wisp of hay or nibble a vegetable at one of the market stalls. Loaded donkeys trotted past, squeaking oxcarts rumbled through the crowd, teams of water buffalo and flocks of sheep and goats took up the street. It was exciting and noisy and Rhamon loved it.
In front of the small shops sat the merchants. Here a potter was making his red clay jars, spinning the big wheel with a bare brown foot. Just beyond were men dyeing cloth in great kettles, and their arms were colored to the elbows. Across the way, standing side by side, were meat markets, goldand silversmiths, fish stalls, basket shops, spice sellers and makers of sweetmeats. Some were bending over small charcoal fires. High up on a bluff he could see a great old fort—hundreds of years old, his uncle said. Rhamon could hardly wait to get out by himself. It would take him days, he thought, to explore all the wonderful sights.
In one of these crooked little lanes Rhamon's uncle had his shop. Here the tonga came to a
