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anything goes missing or gets broken, I’m blamed for it, whether it’s my fault or not. It’s true that I’m a bit on the clumsy side and my arms and legs don’t always go exactly where I want them to, but it’s still not right to blame everything on me.
    I did lose two sacks of wheat once, but that was because a lad tricked me into going to look at an enormous fish, and while I was gone, some other lads robbed my cart. And it’s true that I once harnessed the wrong ox to the grinder. It was a young one that hadn’t been properly trained, and it went berserk and pulled the whole thing to pieces. But everyone makes mistakes sometimes, don’t they?
    I’m not really a walking disaster, but I have to admit I found myself wondering about it as I hammered on the compound gates. Maybe it would have been smarter to keep riding until I reached the outskirts of the city and then abandon the horse when he was too tired to follow me home. But you know what? I couldn’t have done it.
    I was flushed with excitement after the race through town, and I was totally besotted with the horse that had shared the adventure with me. He had looked after me, done what I asked, and brought me safely home. He had outrun the soldiers, kept his feet on the uneven stones of the streets, and jumped a pair of handcarts. I wouldn’t have abandoned him now if Little Boots himself had arrived to collect him.
    Well. Maybe I would.
    â€œWho is it?” my father called through the gates.
    â€œIt’s me, Marcus,” I said. “And . . . and I’ve brought the consul Incitatus home with me.”

Chapter Six
    I ncitatus and I stood in the middle of the yard as the crowd around us grew. First there was only my father, staring at us as if we had dropped out of the clouds, and then he was joined by my two sisters, Tiberia and Appia, and my mother, and then my aunt came out of her house with two more of my cousins, and then my grandmother and the two elderly slaves who still looked after her.
    None of them wanted to believe that the horse was the consul Incitatus. My father wanted to strip all the finery off him and turn him out into the lane.
    â€œWhatever he is, he’s trouble,” he said. “How could you be so stupid as to bring him here?”
    I told the story again, carefully explaining that I’d had no choice, but no one seemed to understand.
    â€œBetter to keep the horse and throw the boy out,” said my aunt. “He’s nothing but trouble and always has been.”
    I saw my mother turn on her and braced myself for another of their interminable arguments, but just then Incitatus raised his tail and dropped a heap of steaming manure onto the dusty floor of the yard. That silenced everyone. Not because of the smell and the mess. We have always had animals in the yard—horses in the old days, only oxen now. It was what we saw in the dung that left us all speechless. It glittered. It shone. It was full of tiny sparkling pieces of gold.
    That was another of the stories that everyone had heard about the emperor’s favorite horse but no one ever quite believed: Incitatus was fed on mangoes and apples and on oats mixed through with gold flakes.
    My aunt looked around. With the gates closed no one could see into our compound, but all the same it was as though there were eyes everywhere. We all felt it. My older sister, Appia, scooped the dung into a bucket and hid it underneath the lemon tree.
    â€œWe have to get him out of sight,” my mother said. She opened the door to one of the stables and let our three dogs out. Two of the other stables had broken roofs, and the remaining ones had gradually filled with junk since the horses had gone.
    I led Incitatus to the door. He stopped.
    â€œCome on,” I said. “Nice stable for you, see?”
    But the consul did not agree and refused to go in. My father raised his arms and growled at him, but Incitatus laid