“Keep it,” he said. “It’s no use to me now. Even if you don’t want to read it, you can enjoy all of Jerome’s snarky prefaces, where he calls people who prefer other translations barking dogs.”

“Do you still think Athene’s perfect?” I asked. “Because I find a great deal of comfort in thinking that she isn’t, and that the gods have limited natures and limited reach. Believing that allows for things going wrong and not being part of anybody’s plan.”

“I keep trying to understand,” he said, getting up. “If we became like angels, we would see how perfect she is. Don’t you remember how wonderful she was when she was here?”

“Wonderful, yes, absolutely. But wonderful is not at all the same thing as perfect. Come on, let’s go and eat before the food is all gone. I’ll read to you some more tomorrow if you want. I assume you have plenty of people to take dictation.”

By lunchtime the next day we had a consensus—a two-thirds majority—for helping the Lucians. We weren’t prepared to give them the Excellence, though obviously we’d have to use it. Details remained to be agreed on, especially on religious issues. I set up a number of committees. I pushed Aristomache, Ikaros, Aurelius, Manlius and Pytheas onto the committee on religion, and swore privately never to go near it myself. There was also consensus that any individual Lucians who wanted to return to the Remnant City would be welcome, and any who met the immigration criteria for the other cities would be welcome to apply there. The Lucians offered reciprocal agreements, but I didn’t think many of us would want to emigrate there.

After lunch came the choral ode. Pytheas had written it, and his son Phaedrus was conducting it. It took place out of doors, in the agora, so that as many people as possible could hear it. It was Pytheas’s best work, powerful and moving, especially with the massed voices echoing around the space. The song was about peace. I’d never really considered that peace isn’t just the absence of war but an active positive force. It must be one of Plato’s Forms, I thought.

At the end of the ode, there was a consensus for hearing it again, so we did. This time many people were joining in with the final chorus, making the commitment to fight to defend peace.

We went back into the Chamber in a very different mood. I was preparing to begin on the question of art raids when a messenger came in to the Chamber. It was Sophoniba, a Young One, one of the Florentine troop. “The head of Victory is back,” she said, panting. She had been running.

“Back?” I asked. “What do you mean?”