Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [61]
Artaphernes was in the house when I was brought from the farm. I had driven the chariot and I was flushed with Master’s praise – he said Scyles was surely wrong, as I’d scarcely bumped him once in driving up the mountain. Now, this was certainly a bit of foolishness, but flattery was like water to a drowning man when I was a slave. When did you last praise a slave, honey?
Exactly.
The Persian was in the courtyard when I came in. I was dressed in a short wool kilt – like a charioteer. He was wearing trousers and a coat made of embroidered wool and he was reading from a scroll. Master was behind me, giving instructions to another slave, and I was alone, so I bowed and remained silent. I had never seen a Persian before.
The Persian returned my bow. And my silence. After a pause where our eyes met, he went back to reading his scroll.
Master came, and the two embraced.
‘Sorry to be absent for your arrival, my lord.’ Hipponax grinned. ‘You are reading my latest!’
‘Why do you do yourself so little justice?’ the Persian asked. He had very little accent – just enough to add a tinge of the exotic to his voice. ‘You are the greatest living poet, in Greek or Persian. Why do you seek praise in this manner?’
Hipponax shrugged. ‘I am never sure,’ he said.
The Persian shook his head. ‘It is this unsureness that makes you Greeks so different. And perhaps makes your poetry so strong.’ He nodded at me. ‘This young gentleman has perfect manners.’
Hipponax flashed me a smile. ‘He is to be my son’s companion. Your praise pleases me. He is a slave.’
The Persian looked at me. ‘We are all slaves, under the king. But this one has dignity. He will be good for your son.’ He shrugged. ‘I had no idea he was a slave.’
As far as I was concerned, Artaphernes could do no wrong.
Then Master took me into the house and brought me to his son. Archilogos was in the back garden, shooting arrows at a target. He had a Persian bow, and the lawn was decorated with arrows.
‘You’ll have to do better than that if you want to be a Persian,’ his father said. I thought that he was not particularly happy to find his son shooting.
Archilogos threw the bow on the ground in anger. Then he looked at me. ‘What’s he for?’ the boy asked. He was a boy to me. I was a grown man, as far as I was concerned.
‘Your mother and I have chosen him to be your companion.’ Master nodded. ‘I give him to you. We call him Doru, but you may ask him his name. He is Greek. He can read and write.’
Archilogos looked at me for a long time. Finally he shrugged. ‘I can read and write,’ he said. ‘Can you shoot a bow?’
‘Yes,’ I said. Ignoring both of them, I picked up his bow. It was heavier than any I’d shot, but I had all kinds of new muscles. I raised the bow, drew and shot, all in one motion as Calchas had taught me, and my arrow flew true and struck the target – not in the centre, but squarely enough.
Archilogos went and hugged his father.
Who winked at me.
I thought that they were the happiest family I had ever seen. Their happiness helped to keep me a slave when I could have run. They seemed so happy that most of their slaves were happy too. It was a good house, until the disaster came and the fates ordained that they be brought low. I loved them.
That first night, we watched the Persian shoot. He had his own bow, lacquered red and stringed in something beautiful, and he shot arrow after arrow into the target without apparent effort. I had never seen an archer so deadly.
Mistress lay on a kline at the edge of the garden, watching. She shared the kline with Master, and we heard their conversation and their commentary as we shot. The Persian watched them from time to time, and I could see that, whatever his friendship for Hipponax, he found her very much to his taste.
I shot adequately. Artaphernes coached my new master and he shot well enough, and then the Persian ordered one of his troopers, one of the Persian cavalrymen in his escort, to come up and shoot. The man had been down in the lower city, probably up to no good, but