“No, I think the idea of beating me that way must have been irresistible. He very nearly won,” Pytheas said. “He had a new instrument, and a really good song, though as it turned out not an original composition, a song from the twentieth century. We don’t know where he found either of them, he wouldn’t say.”

“I’m surprised he cheated in a contest. That’s not like him—though maybe he made himself feel that the song belonged to him and was therefore his. He was always deceiving himself that way. But for you to do that—” Sokrates shook his head. “I wish I could still believe the gods knew what they were doing.”

“You know what I am,” Pytheas said. “You know we’re not perfect.” He glanced at Ikaros as he said this, and Ikaros smiled back ruefully. “Kebes was never my friend, and he’d hurt Simmea. He deceived himself and deceived others and made everything worse. I have learned from it. I learned the futility of revenge, and about what things are worth fighting for. I wrote a song.”

“By the dog!” Sokrates said. “I’d prefer it if one of my friends didn’t have to die horribly so that another one can learn from it, even if the other one is you!”

“You’re not being fair. Kebes cheated twice,” Thetis put in, indignantly. “As well as plagiarizing, so that Pytheas had to turn his lyre upside-down to win, he arranged a treacherous attack on the ship and the crew, after they’d been given guest-friendship. People were killed.”

“It’s all right, Thee, I hold myself to higher standards too,” Pytheas said. Thetis shook her head.

“I saw him this morning. He was so eager for me to defeat Athene.” Sokrates shook his head. Then he looked at Thetis, who was wiping her eyes on the corner of her kiton. “You’re Simmea’s daughter?”

“Her granddaughter,” Thetis said. “My father is Neleus.”

“I’m glad she has descendants,” Sokrates said.

“She has lots of descendants,” Pytheas said.

“Also she wrote dialogues, which I and many people have read, and there are statues of her,” Hilfa put in.

“When did all this happen?” Sokrates asked.

“About forty years ago,” Thetis said.

“Forty years?” Ikaros echoed, sounding surprised. “So it’s been sixty years here since the Last Debate?”

“The Last Debate?” Sokrates asked, frowning.

“That’s what we call the time when Athene turned you into a fly,” Thetis explained. “We didn’t really stop debating after that.”

“No, good, I’m very glad you didn’t,” Sokrates said. “So everyone I knew here is dead, apart from you two?” He indicated Pytheas and Ikaros. “All my friends? Manlius and Aristomache and Klio and Ficino?”

“All the Masters are dead, and most of the Children too,” Pytheas confirmed.