The old Roman emperors knew a thing or two about exile. On discovering a poet who had taken too many liberties, or a relative grown uncomfortably popular, they selected an island, ideally somewhere sunny: Africa, perhaps, or a rocky outpost off the coast of Sicily; then, having chosen a location that was suitably isolated, they dispatched their prisoner there. At first, life wasn’t so bad for the new exile. Letters from friends came and went, and slaves catered to their every need. The climate was pleasant; the villa spacious; their allowance ample; and their stay, they were assured, only temporary. The exile was allowed to roam freely within the village. Occasionally, they even made friends. As the years went by, a routine of small pleasures would help to mitigate the exile’s nostalgia, making their longing almost bearable. Languishing in indolence, however, the exile would grow to look upon his changeless fate as worse than death itself. Finally, when the Emperor saw that sufficient time had elapsed, the soldiers were dispatched: small handfuls of men-at-arms who, washing ashore on the island under cover of darkness, would bring the long vacation to its promised end.