Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [23]
He pulled it from my hand, threw it across the forge and burst into tears. And we embraced, and swore to swap when Pater and Calchas wouldn’t know. It wasn’t an oath either of us meant – we knew we’d never fool an adult – and yet it seemed to comfort us, and I’ve long wondered about which god listened to that oath.
There were changes. Mater was better – that was obvious. The house was clean, the maids were singing and my sister smiled all the time. We had a new slave family – a young man, a Thracian, and his slave wife and their new baby. He didn’t speak much Greek, and Bion didn’t like him, and the man had a big bruise on his face where someone had knocked him down hard. His wife was pretty, and men in the forge yard watched her when she served them wine. Not that Pater allowed anything to happen. That’s where you really betray your slaves, thugater. But I get ahead of myself.
The talk in the forge yard was louder than when I’d left, even two months before, and it was cold outside, so there was a fire in the pit. Skira – the Thracian’s wife – served wine with good grace, and her husband worked the bellows while Bion made a pot. The men in the yard talked about Thebes and plans for the coming Daidala. It was just three years away. Pater was suddenly an important man.
We had a donkey. We’d never had a donkey before, and Pater said he’d send Hermogenes with the donkey to carry the wine for me. That sounded good.
But the donkey and the wine and Hermogenes took time to prepare, and it became clear that I wasn’t going back to Calchas on the second day, either. Which was fine by me. The ‘loafers’ were all gathered. Draco had built Epictetus a new wagon, and had it standing by the gate ready for delivery. It was even taller, broader and heavier, the wheels just narrow enough to fit in the ruts of the road. We were all admiring it when a stranger turned into our lane from the main road. He was riding a horse, as was his companion.
I think, honey, because you know a world where every man of substance has a horse, that I have to stop here and say that though I’d seen horses by the age of eight, I’d never touched one. No one I knew had a horse. Horses were for aristocrats. Farmers used oxen. A rich farmer might have a donkey. Horses did nothing but carry men, and farmers had legs. I don’t think ten families in Plataea owned a horse, and there were two of them coming up our lane.
They had cloaks and boots, both of them. They were clearly master and man – the master had a chlamys of Tyrian red with a white stripe, and a chiton to match, milk white with a red stripe at the hem. He had red hair like my brother but even brighter, and a big beard like a priest. He wore a sword that you could see, even at the distance of a horse’s length, was mounted in gold.
All conversation stopped.
Listen, thugater. In the Boeotia of my youth, we bitched quite a lot about aristocrats. Men knew that there were aristocrats – we had our own basileus, after all, although he didn’t have a gold-mounted sword, I can tell you. And local men knew that Mater was the daughter of a basileus. But this was the genuine article. Frankly, he looked more like a god than most statues I’d seen. He was the tallest man there by more than a finger’s breadth. And I knew nothing of horses, but his big bay looked like a creature out of story.
I still think of that man. I can see him in my mind’s eye. I’ll tell you a truth – I worshipped him. I still do. Even now, I try to be him when I’m ‘lording it’ over some court case or petty tyrant.
Even his servant looked better than we did – in a fine chlamys of dark blue wool with a stripe of red and a white chiton. He didn’t have a sword, but he had a leather satchel under his arm and his horse was as noble as his master’s.
And yet, this god among men slipped from his horse’s back and bowed. ‘I seek the house of the bronze-smith of Plataea,’ he said politely. ‘Can any of you gentlemen help me?’
Myron bowed deeply. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘Chalkeotechnes the smith is working.