Prologue
ARISTOTLE STUDIED the black and white stones on the checkered Petteia board, wondering if it was a bad idea to beat Plato three times in a row. The man might be the greatest philosopher of all time, but he sure got cranky when he lost at games. And a grumpy Plato was never a good thing.
Trying his best to show a look of deep concentration, Aristotle moved a black stone to a square that opened up an opportunity for his teacher to trap him several turns later.
“Going to let me win, are you?” Plato asked, a stern look of disapproval crinkling his ancient face, half-hidden by a ringlet-filled beard. He leaned back in his chair, stroking that grand bushel of hair hanging from his chin. “Perhaps it’s time for the teacher to become the student, and the student the teacher, when the student must teach the teacher what the teacher ought teach the student.”
Aristotle stared at his master, fighting to keep emotion from his face — fighting the smile that tried to force its way past the whiskers of his own beard. Plato sounded like a philosopher even when he complained about a board game. Several seconds later, after what seemed like a much longer battle of locking eyes, the two men burst into a fit of laughter that would shock anyone else at the stoic Academy of Plato in Athens, Greece. But after twenty years, they had become much more than a pupil and his instructor. They were friends for life.
“I thought I’d at least give you a chance today,” Aristotle said. “A win for you might save a pupil or three from being sent to the kitchens to scrub pots.”
“Ah,” Plato responded, “but it’s there that you make your mistake in the line of logic, my dear student. You should have foreseen that I would spot your plan, which stabs my pride even more than a loss, thereby making for an irascible teacher indeed. You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.”
Aristotle frowned, slightly hurt. “Are you saying that you think less of me, master?”
“Of course not.” Plato stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in his tunic. “I’m only reminding you to be wary when you make decisions against an opponent in Petteia. Wars have turned on less important matters. Come, let us drink wine and observe the setting of the sun.”
“What about . . . ?” Aristotle eyed the board.
“You’ve tainted the challenge,” Plato said. “And learned your lesson. Now, come.”
They made their way to a balcony on the west side of the Academy, its view a breathtaking glimpse of Athens and the sea beyond. The sinking sun painted a splash of orange across the thin clouds in the sky, and a salt-tinged breeze washed across Aristotle. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the taste of life, then sat with his teacher, facing the waning day.
“I want to hear your thoughts on the future,” Plato said as he took a sip of diluted wine. “We spend so much time in these halls and courtyards speaking of the past, analyzing the present. But lately my mind has been heavy with contemplating that which has yet to come. The world is experiencing an explosion of knowledge and growth, but what path does it follow? Is the destination one to be desired?”
Aristotle took his own long gulp of the sweet wine. This seemed a deep subject, even for his teacher, the master of deep subjects — it would be long into the night before this conversation ended.
“Have I stumped you?” Plato prodded.
“No, teacher. I’m only pausing to gather my thoughts before I say something foolish. It is the mark of an educated man to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.”
“Wise words,” Plato responded. “Which is why in my company you can speak as you think, because I will never hold you to your musings. We are here to philosophize, and by accident we may change the very future of which we ponder. Or, likewise, we may spew forth nonsense and go to bed frustrated at the effort. As my teacher, Socrates, said before, ‘I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing.’ ”
Plato grew silent, and Aristotle knew that the man now expected his student to start spilling his thoughts. Which he did, finally feeling free to share the peculiar musings he’d pondered many times in the quiet of his room.
“I often wonder if the world is part of a fabric, master. Metaphorically, of course. We do, after all, imagine the Fates as great weavers. Perhaps time is woven in a pattern, then, and there are threads of events placed in that pattern in some predetermined sequence. And if there is a design to the reality of the universe, does it follow that it’s possible for that reality to be . . . broken? For things to go the way they should not?”
Plato had turned in his chair to look at his pupil, a sense of wonder in his eyes. “Please, do go on. You’ve captured my attention.”
Aristotle knew his teacher was sincere, and he continued with excitement.
“As I study the tomes of our history, a recurring thought always comes to my mind — what if something happened that wasn’t supposed to happen? Or what if something didn’t happen that should have? Is it permanent? Is history permanent? Or can we . . . change it?”
“Change history?” Plato asked. “So much said in so few words. I think you’ve breasted a topic that in truth frightens me, my pupil. Not in a bad way, mind you. But my foundation trembles.”
“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness,” Aristotle said. “And I do believe that the things I’ve pondered about our past and future walk the edge of that madness. But by the same token, it may be the most important notion I’ve ever had.”
Plato nodded slowly, considering. “What is at the crux of this . . . notion?”
“Progress,” Aristotle replied. “Technology. On a scale that is beyond even the furthest reaches of our understanding. What if some day our race advances enough that we could actually manipulate time and —”
A rapid flurry of knocks at the door interrupted his words. Plato, his beard seeming a shade darker somehow, reluctantly ordered whomever it was to step onto the balcony. A young boy — his name was Python of Aenus — popped his head in and apologized.
“I’m sorry, master,” Python said. “But there is a message from King Philip, sent by horse. I thought you would want to see it.”
Plato sighed. “What would Socrates say at a time like this?”
“Be kind,” Aristotle provided, “for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”