Sometimes in the distance we glimpsed cattle, generally where the levels remained flooded. They probably belonged to someone, but were not visibly herded. We did not risk approaching them. Trampling the edges of dark saltponds and stagnant pools where fallen vegetation putrefied, these beasts in their lonely location gave me a grim shiver. Once in Germania, I had had an encounter with a wild aurochs; I glanced at Camillus Justinus and knew he too was remembering our narrow escape from that huge bovine throwback.

Supposedly, the threat here was human. The Pontine Marshes had a sinister reputation as a place where brigands and highwaymen holed up. They must be brigands who could endure being bitten, stung, afflicted with foot-rot and driven crazy by isolation. We were gathering an idea of what to expect if we ever found the people we had come to interview.

We knew that the Claudii deliberately lived far enough from habitation to make visits inconvenient. We were fit men, equipped for this, but by afternoon we felt exhausted. We were despondent too, thinking we might never track down our quarries. Rectus assured us we were not lost. That depended how much faith we put in him.

‘I wish I was one of those herons and could just flap up and fly out of here. I bet this is a place where you could wander in endless circles!’ chattered Lentullus when we paused for rest. He must be twenty-five now, but he wittered like a mindless child. Justinus and I had known him since he was an army recruit with a fervent imagination and a knack for getting into trouble. We reminded him that we got him safely back to civilisation last time; he looked unconvinced.

‘Stay on the track,’ Justinus warned his bright-eyed batman. ‘If you get stuck in a deep sinkhole I’m not pulling you out, in case it brings a boggle-eyed sprite swirling to the surface.’ Now who was using too much imagination?

We all had the creeps. Long periods of silence descended on us. The invigorating effect of fresh air turned into sun-glaze and skin-burn. Eyes were dry. We started to itch, but when we slapped at imagined insects, they were never there.

Something about wild places brings misery to the surface. I began to be afflicted by griefs and guilts I thought I had left behind in Rome. Now that I had mastered the endless tasks involved in Pa’s estate, my brain found space to heal itself—which it did as spitefully as possible, by way of reliving moments of misery. Over and over, I went through again that long day of Helena’s labour and how we lost our baby son; over and over, I daydreamed that I was back at my father’s villa, while his gaggle of slaves informed me he had gone.

Avoiding the others, I lolled in the cart, thinking about life and death. Death, mostly.