“Time is so vast—they probably wouldn’t anyway,” he said. But as he stared up at the stars he began to weep again. We walked on in silence.

“I had not meant this grief to unman me so,” he said quietly, when we were getting close to Thessaly.

“It might be better on the ship. Here everything reminds us of her,” I said.

“The boys are right. They are men, and heroes, and they have to act as they think best. I can’t keep them children, or keep them safe.”

“I’m going,” I said, guessing where this conversation might be going. “The Chamber have approved me. I’m going!”

“Arete,” he said, then stopped and began again in a different tone. “And you have to decide for yourself too. Equal significance means letting people make their own choices. But it’s so difficult! Do you think she wanted me to learn this and that’s why she stopped me?”

“It’s possible,” I said. And then I dared to say what I’d been thinking for a long time now. “She would want you to command your grief with philosophy.”

“I know,” he said, bleakly. “Oh yes, I do know that. I shouldn’t be sad and I shouldn’t indulge my grief. She is gone on to a better life. I should remember her and love the world for her. I know all that. I really do know it. But knowing it doesn’t actually help at all when I want to talk to her so much my whole body aches.”

“I know,” I said. “I miss her every day.”

“I wish I understood why she wouldn’t let me heal her. It might all make more sense if I could understand that.”

“I don’t know,” I said. I shivered.

“Come on, we should go in and tell the boys they can ask the Chamber if they can go on the voyage.” He was trying to sound cheerful. “And we can have more wine. Arete—do you think revenge will actually help me feel better?”

“No,” I said, surprised into honesty.

7. Apollo

7

APOLLO

“How now shall I sing of you, though you are a worthy subject for song?” That’s from the Homeric hymn to me—the same line is in both Homeric hymns to me actually, the Delphian and the Delian. Mortals find it intimidating to write about me, sometimes. It’s as if they think I’ll be listening over their shoulder. I find myself thinking it writing this, about Simmea and Sokrates, about Ficino and Maia and Pico. How shall I sing of you? I promised Father there would be songs.