Patroklus, from Sokratea, suggested that we should give cities votes by population, but aim for consensus—any motion would need a two-thirds majority to pass. (It would be total population, as citizens were too difficult to count, because we all had different criteria for citizenship. Psyche didn’t count women, Athenia didn’t count people under thirty, the Lucians didn’t count bronzes or irons, and none of us counted children.)

There was much debate, and eventually this proposal was accepted, as being the closest thing to fair. I set up a hasty committee to come up with numbers over the lunch break. I fortified myself with soup and grapes in Florentia, while claiming that talking to anyone about the conference would violate my neutrality. “Ficino never said that,” Arete complained.

“Ficino had more practice than I have. I need to clear my head.”

On my way back to the Chamber, Neleus caught up with me. “You’re doing well so far,” he said. “I was terrified when Patroklus suggested me!”

“So was I when your father suggested me!” We smiled at each other. Neleus was one of the brightest of the Young Ones, and he had always been one of my favorite pupils, and one of Ficino’s too. On impulse, I pulled Ficino’s hat out of the fold of my kiton, where I’d been carrying it since Lucia. “I wonder if you’d like this. It’s silly really, it’s old and worn, and—”

“I’d really love it,” Neleus said, tears in his eyes. He reshaped the hat in his hands and jammed it on his head. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.” We walked along quietly together. Then to my surprise, Ikaros came bounding up through the crowd of people heading back into the chamber.

“Ficino! I’m so delighted—No. Sorry.”

Neleus turned to him in astonishment. He didn’t look a thing like Ficino, even in the hat. He was even darker-skinned than Simmea, and much broader-shouldered than Ficino.

“I did know he was dead,” Ikaros said. “But there are others here I knew were dead. I saw the familiar red hat, on a street where I had seen him so often, and for a moment I thought it was him. Sorry, young man.”

“How are your eyes?” I asked, remembering his eyestrain from translating Aquinas the day he apologized to me.

“Maia! You’re doing a wonderful job so far. Could I talk to you this evening after the session?”

He hadn’t known me, and he had thought Neleus was Ficino. And he hadn’t answered my question about his eyes. I realized he must be nearly blind. I felt profoundly sorry for him. “Of course,” I said. “I’ll wait for you on the steps afterward.”