Sokratea was a strange place. In some ways it was the least Platonic of all the republics, including Lucia’s Christian Platonism. They didn’t have classes, and they didn’t separate out guardians from other people. They wanted to examine life, in the Socratic spirit, and they did that. They believed that Sokrates had been entirely right in the Last Debate. They read Plato, but in no very respectful spirit. They banned Masters from their city, but otherwise they had complete free speech and freedom of publication, and voted on everything, all the time. When Father addressed them he addressed the whole city from the rostrum in the agora—they had no Chamber and no committees.

“Doesn’t public business get unwieldy?” I asked Patroklus, one of the Children whom I’d met the last time I’d been there. He came to our guest house and took us to eat with him in his eating hall, which was called simply “Six.” Their streets too were numbered.

“It does get unwieldy. It takes a lot of time,” he admitted. “But we find it’s worth it.” The food was good; they gave us fish and cabbage and pasta. They had plenty of Young Ones, and lots of Children of course, but because they had refused entry to Masters, no old people at all. Nobody was any older than Father and Patroklus, and that felt strange to me as soon as I’d noticed it.

Father and I sang to their Assembly. I was nervous, even though I knew the harmonies really well by then. I’d never performed to so many strangers—and as Briseis I’d been wearing a mask. Now it was just my naked face. I felt a little sick before we started. But once Father played the first chord the music carried me with it. And it was all true. Peace was worth fighting for, defending, and in some circumstances attacking—to help another city put down a tyrant, for instance.

The people of Sokratea were moved by the music, and by Father’s arguments. They agreed to send envoys to the conference, and, after much spirited and public debate, to send their art. “Not the art we have made here!” one woman insisted.

“Nobody is asking for that,” Father said. “Though some of it is excellent, and if you chose to circulate it I think everyone would be truly impressed by it.”

I stood in the crowd after we’d finished singing, watching the speakers, ready to let Father know if they were lying. Apart from some forgivable hyperbole, they were not.