Kebes was bound to the pole, where he had wanted to bind Father. It seemed as if people had been falling everywhere, but in fact we learned later there were only nineteen dead from Excellence, and fourteen from Lucia.

As the last man surrendered, Erinna and I grinned at each other. Then an instant later I realized that one of the bodies at our feet was Ficino. His hat had fallen off and was lying on the sand. I knelt beside him and Erinna knelt at his other side. He had taken a sword thrust and was bleeding but still alive. “Amazons,” he said, trying to smile. “Trojan heroes couldn’t have done better. Don’t grieve for me, my dears. I’ve had a wonderful life, and what a way to die, at ninety-nine, fighting to defend arete.”

“We’ll get you home to Florentia, and you’ll live another ninety-nine years and fight plenty more battles for Plato yet,” Erinna said, but there were tears in her eyes.

“Phaedrus!” I called, as loudly as I could. “Ficino needs you!” Phaedrus could heal him, mend whatever was wrong. Phaedrus came down the stairs running, but Father heard too, and he was nearer and got there first. Father bent over, and Ficino saw him.

“Apollo!” he said, surprised. For a moment I couldn’t tell if he was swearing or recognizing Father. “Of course!” He sounded the way he did when I made a really conclusive point in debate. Then he laughed delightedly, and coughed up a bubble of blood. A flood of bright red blood followed it, bursting out of his mouth and taking his life with it. By the time Phaedrus reached us he was gone, leaving nothing but blood on the sand, and his battered old hat beside it.

Phaedrus wiped his eyes, and turned to Aristomache, who was clutching her arm. “Are you a doctor? I think it’s broken,” she said to him.

He set his hand on it. “Just a bad bruise, I think,” he said. “But let me strap it for you.”

“Aristomache, now that the riot seems to have died down, I want you to speak to Kebes,” Father said, as Phaedrus was finishing.

“Good heavens, is he still alive?” she asked.

Father gestured to the pole, where Kebes was writhing against the iron rings, where Father had bound his wrists and ankles. Aristomache took a step toward it. Auge came down the stairs and onto the stage. “You, Timon!” she roared, pointing at a man in the crowd. “You’re a king this year, and you weren’t fighting. Come here.”

The man came forward. The crowd hushed. “If you’re a doctor, go around to the left. If you’re wounded, go there where the doctors are. If not, sit down,” Timon said, firmly, taking charge. People obeyed him. Phaedrus went over to the left where some other people were gathering. He started helping the wounded.