I went into the cave. It was dim after the bright sunlight outside, and I had to wait for my eyes to adjust. At first I couldn’t see anything but the rippled volcanic rock, but then I noticed a shelf, just above my head. On it was a bundle wrapped in cloth. I pulled it down and unwrapped it. There was the serene and perfect stone face of Victory gazing up at me. What a stupid thing to die for, I thought, hating it. What a feeble recompense for all the years Simmea might have lived. And yet, how beautiful it was, even in this dimness. A masterpiece.

I wiped my eyes, tucked the head under my arm, and flew out of the cave. I circled the cove—I saw Ikaros’s head move to watch me, and I settled to the sand again next to them. Ikaros took the head and ran his fingers gently over the contours of the face. He had tears in his eyes. He didn’t even try to look at it. “Take it,” he said. “Fly back to the Remnant with it. I’ll come to the conference, and see you and it there.”

“I’ll help you back to the city,” Porphyry said to Ikaros.

I took the head and flew up again. I had no intention of flying all the way home with the head, but I circled over Ikaros and Porphyry’s heads and set off southward. I came down in the woods near the City of Amazons and walked in with the head carefully covered up. I took it to the Excellence, where I stowed it safely in my hammock.

Then I went to find Father. “Porphyry wants to go to Delos when you go,” I said. “And I have the head of Victory, for what it’s worth.”

29. Maia

29

MAIA

We held the conference in the Chamber. The Chamber was the oldest building in the City. I could remember when it was the only building and all the Masters slept in it, uncomfortable and excited on the marble floor. I’d been in it thousands of times since then, and usually I took the steps and went through the pillared portico without thinking of anything but the day’s business. The day the conference began, I walked in with Axiothea and remembered that early excitement, and my young bones that didn’t ache. We had been among the youngest of the Masters, and now most of the older ones were dead, of time and attrition, or in Ficino’s case a sword through the ribs. Once I had looked forward to a time when the older Masters would be gone and we younger ones could make decisions. But then I had imagined the Republic growing stronger and more secure every year. I had believed the Children would become philosopher kings. I was older now. I didn’t know whether I was wiser.