The waves had not yet washed away the outlines of his body in the sand when the swimmer's black head was already barely visible in the open sea. From afar on that autumn day it could be taken for a bird swimming.
 A few minutes before, he had lain on his stomach, letting wet sand trickle thoughtlessly between his fingers. The wind tousled his hair despite the linen ribbon that bound it. Lazy bullocks were chewing the cud amid the canes girdling the lake. It was peaceful all around. And the waves lapping round the ankles were like a child's caress.
 Yet suddenly the man rose to his feet. His sensitive hearing had caught alien sounds. It was the Romans — walking, talking animatedly, and laughing. 
The shepherd compressed his fist tightly, as though he had his fingers round an enemy's throat. He flung himself into the sea and swam towards the flat elongated spit. The Getae, denizens of these parts, had nicknamed him Tagged for the welts and scars he bore on his body. No one knew his real name, for he had been sold into slavery when still a child. It was said he had spent many years on a Roman trireme, pulling the heavy oar. That had embittered him. He had no family. The wives and daughters of the fishermen avoided him. He would not look people in the eyes. He spoke a strange language, mixing Greek and Latin words with the dialect of his own people. But he could read as fluently as those who came to the fishing village from ihe city to gather tribute. It was strange that he never went to Tomi1 and that he hid himself when Romans came into sight, though, in fact, he had nothing to fear. 
The shepherd came out of the water, shook himself, and walked along the spit to where yellow-trunked pines rose amid the sandy mounds built by the wind. 
A boat on the shore caught his eye. How had he failed to notice it before? There was someone here. The next moment the shepherd saw a hunched human figure. The stranger sat with his back to the sea. The wind toyed with his grey hair. Sud- denly, the man rose, and the shepherd saw his white Roman toga. A Roman! Probably one of those who had come by ship from Tomi. There was no place one could hide from them. He made up his mind at once. This one would pay for every thing. That was the only way to banish a past that pressed down on him like a rock. He pulled out his curved knife. He had been taught to throw it, and never missed even from a distance of ten steps. 
That instant the shepherd heard a sob. He looked round, for he could hardly believe the old man in a toga was weeping. Yet there was no one else. A weeping Roman! He had thought Romans had no feelings and only made others weep. The shepherd waited. The astonishing Roman had begun to sing. And his song was as wide as the Danubius during the spring floods. How come there was so much staid wisdom, sad meditation, and sorry grief in the usually croaking Roman tongue? This Roman was a singer. And singers were the favoured of the gods. Even wild beasts did not touch them. Dolphins stuck their heads out of the waves and listened to their singing. 
The shepherd put away his knife, and walked slowly towards the singer. He waited until the Roman ended his song, and asked:
What are you singing, stranger?" 
The Roman turned. His forehead was wrinkled, but his eyes still had their youthful sparkle. There was no fright in them, nor surprise.
 "I sing of my country, from which fate has separated me," the Roman replied. "It is ten years since I was banished from Rome to this deserted and unhappy land, ten years that I look upon this sea of an indefinite blue, as though Neptune had been reluctant to use more dye for it. No one hereabouts understands my songs. I put them down on papyrus and send them to Rome." 
"Yet you have something to remember," the shepherd said, "for I judge you were happy in your own country."
 "Yes, remembrances is all I have."
 "But remembrances differ," the shepherd said. "Some help you live — so you live in the past and present. Others are like a chain, pulling you down." 
The Roman raised his head. He had not expected those wise words to come from a barbarian. 
"You have spoken well of remembrances. Every human being must have a fu- ture. Yet I have lost everything aside from my life, and each day I feel more bitter. My Roman friends have forgotten me. My Fabia writes me no longer. Yet how she wanted to follow me into exile. I would not take her in the hope she would obtain a pardon for me in Rome. Years passed. There has been no pardon. Augustus re- fused to change his mind. My pitiful songs did not soften his stern heart. And the new- ruler is still worse. He hates me and my songs. The Danubius will sooner change course than I shall be allowed to return to Rome."
 The shepherd felt compassion for this astonishing man. The Roman had wept from impotence to change his fate. He had no future.
 After a pause, the singer raised his drawn face. The huge burning eyes looked into the world with expectation, but there was a disquiet in them. 
"I had not hoped to meet anyone here," he said. "I had always thought this spit was deserted. I came to take leave of my life. But since fate was kind enough to bring you, I venture to ask for a favour. My hands are not accustomed to holding a sword. I have never yet inserted steel into living flesh. My blow may be uncertain, and death would take a long time coming." 
The Roman bent down and picked up his sword off the sand. Its wide blade sparkled in the sun. 
"Here, take it." 
The shepherd jumped back. There was horror in his eyes. 
"No, no. I cannot — I will not kill. I have seen too much death and suffering."
 The shepherd had abandoned his intention to take the Roman's life. Why? "This Roman," he thought, "is not like the others. He is too good for Rome. What a pity that he cannot live without his city. Why could he not be content here, amid these pines, these forests on the horizon?" 
"Stop!" the Roman shouted. "I beg you in the name of all the gods, stop!"
The shepherd kept on running along the spit, ankle-deep in the sand. "Everyone has accounts to settle," he thought. "But I cannot kill." 
"Take my boat," he heard the Roman shout. "Sink it in the sea. I want no one to know how Ovid died." 
The shepherd headed for the boat. "Ovid," he repeated. "The man's name is Ovid. He had never heard the word before, but the Roman whose name it was, was certainly different from the others.

Alexander Nemirovsky, "Tales Of The Ancient World"

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