“My work is in the pottery, lady—the pottery there below the hill toward Kirrha.” He showed her his hands marred with the clay. “It is I who make the best pictures on the pots.”
“I like those pictures,” spoke Theria. “They are beautiful, those gods and men that you make.”
Tears ran straight down the man’s dirty cheeks. Praise was rare for a slave.
“Do you think so?” he queried. “Do you think so, my lady?”
Theria did not answer. She was thinking.
“My father, now. If you could bring your money to my father, each drachma as you earn it.”
“Do you mean me to begin all over again, my lady? Then I will. If only my master does not take me away from the pottery. He wants me for a body servant. He is always threatening to take me for a body servant!”
“But to be a body servant is easier,” said Theria. Privately she was wondering what sort of a body servant this uncouth man would make.
“I hate to be a body servant,” he said loathingly. “Besides, I would not then know where to turn to earn extra money.”