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scramble away, and the sword came down; I screamed, tried to roll over and get to my feet, and the sword came down; I rolled onto my back again, trying to get my own sword up, and the sword came down. Then somehow I managed to strike his sword with my own from a sitting position, and knocked it out of his hands. Then someone else hit me in the back, I was thrown forward onto my face, and the next thing I remember clearly is lying in the mud, soaked with blood, too cold for pain, and watching the moonlight silver the bronze eye-guard of the dead warhorse before me.
    I pushed Comittus’ hands away from my leg. “I do not need a doctor,” I told him. “It is sore, but not serious.”
    The apple seller plonked herself down and offered me a handkerchief of threadbare linen. “You can use this for a bandage, my lord, and I’ll get you a nice piece of raw beef to put on it. That’s the best thing for a bruise.”
    “Thank you for the bandage,” I said, taking it and tying it around my leg, “I do not need the beef.” I pulled my trouser leg down and got my good leg under me, then rose cautiously to my feet. Everyone in the marketplace had crowded round to look at me. The white stallion had been tied to a post at one side. I felt an idiot.
    “Do you want the fifteen denarii for catching the horse?” asked Comittus.
    “I do not catch horses for money,” I said, straightening my coat and looking about for my hat.
    “I didn’t think you did, somehow,” said Comittus cheerfully, “but I thought I’d offer. Can I buy you a drink, then? Would you care to come to dinner? You practically saved my life.”
    I spotted my hat under the red-faced man’s foot, and limped painfully over. “My hat,” I told him, looking at it pointedly. He moved over at once, picked it up, and tried to dust it off. I took it from him and rubbed it clean on his cloak. He spluttered angrily, but couldn’t quite bring himself to protest: he knew he’d acted stupidly. Besides, I was a few inches taller than he and might have been dangerous. I pulled the hat onto my head.
    “We’re staying at the naval base,” Comittus told me. “I escorted Aurelia Bodica to the temple of Minerva, just out of town, and we’d stopped for her to do some shopping when the horse got loose. I don’t have much space in my quarters at the base, but there’s a very good tavern just outside it . . .”
    “I thank you, no,” I said. I turned to the apple seller. “Have the apples delivered to the naval base, to the house of Valerius Natalis. Say that Ariantes bought them, and they’re to be shipped to Bononia tomorrow.”
    “You’re Sarmatian, aren’t you?” said Aurelia Bodica suddenly.
    I turned back to her and met her eyes for a moment. “Yes,” I said. For a moment I was tempted to introduce myself—“Ariantes son of Arifarnes, scepter-holder and azatan of the Iazyges of the Sarmatians, prince-commander of the sixth dragon.” But what was the point? The titles would mean nothing to her, and I was not a scepter-holder or prince now: I was the commander of a troop of Roman auxiliary cavalry.
    “Are you really?” exclaimed Comittus excitedly. “Then we’re comrades! We’ve come down from Eburacum to meet you!”
    “What?” I demanded, staring at him.
    “My commander, Julius Priscus, is legionary legate of the Sixth Victrix in Eburacum, and commander in chief of all the forces in the North. We were told to come down to Dubris to meet three troops of Sarmatian cavalry which were expected from Bononia. I’m going to be in command of one of them.”
    “You?” I asked, in confused disbelief. “How, ‘in command’?”
    “Well . . . as prefect of the ala , you know. The troops will have their own officers—I suppose you’re one of them—but I’ll be in charge, as they won’t . . . that is, I’d heard you wouldn’t be very used to Roman ways.”
    I stared at him, appalled. My imagination suddenly shaped another picture of him, etched with