Michael: What if the road to utopia was paved with… child slavery? Kevin: Wait, what? That’s a dark start, Michael. Michael: It’s a dark question, and it’s at the heart of the book we’re diving into today. We're talking about a novel that asks a terrifying question: can you build a 'Just City' using the most unjust means imaginable? And what happens when the gods in charge are just as flawed as we are? Kevin: Okay, I’m hooked. That sounds like a recipe for some serious philosophical drama. What is this book? Michael: This is The Just City by Jo Walton. And what's incredible is that Walton, who's a celebrated Hugo and Nebula award-winning author, has said this was her 'first idea'—something she's been thinking about since she was fifteen, right after she first read Plato. Kevin: Fifteen! That’s some heavy reading for a teenager. Okay, so for those of us who maybe didn't read Plato at fifteen, give me the quick-and-dirty on Plato's Republic. What’s the core idea we need to know? Michael: The super-simplified version is that Plato envisioned a perfect city ruled by wise philosopher-kings. Society is divided into classes based on aptitude—gold, silver, bronze—and everything, including property and even children, is held in common to prevent corruption and promote justice. Kevin: Right, communal living on an epic scale. Sounds… complicated. Michael: Exactly. But Walton's genius is that she doesn't just talk about the theory. She throws us right into the brutal, messy reality of building it. And that starts with how they decided to populate this perfect city. It starts with the children.

Kevin: Okay, so how do you get ten thousand children for your brand-new utopia? You can't just put out an ad. Michael: You can't. So the goddess Athene, who is orchestrating this whole experiment, gathers a few hundred philosophers from across history. And they have a debate. Their solution? They use their ability to travel through time to visit slave markets across the ancient world and buy children. Kevin: Hold on. The good guys, the philosophers building a 'Just City,' are actively participating in the slave trade? Michael: That's the gut punch the book delivers right away. We see it through the eyes of an eleven-year-old girl named Lucia. One day she's in her farming village, the next, pirates attack. Her father and brothers are killed, her mother is dragged away, and she's thrown onto a slave ship. She endures weeks of horror before being brought, naked and chained, to a market in Smyrna. Kevin: This is horrifying. I can't imagine the trauma. Michael: It's brutal. And then, these strange, well-dressed men arrive. They're the 'masters' from the Just City. One of them, a Renaissance philosopher named Ficino, tests her intelligence with math problems and then buys her. He puts her on a ship called 'Goodness,' and his first instruction is, "Forget your old names, as you should forget your childhoods and your time in misery. You are all brothers and sisters here, all reborn to new lives." Kevin: That is so chilling. That's not a rescue, that's an erasure. They’re not saving Lucia; they’re reprogramming her into someone named Simmea. Michael: And the book doesn't shy away from that. The masters, in their own minds, are acting ethically. They held a vote on it. They rationalized that they were saving these children from worse fates and giving them an education to become their 'best selves.' They believed these kids were 'blank slates' they could mold into perfect citizens. Kevin: But they're not blank slates! They're traumatized kids. And by buying them, aren't they just creating more demand for slavers to go out and raid more villages? Michael: That's the exact point one of the masters, Adeimantas, makes during their debate! He asks, "Won’t that really be creating a demand?" But his concern is voted down. The need to populate the city overrides the ethical compromise. And you're right, the kids are not blank slates. The boy chained next to Simmea, who gets renamed Kebes, immediately vows revenge. He tells her, "They think they bought me, think they changed my name, but nobody can buy me or change me against my will." Kevin: Wow. So from day one, the seeds of rebellion are already sown. The 'Just City' has an insurgency problem before the first building is even finished. Michael: Precisely. This original sin, this foundational injustice, hangs over the entire experiment. The city is built on a paradox: a noble dream founded on a nightmare. And it sets the stage for every conflict that follows.

Kevin: That's already so much to chew on. The idea of building a utopia on such a morally gray foundation is fascinating. Where does it go from there? Michael: Well, what's so brilliant about this book is that it's not just the humans who are flawed and struggling with these ideas. The gods are a complete mess, too. Which brings us to the most fascinating character arc in the whole story: Apollo. Kevin: The god Apollo? The sun god, poetry, all that? What's he doing in this city? Michael: He decides to become one of the children. He incarnates as a mortal boy named Pytheas to learn a lesson. And the reason why is just incredible. The book opens with him, as a god, completely baffled by a past event. He was pursuing a nymph named Daphne, who was terrified of him. To escape, she prayed to be transformed and was turned into a laurel tree right as he was about to grab her. Kevin: Right, the classic myth. Michael: But here's the twist. Apollo is genuinely confused. He saw it as a 'game.' He couldn't understand why she would choose to become a tree rather than be with him. He goes to his sister, Athene, the goddess of wisdom, for an explanation. And she introduces him to two concepts he, a god of immense power, has never truly considered: 'consensuality' and 'volition.' Kevin: You're kidding. A god has to be taught the concept of consent? Michael: Exactly. Athene explains that Daphne's choice not to be with him had 'equal significance' to his desire for her. This completely blows Apollo's mind. He realizes that as a god, he can't truly understand these things. So he decides to become mortal, to live a life where his desires aren't automatically fulfilled, where he has to experience vulnerability and consider the choices of others. Kevin: Wow. So a god literally has to become human to understand that 'no means no.' That is such a powerful statement. And it ties back to the children, doesn't it? The masters think they're doing good, but they're ignoring the kids' volition, just like Apollo ignored Daphne's. Michael: It's the central theme. The entire book is an education in empathy. And it gets even more complicated because the headmistress of this whole school, Athene, isn't perfect either. She's the goddess of wisdom, but she's also incredibly proud and, at times, deeply petty. Kevin: So the goddess of wisdom can be spiteful? I love that. It makes the gods feel so much more real and dangerous. It also reminds me of some of the criticism the book has gotten. Some readers have felt its take on relationships and sexuality is a bit strange, but maybe that's the point? These gods and philosophers, for all their intellect, have a terrible understanding of human connection. Michael: I think that's exactly the point. For example, later in the book, Athene gets angry with Simmea—the girl from the slave market—and as revenge, she manipulates the city's 'marriage lottery' to pair Simmea with Kebes, the boy who hates the masters and has a history of being aggressive. It's an act of pure spite from the goddess of reason. Kevin: That's incredible. So the whole system is corrupt from the top down. The foundation is unjust, and the divine leadership is flawed and vindictive. Michael: And that is why the arrival of Sokrates is like dropping a philosophical bomb right into the middle of the city. Athene brings the historical Sokrates there to teach, thinking he'll validate her project. But he does the opposite. He immediately starts questioning everything. He challenges the 'Noble Lie' that the masters tell the children. He questions the lack of choice. He even challenges Athene's own justice to her face in a public debate. Kevin: Oh, I would pay to see that. Sokrates versus a goddess. Michael: It's the climax of the book. He systematically dismantles the entire premise of the city, pointing out every hypocrisy and injustice.

Michael: So you have this city, founded on a moral compromise, run by a petty goddess of wisdom and a god who's taking a crash course in basic empathy, and it's populated by traumatized children. It's a recipe for disaster. Kevin: And it does collapse, right? From what you're saying, Athene basically throws a tantrum and leaves. Michael: She does. After Sokrates publicly exposes the flaws in her grand experiment, she can't handle it. In a fit of pique, she transforms Sokrates into a literal gadfly, takes most of the city's helper-robots, and just vanishes. The city immediately descends into chaos. Kevin: So the whole utopian dream just falls apart. Is that the end? Is the message just that utopia is impossible? Michael: Not quite. The book's final message isn't one of total despair. Apollo's final reflection, as he holds the gadfly-Sokrates and watches the city crumble, is what really sticks with you. Kevin: What's that? Michael: He thinks about the famous inscription at his own temple in Delphi: 'Know Thyself.' After this grand, failed experiment to build the perfect external city, the ultimate lesson is about building the 'just self.' It's about self-examination, recognizing the equal significance of others, and constantly striving for personal excellence. The project failed, but the learning was the point. Kevin: That's a beautiful takeaway. So the utopia fails, but the individuals can still succeed in their own philosophical journey. It brings it all back to the personal level. I’m curious what our listeners think—could a 'Just City' ever truly be just? Or is the pursuit of a 'just self' the only real path forward? Let us know your thoughts on our socials. Michael: A question Plato and Jo Walton would both appreciate. This is Aibrary, signing off.