Read Online Killer of Men by Christian Cameron - Free Book Online Page B

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. We are merely his friends.’
    The red-haired god smiled. ‘Is that wine I see?’ he asked. ‘I’d be happy to pay for a cup.’
    None of my family was there. I stepped forward. ‘No guest of this house should pay for his wine,’ I said in the voice of a boy. ‘Pardon, lord. Skira, a cup and good wine for our guest.’
    Skira scampered off, and the red-haired man followed her with his eyes. Then he looked at me. ‘You are a courteous lad,’ he said.
    Boys don’t talk back to lords. I blushed and was silent until Skira came back with a fine bronze cup and wine. I poured for the man, and he cast much the same look over the cup as he did over Skira.
    He drank in silence, sharing with his man. Some of the loafers began to talk again, but they were subdued in his presence, until he slapped the wagon. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Nice and big. Well made.’
    ‘Thanks,’ Draco said. ‘I made him.’
    ‘How much for the wagon?’ the man said.
    ‘Already sold,’ Draco answered in the voice of a peasant who knows that he’s just lost the chance of a lifetime.
    ‘So build me another,’ the man said. ‘What did you charge for this one?’
    ‘Thirty drachmas,’ Draco said.
    ‘Meaning you charged fifteen, doubled it for my gold-hilt sword, and you’ll be happy to make me two wagons like this for forty.’ The man