GÁSTRON woke up at dawn. He swept the earthen floor in the two rooms of the house, prepared his master's breakfast – barley bread, onions, and figs – served the breakfast – crumbs – to Vi (from Hecuba) and Li (from Ekali), the two hens clucking hungrily in the yard, scratched the back of his neck, and took the clay amphora to fill it with water from the public fountain of the ancient Agora. He didn’t have to walk far because his master’s house is located right at the southern entrance of the market, just a few meters below it. Every morning, when he sets out for shopping, as soon as he steps out of the courtyard door, Gástron makes a small leap and jumps, just for fun, over the marble column that marks this entrance to the market, shouting “opa mou, re magka!” (in ancient Athenian, of course). He didn’t have much time to play when he was little and playing now. They had sold him as a little slave when he was ten years old, a painful story, but if you are a slave, your story can only be painful. Right?
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