“The luckiest man who ever lived died in his mother’s womb.” “What’s that?” “An Athenian proverb,” says the old man, fingers still dancing. “A melancholy people, the Athenians. Fierce melancholy.” “We’re not, though.” It’s Paches, and he takes a long pull from the wineskin. “No need to defend them, Paches. I know you’re different.” Paches doesn’t seem to be satisfied with the compliment, for he frowns and drinks some more. “Slow down now. Don’t want you pissed. A drop to ease the nerves but not so much as to slur the speech.” “You’ve never seen a people laugh as much as us Athenians,” says
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