Island of Ghosts Read Online Free PDF Page B

two and a half asses to one sestertius! Where are you from, my lord?”
    I set my teeth. I’d acquired the money on raids, and kept it in case I ever needed to do any trading with Romans: my own people don’t use it. Now I would have to learn what things cost. At least the apple seller hadn’t tried to cheat me. I gave her five of the sestertii.
    “Only four, my lord, only four, and I owe you one as change!” she said, laughing and trying to give one back.
    I shook my head. “The fifth is in thanks for your honesty. Will that buy the apples?”
    “Indeed!” she said, beaming. “Will you bring a cart to collect them, my lord? Or should my man drop them off with you when he comes this evening?”
    I hesitated. Should I send the apples to the procurator’s house or to the ship?
    There was a sudden commotion from just up the street, and I looked up to see a white stallion trotting into the marketplace. I stopped worrying about the apples. This horse was altogether different from the sorry animals I’d looked at before. It was several hands higher, straight-backed and deep-chested, and moved with a light step. It was a fine horse. I had finer ones myself, even in Bononia, but I might have bargained to buy the animal in the days when I lived in my country and owned herds; I liked its hindquarters and the line of its neck. It had some harness on but no bridle, and it was clear from the shouting of the people around it that it had slipped its tether and was running loose. A young man in a fine cloak ran into the marketplace after it and stopped. “Oh, Deae Matres!” he groaned, seeing the stallion trotting away across the paving stones. “Fifteen denarii to the man who can catch that horse!” I watched to see how they would do it.
    I never would have credited it: a whole marketplace of people, and no one knew how to catch a horse. They lunged at it, their cloaks flapping—and of course, it shied. They ran after it, and it snorted and laid back its ears. They yelled advice at each other, tried to grab its nose, tried to shoo it into a corner like a sheep, and it began to kick. The few, like the horse dealer, who had some notion of how to go about calming the animal were swamped in a crowd of eager helpers who threw the poor beast into a panic, and in a few minutes the stallion was reduced from alert interest into blind frenzy, rearing and lashing out at everything around it.
    “Do you have a rope?” I asked my apple seller, who’d been watching the excitement with horrified delight.
    She had a rope, and she handed it to me eagerly. I limped toward the stallion, making a lasso as I went. It was now bucking madly, striking sparks from the cobblestones, and the young man was wringing his hands.
    I stopped about fifteen paces from the stallion and began swinging the lasso. The onlookers were now frankly running away from the horse instead of toward it, and it didn’t take me long to get a clear shot. I tossed the rope about the stallion’s neck; when it lunged away, I let it pull me a few steps, then drew the rope tight and began talking to it quietly. The horse stopped and stood still with its ears back, trembling. I walked forward very slowly, still speaking to it soothingly, until I was near enough to touch it. The ears flicked nervously forward as I ran my hand down the sweat-damp neck.
    Then a large red-faced man gave a yell and lunged at the horse from the other side. “I’ve got him!” he shouted. And of course, the horse tried to bolt—toward me. I was knocked onto the pavement, and the horse stepped on me—and, worse luck, stepped exactly on my wounded leg. The pain was sudden and excruciating, and I screamed. A lifetime’s instinct made me lie still and let go of the rope—one doesn’t hold a frightened horse on top of oneself—and the horse clattered on over me. The red-faced man grabbed the rope, and then a dozen hands were clutching the horse and leading it away.
    “I’ve got him!” shouted the