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 smiled like a fox, and I suddenly knew who he must be. He was Odysseus. He was like Odysseus come to life.
Draco wanted to splutter, but the man was so smooth – and so pleasant – that it was hard to gainsay him. 'As you say, lord,' Draco said.
And then Pater came.
He still had his leather apron on. He came out into the yard, saw the wine in the man's hand and flashed me a rare smile of reward.
'You wanted me, lord?' he asked.
'Do you know Epictetus?'
'I count him a friend,' Pater said.
'He showed me a helmet in Athens. I rode over the mountain to have you make me one.' The man was half a head taller than Pater. 'And greaves.'
Pater's brow furrowed. 'There are better smiths in Athens,' he said.
The man shook his head. 'I don't think so. But I'm here, so unless you don't like the look of me, I'd thank you to start work tomorrow. I have a ship to catch at Corinth.'
'Won't the captain wait for you, lord?' Pater asked.
'I am the captain,' the man said. He grinned. He had the happiest smile I'd seen on a grown man. 'I sent them round from Athens.'
I don't think any of us had ever seen a man rich enough to own a ship before. The man held out his hand to Pater.
'Technes of Plataea,' Pater said.
'Men call me Miltiades,' the lord said.
It was a name we all recognized, even then. The warlord of the Chersonese, his exploits were well known. For us, it was like having Achilles ride through our gate.
'Oh, fame is a fine thing,' he said, and his servant laughed with him while we stood around like the bumpkins we were.
Pater made him a helmet and greaves, right enough. And Miltiades stayed for three days while Pater did the work and chased and repoussed stags and lions on to his order. I saw the helmet often enough in later years, but I didn't get to stay to see it made. I was shipped back to dull old Calchas with the wine.
I did carry with me one gem. That night, my brother and I lay on the floor in the room over the andron and listened to the men talk – Miltiades and Epictetus and Myron and Pater. Miltiades taught them how to have symposia without offending – taught them some poetry, showed them how to mix their wine, and never, ever let on that he was slumming with peasants. It's a fine talent if you have it. Men call it the common touch when they are jealous. There was nothing common with Miltiades. He was, as I said, like a god on earth for the pleasure of his company and the power of his glance. He gave unstintingly of himself and men loved to follow him.
He talked to the men about alliance with Athens. I was eight years old, and I understood immediately that he didn't need a new helmet. He probably had ten helmets hanging from the rafters of his hall in the Chersonese. Mind you, as it turned out, he wore that helmet for the rest of his life – so he liked it. And it always put me in mind of my father, later, and what my father might have been.
Aye, those are tears, little lady. We're coming to the bad part.
But not yet. Aye. Not yet. So we listened as they talked – almost plotted, but not quite. The talk was pretty general and never got down to cases. Miltiades told them how valuable an alliance with Plataea could be to the democrats in Athens, and how much more they had in common. And they listened, spellbound.
And so did I.
Then, late in the evening – I think I'd been asleep – Miltiades was making a point about trade when he stopped and raised his kylix. 'I drink to your son Arimnestos,' Miltiades said. 'A handsome boy with the spirit of a lord. He guested me and sent a slave for wine as if he'd hosted a dozen like me. I doubt that I'd have done half as well at his age.'
Pater laughed and the moment passed, but I would have died for Miltiades then. Of course, I almost did. Later.
And the next day I went back to my priest on the mountain, and it seemed as if all hope of glory was lost.
3
I spent the winter with Calchas. He made me a bow. It wasn't a very good bow, but with it I learned to shoot squirrels and threaten songbirds. And he took me hunting when the winter was far enough along.
I still love to hunt, and I owe it to that man. In fact, he taught me more than Miltiades ever did about how to be a lord. We went up the mountain, rising before the sun and running along the trails through the woods after rabbit or deer. He killed a wolf with his bow, and made me carry the carcass home.