'...A hundred and three … and four … and five … and six …and – are we there at last?’

The junior servant set down his buckets with a clang and a gasp and straightened his tortured shoulders. Water slopped out of the buckets in quantities.

‘Be careful with that, or you’ll be going down for some more,’ growled the ancient servant, who was burdened only with a broom and a jangling set of keys.

Down for some more? Down the hundred and six steps that led to the turret, and the two hundred and five that led upward from the door into the tower, and the one hundred and fifty-eight that led from the ground floor to the door into the tower, and the twenty that came up from the courtyard well? And up again with more full buckets?

‘There’s enough here, surely,’ said the Junior.

The Ancient grunted and unlocked the turret door.  As he opened it a ghastly stench came out and set the junior gagging. The Ancient wrinkled his nose, but that was all; he was used to it.

They stepped inside, the Junior very reluctantly as his feet squelched. The floor was thickly covered in twigs, bones, layer upon layer of droppings. Amidst the horrid chaos the Junior spotted a little heap of feathers stretched over a tiny skeleton, with a beak protruding pathetically from one end.

‘Dead ’un,’ grunted the Ancient. ‘They’re like that -  lay two or three eggs, but the largest of the young always turns the other ones out – when it don’t eat them. Happens every year. No use snivelling about it. Start sweeping!’

Gloomily the Junior began clearing and scraping away the heaps of filth. It was clear that the water would not be enough to clean the floor properly, and the prospect of going down for more seemed suddenly quite attractive if it meant breathing some fresh air on the way, but the Ancient shook his head.

‘That’ll do,’ he said. ‘Just enough to keep the fleas down – her  Majesty don’t half carry on if they get into the palace.’

They finished their task as quickly and sketchily as the Ancient would permit, loaded the rubbish into sacks, shouldered them with a shudder, locked the door, and re-descended the five hundred and sixty-nine steps to the ground floor of the palace at Armenelos. The Junior added the extra twenty steps down to the well. He felt in urgent need of a wash.

Later that evening a huge winged shape sped across the sky of Númenor and alighted on the topmost turret where eagles had nested since time immemorial. The King of Númenor, his attention caught by the bird’s harsh cry, sighed with satisfaction.

‘Ah, most noble of birds, beloved of Manwë!’ he cried, spreading his arms theatrically. ‘It is indeed an honour to share my palace with thee, O mighty eagle.’

Kings, of course, do not have to muck out.

Note: for the eagles of Armenelos see ‘A Description of Númenor’ in ‘Unfinished Tales’ . I owe my knowledge of the more disagreeable habits of eagles to the excellent programmes produced by the BBC natural history unit.