We had a swing in the courtyard olive tree. Pater showed me the grooves in the branch that bore it, sunk into the wood the way chariot wheels will cut ruts even in stone. The swing had been on that tree for many lives of men.
It may sound dull to you, dear, but to watch a sunset from a swing on your own land is a very good thing.
It must have been after the festival of Demeter – because all the harvest was in – that Epictetus arrived with his wagons. He had two. No one else we knew had two wagons.
'Well?' he said, when his wagons were in the yard.
Pater and Bion had all the bronze laid out, so that our courtyard looked as if it had been touched by King Midas.
Epictetus walked around, handled everything and finally nodded sharply. He picked up his cup – snatched it up – and then looked at Pater for confirmation that it was, indeed, his.
'Don't get many requests for a plough and oxen,' Pater said.
Epictetus looked at it, then hefted it in his hand.
Bion stepped forward and poured wine into it. 'You have to feel it full,' he said with a smile.
Epictetus poured a libation and drank. 'Good cup,' he said. 'Pay the man, boy,' he said to his son.
'I'd rather have it in bronze, from Athens,' Pater said.
'Less a quarter for cartage?' Epictetus asked.
'Less an eighth for cartage,' Pater said.
Epictetus nodded, and they both spat on their hands and shook, and the thing was done. Then the hired men loaded all the work of a summer and the big wagons rolled away down the hill.
I was old enough to know that all of Pater's stock of bronze was rolling away in those carts. He had nothing left but scraps to make repairs. If robbers took Epictetus on the roads, we were finished. I knew it.
And I felt it over the next weeks. Pater was a fair man, but when he was dark, he hit us, and those weeks were dark. One afternoon he even hit Bion – savagely. And I dropped a fine bowl and he beat me with a stick. He beat my brother when he caught him watching the girls bathe, and he raged at us every day.
Mater was sober. It has an odd sound to it, but it was as if she knew she was needed. So she stopped drinking and did housework. She read aloud to us every day from a stool by her loom, and she was very much like the aristocratic lady she'd been born to be.
I loved her stories. She would tell us the myths of the gods, or sing pieces of the Iliad or other stories, and I would devour them the way my brother devoured meat. But when she was done, and the magic of her voice faded, she was just my dull and drunken mother, and I couldn't like her. So I went back to the fields.
It was in those weeks that I went into Plataea with Bion and pledged the family's credit to an iron knife. Only the gods know what I was thinking – a little boy with an iron knife? Who had a perfectly good bronze one on a thong round his neck? Children are as inscrutable as the gods.
Pater beat me so badly that I thought I might die. I see it now – I had pledged money he didn't have. And we were at the bottom. All our harvest and all our work was off at Athens, or lost on the road. I see it now, but at the time, it hurt me far more than just a beating. I decided that night, tears burning down my face, that he wasn't really my father. No man could treat his son that way.
That was a deeper pain than any blow. I still bear it.
The next day he apologized. In fact, he all but crawled to me, making false jokes and wincing when he touched my bruises, alternating with making light of my injuries. It was a strange performance, and in some way it was as confusing as the heavy beating.
And then he recovered. Whatever daimon was eating his soul, he rose above it. It was three weeks or more after Epictetus had left, and he was a week overdue. Pater came out into the vineyard with us and started building trellises – work he never did – as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn't complain, and he didn't hit anyone, and we worked steadily all day under the high, blue skies of autumn. The grapes were almost ripe and the trellises creaked. Bion and I were both physically wary of him – we had bruises to prove that we had the right – but he passed no reproof harder than a look. My brother fell on a vine and wrecked an hour's work, but Pater merely shook his head and took up his light bronze axe. He went off to the wood to cut more supports, and sent my brother to the river to cut reeds.
It was an autumn day, but hot. Beautiful – you could see the stream glinting, and the line of the Oeroe river down the valley. I sweated through my chiton and stripped it off to work naked, which meant a slap from Mater if she caught me, but she wasn't likely to come out to the vineyard.
Bion had brought a bucket of water from the well. He offered me the first dipper – I was the only free man on the hilltop. But I'd learned some things, even at that age.
'I'll drink last,' I said.
I saw a spark in Bion's eye, and knew I'd hit that correctly.
I remember that, and the beauty of the day, but most of all I remember that Pater came for us. He didn't have to, you see – he was down at the wood, and he'd have seen Epictetus's wagons turn off the road. He might even have seen them three stades away, or farther. And as the master, and the man with so much to lose, it would have been natural for him to take his axe and go down to the yard and leave us to work on the hilltop. But he didn't. He came up the hill, hobbling quickly.
'Come with me,' he said. He was terse, and all of us – even Bion – thought that there might be trouble.
We put our tools down and followed him through the vineyard to the house.
Pater said nothing, so we didn't either. We came into the yard and only then could we see the hillside and hear the wagons in the lane.
I couldn't see my face, but I could see Hermogenes. He flashed his father a smile of utter joy. He said, 'You'll be free!', which meant nothing to me at the time.
Epictetus was driving his own oxen on the wagon. His son was beside him, and he had two of his hired men in the box, but the second wagon was gone – and the smiles must have been wiped from every face in the oikia. Even the women were leaning over the rail of the exhedra.
Epictetus the Younger leaped down and ran to the heads of the oxen, and he flashed Pater a smile – and then we knew.
As old Epictetus got down, he couldn't keep the smile off his own face.
Then the hired men got down, and they threw heavy wool sacks on to the ground. They made a noise – like rock, but thinner – copper, I knew from the sound. And then tin wrapped in leather from far, far to the north.
Epictetus came forward with his thumbs in his girdle. 'It was cheaper to buy copper and tin than to buy ingots of bronze,' he said. 'And I've watched you do it. If you don't like it,' he raised an eyebrow, 'I'll lend you the wagon to get it back.'
'Cyprian ingots,' Pater said. He had the heavy wool bags open. 'By Aphrodite, friend, you must drive a fair bargain if all this copper and tin is mine for twenty drachmas less an eighth for cartage.'
Epictetus shrugged, but he was a happy man – a man who'd done another man an unanswerable favour. 'Fifty drachmas of silver less an eighth cartage,' he said. 'I spent thirty of your profits on new material. It seemed like sense.'
Pater was kneeling in the copper like a boy playing in mud. 'I owe you,' he said.
Epictetus shrugged. 'Time you made some money. You're too good a man to starve. You know how to work, but not how to be rich.' He held out a bag. 'Three hundred and seventy-two silver drachmas after my cartage and all that copper.' He nodded. 'And there's a man coming to see you about a helmet.'
'From Athens?' Pater didn't seem to know what was being said, so he fixed on the idea that the man from Athens was coming. 'Three hundred and seventy drachmas?' he said.
He and Epictetus embraced.
That night, Mater and Pater sang together.
They were a remarkable couple, when sober and friends to each other. You'll never credit this, Thugater, but you'll find it hard enough when you are my age to look back and see your father and mother clearly, and if Apollo withholds his hand and Pluton grants fortune enough that I live to see you with children at your knee – why, then you'll remember me only as an old man with a stick. Eh? But I love to remember them, that day. In later years – when I was far away, a slave – I would think of Pater dressed in his best, a chiton of oiled wool so fine that every muscle in his chest showed, and his neck, like a bull's, and his head – he had a noble head – like a statue of Zeus,
