“You want me to do what?” Eirik couldn’t believe his ears and stared somewhat baffled at his offspring, whose face showed nothing but naïve excitement about this extraordinary offer. The Northerner’s gaze wandered over to the other three boys, friends of Olaf, who’d all accompanied him out to Rufio’s farm – and now all stared at him expectantly like four little owls lined up on a branch. Three little owls, Eirik corrected himself – Olaf could hardly be called little anymore, even he, Eirik, had to look up to meet his son’s eyes. They were an odd assortment. He knew the taller Greek from sight, the notorious Aristogeiton, or Giton as he had introduced himself and by now everything but notorious as Olaf had assured him. “He’s an actor and is hired by the local theatre now!” His father wasn’t that easily impressed, knowing full well the real status of actors – or musicians for that matter. Only teenagers or incurably naïve patrons could be lured with the aura of the stage or the road. As far as Giton was concerned, Eirik would remain wary.

The other Greek was of an entirely different character, maybe he was the most owl-like of the four youths with his big eyes and his habit to blink very slowly. With an inward smile the Northerner thought it wouldn’t surprise him if the young Greek would suddenly start to hoot softly and fly away as fast as his wings would carry him. Even though the group seemed to be here on his behalf, it was obvious to the Northerner that he’d rather been somewhere else – preferably in the company of the fourth young man, a slender Roman with a determined and business-like expression. Eirik had to hide a smile when he recognised all the signs of hero-worshipping in the Greek’s soulful eyes – not directed at him, for which he was grateful, but at his handsome Roman lover (of that Eirik had no doubt) who seemed to draw a good deal of confidence from this.

Eirik was more than glad that Rufio and Spurius were out, ‘grating on the neighbour’s nerves again’. He could almost see his beloved dissolving in giggles; as well he could almost hear Rufio’s good-natured taunts – telling the boys some stories which they wanted to write down and even sell in a shop! No, he was decidedly glad his friends were not around. So far, business had been good with their neighbour, both sides had profited, and the harvest had been better than any of them had expected, and the newly mended storage shed almost burst – salted olives, pickled olives, olive oil and whatever else Spurius had turned them into. Apples had been piled to fragrant heaps, incredible amounts of grapes (which neither of them could eat anymore without revulsion) had been dried to preserve them, and jars upon jars were now filled with herbs and other things Spurius had gathered. On a small shelf in the back of the shed sat Rufio’s pride: Half a dozen pots with the farm’s first batch of honey. On one of their excursions the freedman had discovered several bee colonies, and their unfailingly helpful neighbour had lent him a slave who’d taught Rufio how to procure the honey and keep the bees properly.

Eirik’s attention snapped back to the ‘four owls’ as he’d secretly dubbed them. “I mean”, he said a little flustered, “I haven’t got anything interesting to tell.” “That’s not true, Papa”, Olaf argued with a dramatic gesture. “Think only of the night you came to see me at Philandros’s, when the sol–” “That”, Eirik interrupted unceremoniously and with a sidelong glance at the others, “would be one of those stories I certainly don’t want to relate.” Olaf looked a little downcast and buried his flushed face in his cup. Eirik sighed inwardly and congratulated himself for having remained silent about the part Felix, Hylas and Idris had played in solving the mystery when breaking the news to his son and Philandros. It wasn’t something any of them had wanted to be spread on the streets. The Northerner gave Olaf a reassuring slap on the shoulder. “Why don’t you tell them your story?” he suggested with an encouraging nod. “After all, I cannot claim that Spurius or I have been abducted, sold into slavery and freed by a generous master-turned-friend. These are the stories people want to read, tales of drama, rescue or sacrifice, not just drab stories about wandering around.”

The young Roman, Titus, spoke up. “I’m sure you have loads of interesting stories to tell”, he urged. “You’ve been in the wilds of the north, have travelled freely were Romans cannot go, or think of how you fled with your companion from his father … people will be interested!” Eirik opened his mouth, closed it again and instead spared his talkative offspring a sourly glance. Was there anything they didn’t already know? “All this fuss… It’s only to save your bookshop, young one?” he asked gruffly, turning towards the pale Greek who meekly nodded and instinctively edged a little closer to his lover, blinking slowly.

Eirik exhaled with a sigh and smiled reassuringly at the birdlike youth. Titus, recognising a weak spot when he saw one, immediately moved in for the kill. “It would be vital to have something to sell that nobody else can offer”, he observed. “And consider this”, Giton chimed in, adding a seductive, albeit theatrical note to his voice, “your name will become famous.” Eirik stared back at him, barely able to conceal his distaste, wondering even more what his son – or Philandros, for that matter – saw in him. Much to Philandros’ slaves’ uneasiness, Giton had apparently regained much of his childhood-friend’s favour, if not trust. Philandros had hinted as much when they’d been visiting, celebrating Spurius’ and Eirik’s end of hiding. Apparently Olaf had been no small factor in this unexpected change of mind.

“My name is already famous – for reasons that matter”, Eirik informed the aspiring actor dryly and rose to his feet, cool and aloof like his homeland could be. The others scrambled to their feet as well since the conversation had obviously come to an end.

“Please remain seated, have some more wine. Upon a word, Olaf”, the Northerner said calmly as he steered his son across the courtyard for a walk down to the river. “I like your new friends. As to the other one … be careful.” He waited patiently while Olaf immediately jumped at length to Giton’s defence. Even though he knew it by now, the Northerner was still amazed about how different his son became when he had the chance to speak in his tongue. Gone was much of his awkwardness, especially when he touched a subject he was as passionate about as Giton. Eirik made a mental note to hire a tutor for him – if there was enough money left after their recent expenses. He’d have to inquire at what rate a decent tutor came these days.

“All the same”, he continued after his son had finished, “this is my advice, Olaf, take it or leave it as you see fit. And tell your Roman friend if this really helps his friend I might drop by some time during the next days and tell him a few tales from our myths, it depends on how much work there’s to do here. And also tell him I won’t share any personal stories. I value my privacy, and so does Spurius.”

Especially when the other one is around, he added silently.

Father and son walked slowly, still in the process of making up for the long years of Eirik’s absence. The Northerner now understood that many of the problems his son presented to him were just pleaded, were instinctive attempts to gauge this stranger’s reaction, repeated attempts to reassure himself that his father was real. Even though, Eirik refrained from being overly sweet or caring with Olaf, he just wasn’t the type for that. He was patient, yes, but refused to discuss the pointless or indulge in his son’s habit to appear way more naïve than he actually was or in his tendency to wallow in self-induced misery.

After the good part of two hours had passed, the guests finally mounted their horses and left for Pompeii while the Northerner stood in the courtyard, arms crossed, thoughtfully gazing after them. Could it really be that they were about the same age as Hylas was? He knew they were, but the differences between them were abysmal. All of them were still so very young in Eirik’s eyes, though they were all of age, some of them for several years now. Hylas, on the other hand, although of the same age, wasn’t that young in Eirik’s eyes. He possessed a depth of wisdom and insight far beyond his age; even though, Eirik thought with a wry grin, he usually did his very best to hide it.

Even though he’d been deliberately vague about his possible visit at Titus’s, Eirik had already planned a trip to Pompeii for the next day to see Hylas and Felix. Now that Sextus and Idris were away for an undefined period of time, the friends on the estate had agreed to take their kittens as well since Felix’s apartment was too small to accommodate four cats and two humans, though Hylas – of course – was of an entirely different opinion and would have loved to be surrounded by any given number of cats.