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I got up quietly, and followed Samson out of the kitchen. As we were taking a seat on a bench in the courtyard, Samson said: ‘You know Ctesias?’ ‘Your odd-job man?’ I asked. He paused, raising his eyebrows as though to correct me. But then: ‘Yes. Well, he’s dead.’ As I began to express regret, he interrupted me, saying:
‘His death is strange; I wish you would come with me to see.’
I agreed with a nod, and we walked along the path between the inn and the village to an olive press, where there was a small crowd. We made our way through as quickly as we could without elbowing.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to a burly farmer. As he moved aside, he looked sideways with a frown, with a sour mutter that sounded like ‘Athenian bastard!’
I paused, thinking to put him right, or to retaliate, since I was brought up in Samos like him, and did not take kindly to being cursed as an Athenian, especially so soon after the cruel Athenian siege. But another Samian had died here, so I just smiled, and replied in an old formal Samian idiom in high Ionic style: ‘Peace be upon you and upon your house, and may the heavens bring you prosperity and their blessing.’
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