouldn’t matter that nobody’s eyes linger longingly when they look at me. But it stung a little when Jason looked at her that way, and at me as if I’m a good comrade. I try not to feel it, or if I do feel it then not to act on it or let anyone know how I feel. But even though Poimandros was standing next to Thetis, I would expect a man who’d been married to me at festival to at least remember having seen me before!

  My uncle Porphyry had noticed us come in and was pushing his way through the crowd towards us, two cups of wine in each of his big hands. “Do you know him?” Dad asked me, sounding much more surprised than I’d have expected.

  “His name is Poimandros, I think he’s from Psyche. I only met him once. He’s Alkippe’s father,” I answered, looking back at them. Poimandros had turned back to Thee. Jason was on her other side, she was smiling teasingly, flirting with both of them at the same time. I tried to smooth out my brow and look serenely at Dad.

  I always volunteer for the Festival of Hera. Plato was in favor, so if you want to stand for civic office, it’s a good idea to do it. Besides, it’s a great opportunity to enjoy uncomplicated sex. There are two little festivals every year and one big one, at the end of summer, when people come here from all the cities. Long ago, when there was only one city and the Masters were in charge, participation was compulsory and the Masters cheated to get what they thought would be the best children. Plato says that’s what they should do, though how he, or anyone, imagined they could tell what the children would be like I don’t know. That ended at the Last Debate, and resulted in Dad’s generation, which was followed by a decade or so when they didn’t have any Festivals of Hera here at all, though they kept on with them in Athenia and Psyche. Then they started them up again, on a voluntary basis, and with the lots chosen truly at random, though still always within the same metal. I’ve been volunteering since I was seventeen and wildly curious.

  Being drawn together at a Festival of Hera left people with no obligation to each other afterwards. The marriage was strictly time-bound, until the participants left the room. By Plato’s original rules, that was supposed to be the end of it—indeed, what Poimandros had done, in never seeking me out again, and even ignoring the half-besotted note I’d sent him (at Thee’s urging) was precisely in accord with the Republic as Plato wrote it. But in present-day practice, if the people had got on well, which we had, a marriage at festival often develops into a friendship or a love affair, occasionally even a long-term marriage. Marriages that began that way were considered to be lucky. All my other such pairings were now friends, or friendly acquaintances. In any case, looking straight through me as if he’d never seen me before was well beyond what Plato had written, never mind custom. By any interpretation, that was rude. Though it had been eight years; perhaps he really had completely forgotten me.

  Porphyry reached us and gave winecups to me and Dad and Aroo. Dad swallowed down a
great gulp of his right away. “Gods!”

  Porphyry laughed. “He didn’t get here until well after Father was dead,” he said. “He told me explicitly that he didn’t come as a psychopomp, and seemed surprised at the idea. And while he seems intrigued by everyone and everything, he has been paying a great deal of attention to your Thetis. He’s very strange, not how I would have imagined Hermes at all. What do you think?”

  Hermes. Was he? Of course he must be. It wasn’t really warm enough for anyone human to be comfortable naked. I felt icy cold inside and out. Though I suppose it did explain both why the sex had been so wonderful and how he could have forgotten. If he was a god, probably it was always like that for him. I wished I hadn’t revealed what I’d admitted to Dad.

  I had often heard the story from Grandfather of how, when my grandmother Simmea discovered that he was the god Apollo, she had said, “Then that’s why you’re so awful at being a human being.” For the first time, I understood it.

  I took a sip of my own wine. It was watered three to one, which was correct for a funeral, of course, but at that moment I could have done with something stronger.

  “Why do you think he came now, and not before?” Dad asked. “The Olympians must know we’re here. Zeus put us here. And we’re worshipping them. Some of that must get through. But none of them have ever come before.”

  “Except Athene,” I said, knowing Dad would know what I meant and that Porphyry and Aroo would think I was talking about the Relocation.

  “Excuse me, do you believe gla to be one of your Olympian gods?” Aroo asked. (“Gla” was the special Saeli pronoun for divinity. I knew it because of the negotiations about temples. I’d never heard it in normal conversation before. The Saeli didn’t generally use it for Pytheas and his children.)

  “Yes, that’s Hermes,” Dad replied.