Then in the Sixtieth Year of the City, in the consulship of Baukis and Xenocrates, Maia had a stroke which left her half-paralyzed, unable to speak, and drooling. She had collapsed in the little garden outside her house, and nobody tried to move her. It was summer, but before I arrived someone had brought her winter kiton, embroidered with books and copies of Botticelli’s flowers, and put it over her where she lay. Pytheas’s son Phaedrus came, as he always did in cases where human doctors could do nothing. He took Maia’s hand, and shook his head. “She’s in there, but there’s no healing this,” he said. Neleus was there too, bending over her, wearing Ficino’s old red hat.

She grunted, harsh animal sounds, “Uhrr, utt, ay.”

I understood her, and went off to find Arete, in case she was calling for her and not merely restating a Platonic principle. Either would have been very characteristic for Maia.

Arete was in Thessaly. She flew off as soon as she heard, and Pytheas rode along in the webbing on my back. When we got back to Maia’s house, Arete was engaged in a conversation where Maia uttered one painful-seeming syllable and Arete filled in the rest. She and Neleus were crouched at Maia’s side, both in tears, though Maia was not.

“You were consul three times,” Arete said.

“What more could any classicist want?” Pytheas asked, dropping down and taking her free hand. “You have done good work in this life, and your soul will be certainly reborn as a philosopher.”

Maia’s face distorted into a horrible grimace, and after a moment I realized that she was trying to smile. “Hhhh—” she said.

“Yes, Neleus will mix you the hemlock,” Arete said. Pytheas had insisted that I bring it from Thessaly. I gave the bundle of leaves to Neleus, and he took it. He stepped inside the house, and I could watch through the doorway as he crushed it fiercely into a cup and then poured in wine recklessly, as if he couldn’t see what he was doing. He came back out, and Arete took the cup from his trembling hand and held it to Maia’s lips. Then Pytheas stroked her throat, helping her to swallow. When Arete took the cup away, Maia grunted.

“No, I can’t promise we won’t mourn for you. Yes, we’ll remember you, and so will all your pupils. Your legacy will live on,” Arete said.

“Joy to you, Maia,” I said. “I’m not done talking with you, but go on to a good life.”

There are no messages to give the dying to carry to the dead, or comfort or wisdom to take into new lives, for all souls must forget as they go through Lethe. I wished I could weep, in case the process gave some relief.

“Chh—” she said.