To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion (14 page)

Racing the Sun God

Before long, Soulai was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his uncle's crowded hut. The villagers had left the doorway to go about their morning chores, yet an air of expectancy hung about the house, and Soulai could sense their cocked ears and readiness to return in a rush.

A bowl was set in his hands by his aunt. He felt her glare lingering on him as she straightened. He'd never been a favorite with her—his love of clay had brought the word
worthless
to her lips—and now his suspected lies only fed her disapproval. “Thank you,” he murmured before spooning the honeyed milk curds into his mouth. Soulassa had added a handful of chopped almonds on top, the way he liked, yet he found no flavor in them this morning, and the milk turned instantly sour in his stomach. The pain made him think of Habasle and his worm. Was he still alive? His stomach again twisted with guilt and he set down his bowl.

“Are you all right?” his mother asked. She hadn't taken her teary eyes off of him.

“Of course he's all right,” his father answered in his stead. “Didn't I tell you your son would return a man? Just take a look. Now he's got some—”

Every head in the room lifted.

“—got something to be proud of,” his father substituted, and Soulai flinched, knowing he meant
scars
. “He's as much a man as me.”

Soulai glanced at Soulassa, who raised an eyebrow before turning away. She and their aunt had settled themselves apart from the others. He knew they whispered about him. Discomfort needled him from all sides.

“Tell us about that horse you have with you,” his uncle said.

“His name is Ti,” Soulai began. How foreign the subject seemed here. When had his family ever discussed horses? “He comes from the horse breeders of Lake Urmia.”

“And what has he been bred to do?”

Soulai hesitated. “He's been bred to carry a soldier to war, or to pull a chariot. Or to ride into the hunt. Did you see his odd-colored eyes? The head charioteer said that horses like him aren't even afraid of lions.” His voice faltered.

“And just when do you suppose we'll have our next war, Soulassa?” His aunt's cutting remark was clearly meant for him. He didn't hear his sister's response.

“Wife!” his uncle warned. But he turned to Soulai with a look of concern upon his face.

“What plans do you have for this horse? He looks as though he's used to a ration of grain and we've none of that here.”

“He'll keep on grass,” Soulai answered none too confidently.

“Of course he will,” his father added. “At least until Jahdunlim climbs the mountain again. I know he'll pay a fistful of silver for the likes of him.”

Soulai looked at his father with shock.

“I'm not selling Ti.”

“Oh, come now. What are we going to do with a royal warhorse up here?”

Soulai stood. “Ti stays with me,” he said, and he turned and ran out of the hut once again.

Before he was three steps outside, Soulassa was at his elbow. She tried to lay a hand on his arm, but he shook it off.

“Where are you going, Soulai?”

“What do you care?”

A strangled sound came from her throat and she stamped her foot. “You know I care—but do you? Do you care about this horse that's been bred to face lions? About that prince who's asked you to save his life?” Her voice trembled with anger. “And what about the rest of us? You can wear these clothes and ride this horse for a while, but…” She threw up her hands. “How long before they come looking for you?” Soulai knew everybody around slowed to listen. “And if they can't find you, what will Nineveh's soldiers do to us?”

People were gathering around them now, not hiding their interest. Soulai felt like a snake was wrapping its coils around him, slowly choking him. “If you make me go back, I'll be a slave again,” he said desperately. “Is that what you want?”

Soulassa glanced skyward, sucked in her breath, then looked straight at him. “I'm not
making
you go back. I can't. But”—she hugged herself and blinked back tears—“but for years you told me that you didn't fit in here, that you felt useless. Don't prove yourself right. Or him,” she whispered.

For a moment Soulai wasn't sure what she meant, but then, from the surrounding crowd, he could sense his father's smirk.

“You have to choose,” Soulassa said. “Now.”

It was the same demand Jahdunlim had made. And Habasle.

For the first time since he'd made the decision to ride home, Soulai faced the nagging uneasiness he'd tried to keep buried in the pit of his stomach. He turned his back on his sister and the others and gave Ti a good, hard look. Still coated with dust and streaked with sweat, the stallion foraged through some fallen leaves like any one of the village's donkeys. That would be his future here. Soulassa was right; there was nothing here for either of them.

Trying to keep his hands from shaking, Soulai set about refastening the rug on Ti, along with the breast-collar and crupper. It was the first act of bravery in his life and, truth be told, he was scared. He tossed the reins over the stallion's neck and, taking a deep breath, mounted. With a last look at his sister, one punctuated by an attempt at a confident smile, Soulai urged Ti forward.

A glimpse of something pale caught his eye just before a loud crack announced that Ti's hoof had crushed it. Soulai pulled Ti to a stop. On the ground lay the broken remains of his clay horse, the pride of his childhood. He paused for a moment, staring at it, then thumped his heels. Ti bounded down the path. As they plummeted, the cold morning air rushed against Soulai's face like a watery current. His breath came in short gasps, but each one cleansed him and felt good.

His mind raced ahead of their descent. It had taken two days walking to reach Nineveh with Jahdunlim. Could Ti gallop that distance in less than half the time? Already he could feel the first rays of the sun god Shamash warming his back. Naboushoumidin would be telling his stories this very afternoon. A worry grew in him that he'd started too late. He should never have ridden home. Now there wasn't enough time.

Still, when the ground leveled at the base of the foothills, he bent over Ti's neck and urged him on. The stallion doubled his speed. With every muscle, Soulai concentrated on keeping his balance, for he was fully aware of the bone-shattering earth below. Sweat soon beaded his brow, and Shamash laughed at him from above, but Soulai gritted his teeth and rode on. He'd show them, he swore. He'd show all of them.

Pink-orange light streamed through the crate's slats, painting a pattern across velvety paws. The lion studied the stripes with a bored expression that masked his longing. He shifted his haunches. The rough wood needled his hip. He shifted again. But his underleg relaxed into his own excrement and he tucked it up. The muscle cramped. Amid the uneasy chitter of other awakening animals, he groaned.

Man had done this. Man had snatched him from freedom. In sudden fury, the lion snarled and spun; he swiped at the thick planks, shoved his massive head against the door. It gave, just a little. Curious, he pawed at the door's edge. It wiggled.

Steadying his golden eyes on the spot, he began pushing. He caught only splinters at first, but kept at it. The pawing grew frantic, and little by little the door relented. The lion thrust a foreleg through. He leaned into it. The wood squealed, then slowly gave way in splintering pops.

Shredded slats combed through his mane as he squeezed through the opening. For the first time in a long time he stood at his full height. The tuft on his long tail swatted the broken crate in parting contempt.

Voices were approaching. The lion crouched, scanned the zoo for cover, and in three graceful leaps bounded atop the contents of a storage shed. He crouched in the shadows of the thatched roof. He was hungry. Man was here. It was time to feed.

The Trap Unseen

As the morning wore on, Ti's sides began to glisten. Then the sweat turned to sticky lather that glued Soulai's legs to the horse's coat. Although they alternated between trotting and galloping, the stallion's breathing gave way to labored gusts. His neck, usually arched, hung level, straining to pull his body along. Soulai knew they should rest; what if Ti went lame? But the possibility of Habasle's death weighed on him. I won't fail at this, he said with determination. He pressed his heels harder into Ti's flanks and the stallion, sensing the urgency, responded.

When they reached the main road leading to Nineveh, Soulai eased his kicking and allowed Ti to walk. With caravans of herdsmen and merchants crowding the road, progress was slow anyway. Soulai thought about trotting around the knots of people and animals, but fretted about attracting attention. What if someone questioned his identity? He glanced up at the sky. The sun god was already sailing past his summit.

To his dismay, heads began to turn. Ti, even lathered and blowing, was still a magnificent animal. And Soulai, dressed as a noble, was obviously in a great hurry. Something important was afoot. Herdsmen whispered. A mother roused her children from a heavily laden oxcart and pointed. The unfamiliar attention made Soulai throw back his shoulders with pride. Then, remembering his sister's words about wearing clothes of deceit, he squirmed beneath the scrutiny.

Ahead, a flock of lop-eared sheep blocked the roadway, and past them, Nineveh loomed into sight. The scent of home made Ti restless and he began to prance. Tossing his head, he pulled the reins from Soulai's hands. Soulai quickly gathered them back; he spoke sharply, but Ti reared and spun. The sheep scattered, bleating in alarm, and their herdsmen, having noticed Soulai's regal attire, bowed slavishly and urged him to take the road. He had no choice but to loose the reins.

Head held high, Ti trotted on until the crowded road was once again obstructed, this time by a long caravan of plodding oxen. Some pulled wagons loaded high with bundled goods, while others lumbered alongside, free of harness. The owner of this wealth was a man on horseback who, distracted by the noisy cries of the frightened sheep, had turned to look over his shoulder. When he spotted Ti, his gaze changed to one of lingering appreciation. Soulai's stomach dropped. Jahdunlim!

What am I going to do? he screamed inwardly. Jahdunlim would certainly recognize him if he got a close look. Pretending to check the crupper securing the rug, he pulled Ti to a halt and turned his back to the road. He fiddled with it as long as he could, but the stallion began tossing his head and bucking with impatience.

“That is a fine-looking horse you ride.”

Soulai jumped. It was Jahdunlim's oily voice; he'd know it anywhere. Ti whinnied a challenge to the man's gelding.

“He wouldn't be for sale, would he? I've just returned from trading in Harran and I've silver to offer.” Jahdunlim jingled the pouch he wore on his belt.

Soulai shook his head, trying to hide his face. He kept busying himself with the crupper, but the man didn't go away.

“There is always another horse, isn't there? And there is always so much you can do with silver,” he said in that slithery way of his. “Why, you could buy yourself a slave—or another slave, as a person of your position no doubt already owns a great number of them.” The trader reined his gelding around Ti, peering suspiciously at Soulai. “But slaves can be so much trouble,” he rambled on, “wouldn't you agree? So maddening when they run off. Which is why much of my trade is in slaves who forget they are slaves. I firmly believe that when a possession is found away from its owner, it is only right for the finder to see that the possession is returned to its rightful place. For an appreciative fee, of course.”

By now he had worked his way directly under Soulai's face. It only took one look for an “Aha! ” to jump from his lips. Greedily, he grabbed Ti's reins. Soulai panicked. On impulse, he kicked Ti toward the gelding, forcing the smaller horse to shy away. Jahdunlim ended up teetering between the two horses, reluctant to release the reins, but at the last moment he spat a curse and let go. Soulai yanked Ti toward Nineveh, urging him into another gallop. He didn't care who noticed him now.

In and out and around the startled travelers they raced, until they reached a bridge spanning the wide moat that protected the city. A long line of sand-colored asses, each tied to the animal ahead of it, clogged both the bridge and the Nergal Gate. Several of the agitated animals looked like they were about to sit upon their haunches, and the twin bags of pomegranates strapped to their backs swayed dangerously. An impatient crowd began to gather behind them. A few individuals pushed their way through the asses. Men shouted, oxen bellowed, and guards left their posts to bring order to the mess. Soulai used the commotion to slip unnoticed into the city.

His breathing quickened as he passed through the first massive wall. And despite the heat of the day, his skin felt chilled. Why am I doing this? Why am I walking back into the snare? It would be almost five years—more if he were punished—before he'd again see the outside of Nineveh.

Sunshine briefly warmed his head, then shadow cooled it as he passed through the second wall. His heartbeat doubled. He felt like an animal walking into a hunter's trap. One of the inner guards nodded respectfully, then squinted and looked closer. Soulai faked a casual glance away, suddenly remembering that he was dressed not only as a noble, but as Habasle. He would attract even more hunters. The determination that had filled him that very morning drained away. I'm not brave enough for this, he thought. He suddenly longed to just return Ti to the stable, take his beating from Mousidnou, and resume his work.

The marketplace was elbow to elbow with vendors hawking fragrant foods, women and children bargaining for the ingredients for the evening meal, and men trading stories and goods. Over the sea of dark heads, Soulai saw the scowling stone lamassu guarding the palace's western gate. At the top of the steps, in front of a large crowd, sat an old man. His yellow robe and halo of wild gray hair told Soulai it was Naboushoumidin. At least he'd done one thing right: He'd made it in time!

Looking around for a place to hide, he saw Jahdunlim enter the marketplace. The man sat on his horse, high above everyone else, searching the crowd. Soulai gasped, hurriedly slid off Ti, and pulled him behind some vendors' carts. As he squeezed in beside him, he noticed that the sweat had washed the dust from the stallion's coat. Once again it shone a brilliant gold and white—easy to spot! Unwrapping Habasle's robe, he tied it around the horse's neck. I don't know if I can do this, he thought again, as he drew his fingers through his hair. Above the clamor of the crowd he could hear that Naboushoumidin was just finishing a story.

Another figure appeared on the far side of the marketplace. His blood-red attire and piercing stare were unmistakable: the ashipu! He, too, was searching the crowd. Touching the cylinder seal that lay against his collarbone, Soulai had a new understanding of Habasle's tormented days. Even though it authorized great power, he considered taking it off.

At that moment the crowd groaned in unison, then applauded. Naboushoumidin slapped his knees and waited for the chuckling and chattering to subside. When an expectant hush fell over the crowd, he spoke again.

“Now, this next story—my last one today—is for anyone in the audience who has ever been a friend or who has ever had a friend. I challenge you to turn to that person, look into their eyes, and learn whether or not you could trust that friend with your life. My story begins like this:

“Many, many years ago, a camel and a dog each became lost in the wilderness, and, as chance would have it, their miserable paths crossed. They were wary of each other at first, as strangers often are, but being unhappy together seemed better than being unhappy apart, so they agreed to travel on in the same direction. It didn't take long before the differences between the two animals became less bothersome, and the camel and the dog actually looked upon each other as friends.

“One day, however, it came to their attention that a lion was stalking them. So they bent their heads together to discuss what to do.

“‘You have the sharp teeth,' said the camel to the dog, ‘snarl and growl and show him your fangs and maybe he'll leave us alone.'

“Now, the dog nodded to all that the camel was saying, but the whole time he was thinking only about how he could save his own skin. ‘All right,' he said to the camel, ‘I'll run back and try to scare him away.' And off he went.

“But when the dog reached the lion, he didn't snarl or growl or show his fangs. Instead, he walked right up to the lion and boldly said, ‘If you'll promise to spare my life, I'll make it possible—nay, I'll make it easy—for you to take the camel.'

“The lion, of course, agreed to this offer. The dog scampered right back to his friend, bragged about his bravery, and they traveled on. It wasn't too much farther until the pair came upon a wadi with very steep banks and only a trickle of water at the bottom, but as they were both very thirsty they decided to risk climbing down for a drink.

“‘You may go first,' said the camel to his friend. ‘After all, you saved both our lives.'

“‘Oh, no,' countered the dog, without even a trace of guilt. ‘You are much bigger and likely much thirstier. You go first.'

“So the camel bent his knees and took a tentative step down the bank. And you can just imagine what that deceitful old dog did. He gave his friend a shove and sent the creature tumbling end over end into the wadi. The lion rushed up and, seeing that the camel had been knocked senseless from the fall and was in no danger of escaping, turned to the dog. And ate him up first!”

Naboushoumidin sat back, watching the abrupt ending of his story sink in across the many upturned faces. A ripple of understanding cascaded into laughter. Friends elbowed each other, smiling good-naturedly, though a few blushed and hung their heads. Soulai felt his own face grow warm.

Another storyteller came from the palace to take Naboushoumidin's place and the chief scribe rose, stretched his neck, and started to turn away. Soulai panicked. He lifted his bandaged hand; then, afraid of attracting the wrong attention, dropped it. But the hasty movement caught Naboushoumidin's eye. He paused in his leaving to look back over his shoulder. Then he tossed a smile at the audience and nonchalantly walked down the steps to disappear into the crowd.

The other storyteller cleared his throat and began, leaving Naboushoumidin to meander past the baskets and behind the carts, until, noiselessly, he appeared at Soulai's side. Naboushoumidin's blue eyes widened in surprise. Then a toothy grin shot across his face. “A puzzle, a puzzle indeed,” he exclaimed as he clasped his hands to his chest. “The prince Habasle is nowhere to be found. Now his slave appears, wearing his owner's robe and leading his horse.” He leaned close. “I must say it doesn't bode well. You do have a good story, don't you?”

Soulai was taken aback. “No, no…it's not like that. Habasle's…sick,” he stammered. “The ashipu's curse. An uridimmu—”

“
Where
is Habasle?” Naboushoumidin interrupted, his tone surprisingly sharp.

Soulai took a step away and fussed with the robe around Ti's neck. “A long way from here, ” he answered evasively. Something in the scribe's questions made him wonder whose side he was on. “And he's sick—very sick. There's a worm in his side and he's got the fever. He sent me to get the cure for the mad-dog curse.”

“Hmm.” Naboushoumidin rubbed his scraggly beard with his thick brown fingers. “Habasle wants something else from me when he has already stolen something from me.”

Soulai's heart thudded so loud he could hardly hear. This is how the hare feels when the lion stalks near, he thought.

“The boy believes, perhaps,” Naboushoumidin mused, “that because there are 268,492 tablets in the royal library that I would not miss one. But the skies are changing, King Ashurbanipal's astronomers tell me. The stars are realigning. So you can imagine my surprise when I am asked to bring forth the ancient tablets recording the moon's cycles—and find one missing. It is a small tablet, yet a particularly important one. In fact, as of this moment, it is the most important one.”

An image flashed in Soulai's mind of Habasle clutching a flat clay object to his chest and rambling on about controlling the moon. The missing tablet! Habasle had stolen it.

The scribe's next words came dripping in honey: “You, perhaps, will know the location of this small tablet?”

Soulai shook his head. “I…I can't read,” he mumbled. “I wouldn't know…”

The sound of coins jingling in a pouch beckoned him. “Silver has a way of clearing one's eyes, wouldn't you agree?”

Soulai swallowed. Staring at the bulging bag, he reluctantly nodded. For the second time that day he'd been offered enough silver to not only buy his freedom, but to most likely feed his family for a year. Enough silver to make him a man.

He looked nervously across the marketplace. A horse whinnied and Ti lifted his head to answer. Soulai caught his breath. The neighs wouldn't be noticed amid the noise—unless you were looking for a horse. As Jahdunlim was. And the ashipu as well.

Naboushoumidin pounced on Soulai's hesitation. “That's right. Eyes are everywhere. And not only are they looking for Habasle. They're looking for you, too. Rumor has it that you stole two of the palace's horses—ran away with them—though one, I have since heard, found its way home.”

“I didn't steal them,” Soulai protested. “Habasle took Ti and made me ride the other.” Well, that wasn't exactly the truth, but he hadn't stolen them.

“And people have come to the library asking questions, interrupting my work. They left, but their eyes remain upon me.” He shook his head. “So much trouble from two mere boys! And now you come pleading for my help.”