We lit a fire, which may have kept off some of the wildlife, though there was still plenty. We ate a nearly silent supper, not even discussing our plans for tomorrow, because we had none. Any chance of sleep was finished off by hundreds of croaking frogs. Then cattle turned up too, splashing, huffing and coughing, sounding enormous as they do in the dark. The vigiles jumped up from time to time, to shoo beasts away. Groaning, we tossed and turned all night, between bouts of miserable scratching.

At first light, people made a move stiffly. Basic ablutions were tackled. Lentullus, a shy soul, went off by himself. Soon a frightened shout alerted us: the Claudius cattle had found him in mid-pee. Although he was country-born, he was no match for these mad-eyed, jittery bullocks and heifers, who were galloping around trying to herd him against the fence. His bad leg had stopped him escaping fast enough.

‘Typical Lentullus!’ muttered Justinus, as we all set off to rescue him. It took a while. We had to drive the cattle to the far side of the boundary fence, then we clambered over it and left them safely out of reach. Behind us, they lowed hoarsely in frustration.

When we made it back to camp, we found a disaster. Straight away we saw that our ox was missing.

‘Was he loose?’

‘He was not!’ Rectus was quick to clear himself of blame. ‘I had him hitched to the cart.’

The cart was still there, along with some of our kit, though it was strewn around. The vigiles’ two mules, who were almost uncatchable, stood under a tree looking on.

‘How could strangers get Nero to go with them?’

‘A bucket of feed would have him trotting off without a murmur.’

We searched around, following deep, water-filled hoofprints, but the trail lost itself in the maquis. Now we were stuck: miles from anywhere in a dangerous marsh that was inhabited by criminals of every type, knowing somebody must have been watching us—and they had stolen our ox.

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