As Philandros and Olaf sat under the portico of the small theater, the crowd slowly thinned a bit and the noise decreased. From inside the arched doorway, they could hear what sounded like various animals being tortured, but turned out to be a small orchestra practicing for a performance later in the day. Had it been something important, he would have heard about it--so he let the tunings and scales wash past him. Olaf winced and started to say something, but Phil held up a hand.

"I know--'is trash, I can sing better!'--Well, I've heard you sing my friend, and I admit you have a good voice, but trained singers in chorus are to be preferred!" The blond boy just shook his head in disbelief that his master could say such a thing!

As if to prove his point, a selection from one of Aristophanes' plays began to drift out of the archway, and even Olaf had to smile at the sweet sound, until one of the voices began to cough and the leader broke into swearing oaths.

The sun shifted so that it began to shine down into Philandros' eyes, and he got up to move to another spot when he saw something against the back wall which he thought interesting--a display of paintings set up on easels, with a temple watchman to see that nothing was stolen. Philandros strode from one to another, admiring the way the paints had been applied to the waxed boards with such skill--encaustic painting was very difficult but yielded the most vibrant colors. One panel particularly made him smile--it showed a scene of pine trees and snow-capped hills in the distance, and a young grey horse running in a meadow just off-center.

The temple guard approached when Philandros beckoned. "It says the artist is one Aristeios of Heraklea--that's down south--is the artist here?"

The guard nodded--"That one, he's always here trying to convince people to buy his rubbish--but it's too different for most customers. You wish me to fetch him?" Philandros nodded.

Very soon a tall man who was extremely thin approached--his tunic was stained by paints and his hair looked like it hadn't been cut in, well, a year or more. The man stopped when he caught sight of his potential patron, and gave a slight bow.

"You wish to buy something, sir?"

"This is an interesting piece--I might want it, if the price is right. Also, if you could do fresco work, I'd be inclined to hire you."

Aristeios rubbed his chin for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm not a house-painter--I'm an artist! That painting will cost you one hundred sesterces, sir...."

PHilandros smiled--now he was on firmer ground--the price was ridiculously high, which meant it was negotiable--and he loved to wear an opponent down in a bargan! After many oaths on starving to death and robbing poor children on Aristeios' part, and cries of robbery and insanity and thievery on Philandros', a price of thirty sesterces was agreed on.

"Bring it to my domus at the east corner north of the Inn of Asellina...the house of Philandros Cleanthes this evening, I'll give you the rest of the money then." The greek took the five sesterces Philandros held out as surety.

Philandros rejoined Olaf on the steps, who had been watching his master's small purchases. He smiled up at his master, and poured him out a small measure of wine to go with the cheese he'd already cut.

"Is no sign yet of clumsy one...I hope he come soon!"

Philandros looked around before sitting next to the boy.

"Me too, Olaf--Oh! I bought you a present...but I'm not telling you what it is! You can see it tonight when the man delivers it!"

Olaf gaped, surely he had the best master in the world--no one had ever been so nice to him in his life--even his little-remembered father and mother.