. . . .1 and my wrestling-master2 had me by the throat. But what, you say, was the story? When my father had got home from the vineyards, I, as usual, mounted my horse and set off along the road, and had gone some little distance when I came upon a number of sheep in the road huddled together, as happens when there is little room, with four dogs and two shepherds; that was all. Then one of the shepherds, seeing our cavalcade, said to his mate, Marry, keep an eye on those mounted fellows, they be rare hands at pillaging. Hearing that, I dug the spurs into my horse and galloped right into the flock. Frightened out of their wits, they ran helter-skelter bleating and fleeting in all directions. The shepherd whirled his crook at us. It fell on my equerry who was following me. We got clear off. So it chanced that he, who feared to lose his sheep, lost his crook. Do you think this a fiction? It really took place: yes, and there is more I could write to you of that adventure, but here comes the messenger to call me to my bath. Farewell, my sweetest of masters, most honoured and most unique of men, my joy, my treasure, my delight.
143 A.D.
To my master.