I was bored with Anacrites’ well-clad back as he listened to Minas. Luckily the gloopy singer reappeared; he had picked up the Cretan shepherds’ habit of explaining everything long-windedly—so often, of course, lamenting young sailors lured to their doom by sinister sea-nymphs or brides who had died on their wedding day. When he announced, ‘The next song is a very sad one’, I went to find a lavatory.

I explored in a desultory fashion, but I had been in the house before and seen all I wanted of the layout, décor and cold living arrangements. I found the kitchen, with the caterers engaged in washing bowls—most of them, anyway; I had passed a couple sidling about, probably pinching Anacrites’ fancy curios.

The services were, as I expected, next to the kitchen—functional, but with the faint unscrubbed odour you expect in a male establishment. (I was well trained; in a strange house it is a man’s duty to report to his wife what the facilities are like.) Emerging, I took a wrong turn somehow.

I ended up in servants’ quarters, a series of undecorated small rooms that served routine purposes. There were sacks of onions, buckets and besoms. Even a spy has to endure the domestic—though I bet Anacrites put his onion-seller through an oral security test. That would explain why he had been sold mouldy, sprouting ones.

I spotted a figure ahead of me, slipping down a passageway. He did not hear me call out for directions, but he had left a door open and I heard voices. In one of the rooms, Anacrites’ two legmen were sitting with a draughtsboard. I was surprised; I would expect him to keep work and home separate. Instead, the Melitans, as I called them, gave the impression this was a regular haunt. Their room had a sour smell that hinted of long-term use.

The duo were not playing, just talking. They could be arguing about whose turn it was to remove their food tray (there was a large jumble of used crockery and utensils piled ready to go back to the kitchen). They barely troubled to react to my appearance.

‘Lost my way.’

Neither spoke. One waved an arm. I turned out of the room, pointed myself in the direction he indicated, and departed. After I walked off, their voices stopped abruptly, however.

They might not be Melitan, but they definitely were brothers. They had the same facial looks, the same dress code (dingy tunics; open-strapped shin boots), the same movements and accents (I had noticed they talked Latin). Most of all, the way they behaved together was the way Festus and I used to be: that blend of spats and tolerance only brothers have.