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to claim her with great eagerness and promptly lost his tongue. Embarrassed and diffident, he covered her shoulders with a fine embroidered cloak and led her down from the block. She shook her head, rippling the cinnamon hair, and allowed the cloak to reveal her handsome breasts.
    Astyanax, however, did not have eyes for the Greek. He pointed to a lady of fashion whose small leather moccasins tilted up at the toes like the bow of a boat. “Does she grow that way or is it just her shoes?”
    Before I could answer his question, a Black Rat jerked him out of my arms and onto the block. I saw with dismay that Astyanax planned to bite him. But he seemed to change his mind, hesitant, no doubt, to risk a fall on his tail. Flanked by two Black Rats, I had to keep my place. Restless daggers jiggled in their hands.
    Etruscan aristocrats, both men and women, dominated the audience; poor men could not afford to bid for slaves. Sandwiched among the Etruscans, a party of visiting Romans, in spite of their solemnity and their dignified white togas, ogled Astyanax like red-faced farmers. Rome, after all, is an overgrown village, and villagers gape when they come to the city. Astyanax did not let their rudeness disconcert him. He rocked his tail rhythmically, as a walker swings his arms, and met their stares. In addition to Etruscans and Romans there were two boys, fifteen and sixteen, I judged, whose wheat-colored hair marked them as Gauls or Scandians and probably also as brothers. Their loincloths were gray and tattered; they wore neither rings nor bracelets and their hair, far from the flowing elegance of the wealthy, was short and wind-blown. It was clear that they could not bid, but they looked at Astyanax eagerly, as if they hoped to make friends. He returned their smiles. In spite of his predicament, he had not lost his sense of adventure.
    At last Vel himself ascended the block, his pointed beard glittering in the sun, his signet ring flashing sinister fires, and accepted Astyanax from the Black Rat. He turned to face the audience.
    “As you see,” he began, “I offer more than a slave to till the fields or carry a lady’s lifter. I offer a Triton fresh from the sea!”
    “You make me sound like a mullet,” Astyanax snapped. Vel ignored him. “Fresh from the sea, and free of barnacles.”
    “But what does he do?” cried one of the Romans. “He can’t even walk. Could he help me on my farm?”
    A practical people, the Romans. They demand that everything have a specific purpose.
    Vel stammered. “He—he—“
    Astyanax could not contain himself. Glaring at Vel, he took command of the sale. “Do?” he cried. “I fish, swim, boat, and dive for sponges. I mend nets, caulk hulls, and milk sea-cows. I can narrate stories to make a sailor blush. And what is more,” he added with emphasis, “I supply—and provoke—sparkling conversation.”
    The Romans craned their necks, arguing among themselves in the ponderous tongue called Latin. The lady with the curved slippers stepped forward demurely and bid in an ear-splitting voice:
    “Two hundred asses!”
    She explained to the friend beside her, a lady with large bosoms and orange curls, “I want him for the pool in my atrium. Think of the sensation when I have guests! They can make him dive for coins. Besides, he’s so decorative. The green tail, don’t you know. At banquets, I can drape him over a platter to garnish the oysters.”
    “Nude?” asked her friend with ill-concealed shock.
    “What should he wear, a tunic?” the tilt-toed lady snapped.
    “Nude,” muttered her friend. “And telling those salty stories.”
    “Three hundred asses,” cried one of the Romans, the one who had asked for the Triton’s accomplishments. When his friends looked at him in consternation, he growled, “You heard him. Says he can milk.”
    “Four hundred,” said the lady, stamping her up-turned toes.
    “Four hundred and fifty,” said the Roman, bunching his shoulders as if he