Of course Olaf was bound to return soon after Spurius had set out to find him, Eirik thought with a wry smile. The Roman had sat with Philandros for a while until the potion had taken hold and their patient was sound asleep again. It hadn’t taken much since the Greek, weak as his constitution still was, had already been tired after Valerius’ visit. Spurius had joined him, Eirik, in the garden to enjoy the day’s last hours of sunshine. Olaf had grown restless and had left for the markets as soon as Spurius had mentioned they’d be running out of a few herbs Philandros needed. When his son didn’t return they had grown restless for they knew he didn’t like to leave the Greek to the care of others. Eirik shook his head and smiled as he thought about how eagerly Spurius had leaped at the chance to leave the house.

He returned to their room to fetch his harp and, in passing, cast a quick glance out over the street. On the other side, half hidden in the shadows of a now closed bakery, he spotted a young man who stared intently at the house. Immediately Eirik moved out of sight and carefully gazed around the corner. The man carried himself a bit crooked and seemed to favour his left side as he supported himself to shift his weight. His eyes never seemed to leave the entrance of Philandros’ villa. There was something definitely furtive to his behaviour that alarmed the Northerner. Under normal circumstances he probably would have dismissed him as harmless or shooed him away, but now things were different – and Spurius was out there on his own.

Eirik had a pretty accurate idea where his son might be at the moment, and it proved correct. Olaf stood in the kitchen, happily chatting with Corinna and munching on something she’d offered him to prevent immediate starvation, while Grumio browsed through the acquired herbs and sorted them into jars. Their initial smiles faded at the sight of the Northerner’s serious expression. “Is something wrong with Philandros?” the cooked asked alarmed. “No, all is fine with him”, Eirik assured her at once. “I just wanted a quick word with my son.” Olaf finished his meal with a hasty swallow. “Is there something you want me to do?” Eirik shook his head. “Just tell me, have you been followed on your way home? It’s just … there’s a man hanging out in front of the house, and I don’t like the way he tries to hide himself. You know our situation.” Since they were talking in their native tongue Corinna and Grumio had resumed to their tasks at hand. “I know him”, Olaf said with a slight flush. “We met at the markets and, uhm, I’m taking him out for dinner. You don’t mind, do you?” he added a bit self-conscious. Eirik chuckled. “Of course I don’t mind. So he’s the reason why you’ve been late?” Olaf nodded. “He’s a Greek though he’s dressed like a Roman. His name’s Giton, papa, he’s a singer and quite nice!”

Both Northerners spun around as Corinna slammed the pan she was holding smack down on the table. Olaf and Eirik might speak in a tongue that was alien to her, but that name she’d recognise in every language. She almost snarled. “Giton? Don’t tell me you’re messing around with that creature!” Eirik gazed thoughtfully at her. “It seems”, he said slowly, switching to Latin, “there’s much more to my son’s newest friend than he’s aware of. Please tell us what you know about him.”