To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion (16 page)

Waiting in the Shadows

He managed to polish maybe half a dozen hooves before a dizzy fog fell over him. With his head throbbing and his throat bruised and aching, Soulai fought to stay awake. But by nightfall, he was barely able to crawl to the spot near Ti's empty tether, where he collapsed. He sat, staring at it with tear-filled eyes, until his lids closed, and he felt himself plunging into a blackness that he both feared and embraced.

He awoke with a start. Lying there in the pitch dark, heart racing, he thought of the lion. Gradually he recognized the familiar sounds of the horses chewing and nickering, and he breathed easier. He was so thirsty, though, that he pushed himself from the floor and stumbled toward the courtyard.

The waxing moon painted the tiles silver and black. All the palace, in fact, was sharply defined by moonlit terraces and steps, and their connecting panels of shadow.

He hesitated in the doorway. His tongue was so dry it had swelled in his mouth. But wasn't that something over there in the darkness, a shadow moving within a shadow? For a long time he waited, squinting into the night and shivering. One, then two bats skimmed the trough's surface. All remained silent. Ti was out there, he scolded. If you can't brave the darkness for a drink of water, how are you going to come by the bravery to rescue him? But the nagging fear that one of the shadows had the shape of a lion held him captive inside the stable.

Heaving a sigh of misery, Soulai looked up at the stars. The great bird was there and yes, he had followed it back to Nineveh. The huge horse of stars galloped behind, just the way he'd galloped Ti. Probably to the stallion's death, he thought with a guilty pain. He dug his nails into his clenched palms. I'll search for Ti at daybreak, he promised.

Night finally gave way to morning, and Soulai, anxious to complete his morning chores so he could look for Ti, was the first in line with his grain basket. Although each step shot pain through his ribs, he hurried to deliver the barley hay, then began leading the horses to the watering trough.

Death was the topic there. Two more bodies had been found, the stableboys said, mauled by a mad lion. By the time Soulai had led the next horse to the trough, the count had risen to three. Then five, even six. Could it be the uridimmu? Habasle still had the blue amulet, he thought. But maybe the creature couldn't find Habasle. Maybe it had followed Soulai to Nineveh in the shape of a lion.

He was just tying the last horse and preparing to start his search when an unmistakable figure in a long red robe came prowling along the stable aisles. Hatred raged inside Soulai as he watched the ashipu stride up and down the rows of horses, obviously looking for something.

The man suddenly glanced in Soulai's direction. Recognition flickered across his face. “Where,” he spat with disgust, “are the other horses?”

Soulai wanted to lunge for the man's throat, but he held himself back. “At the armory,” he stated as evenly as he could. “Or the watering trough.”

“And they are all returned here eventually?”

He forced himself to breathe. “By sunset.”

“Tell me—and don't think I don't know who you are—is there any other place a horse would be taken in the palace…or the city? Outside the city, perhaps?”

Soulai's face remained expressionless as a flicker of hope took hold.

“If a horse required close attention,” the man continued, “for example, from injury or illness, where would it be taken? And before you answer, remember who I am and what I can do to you.” The threat ended in a guttural snarl, like a dog preparing to attack.

“All of King Ashurbanipal's horses are stabled here,” Soulai responded. He ignored the threat; in fact, he had to restrain a smile. For why would the ashipu be searching for a horse when the only horse in which he was interested was Ti? Could it be that Ti had escaped him?

The ashipu loudly sucked in his breath and drew himself to his full height. “I require a red horse now, a blood-red one. And one black as the night. The parti-color stallion that you and your master tried to steal from me was only the first of my sacrifices.”

His black eyes fastened on Soulai's own. Sensing it was a test of some sort, Soulai forced himself to show neither fear nor surprise. Their stares held for a dozen pounding heartbeats. The ashipu finally exhaled, blowing a rancid wind into Soulai's face. Muttering a curse, he spun and strode out of the stable, his long red robe swishing about him. Soulai let out a long breath as well and allowed himself a brief shiver. Then he smiled. Ti was alive; he had to be. All I have to do now is find him, Soulai thought.

Sneaking out of the stable as soon as he could, he searched those areas of the palace he thought might be big enough to hide a horse. Mindful that he was a slave, he tried to look like he was on important business; but he was so certain he'd discover Ti at the next turn that he had to purse his lips to keep from smiling. With light steps he hurried through the granary and the warehouse full of chariots, he poked through the debris-filled courtyard with the broken carts. Growing worried, he tiptoed through the kitchens and their storehouses of foodstuffs. Finally, dejected, he peeked inside two temples and even paused outside the gate to the harem. There were just so many places he couldn't enter.

The sky was deepening to lavender and a dry chill had invaded the palace by the time Soulai returned to the stable. He fed and watered his horses, then slumped in the aisle opposite Ti's tether. His certainty that the stallion was alive had disappeared, and as he gazed at the empty tether it all but reached out and struck him. It's all my fault, he moaned. All my fault. Ti's dead because of me. He buried his head in his hands. Better that I'd never been born.

With the glimmering of the evening's first stars, the clip-clop of hooves announced an arrival. Mousidnou had returned; Soulai dutifully stood. The stable master rode right up to him, leading a horse on which Habasle, looking sick and disheveled, was hunched. Soulai noted his own slave tag resting prominently on Habasle's chest.

Before his mount had even come to a stop, Habasle slid to the ground with a pained groan. He took a step, handed the reins to Soulai, and fell forward into his arms. Soulai nearly collapsed from the unexpected weight. He struggled to drag Habasle away from the startled horses.

As Soulai helped him lie down, Habasle whispered, “Is he…?”

Soulai swallowed. “I don't know,” he murmured. “The ashipu and his men got him away from me yesterday. I'm sorry. But he was back this afternoon—the ashipu was—looking for a horse. Maybe—”

Habasle held up his hand. He nodded weakly. “Send for Naboushoumidin.”

Soulai relayed the message to Mousidnou. The stable master groaned and stiffly twisted around, enough to lift a leg over his horse's rump. He dropped to the ground. Soulai feared he was going to crumple as well, but the man laid a hand on his lower back and slowly straightened. Complaining with every step, he tottered down the aisle.

While Habasle dozed and awakened in turn, Soulai untacked and fed the two horses. He was grooming the second one when Habasle mumbled something and beckoned him to his side.

“My identity. I want it back.”

Soulai hesitated, then removed the blue cylinder seal from his neck and placed it in the open palm. Habasle had trouble pulling off the clay slave tag, so Soulai bent over to help. Before he slipped it over his own head, though, Habasle touched his arm.

“I didn't know if I could trust you back there.”

Soulai felt the blood drain from his face. He nodded.

“You've proven yourself to me. I owe you my life.”

As Habasle's eyelids drooped, Soulai fitted the clay tag around his own neck. I deserve nothing more than slavery for the rest of my miserable life, he sighed. He took up guard over Habasle until Naboushoumidin came running up the aisle in a manner that belied his years. Mousidnou trailed behind. The scribe's quick eyes surveyed the scene and he clapped his hands together. Curious as a child, he knelt and poked at the stained tunic. Habasle moaned. “Did you give him the cure?” Naboushoumidin asked.

Soulai looked at Mousidnou, who nodded.

The scribe sniffed and grimaced. “Worse than the wind of a sick dog. The worm may have been chased away, but its hole needs attention. I'll find an asu.” As quickly as he had come, the man disappeared.

Half the night seemed to pass while they waited in silence. Mousidnou leaned his weight against the wall, grunting occasionally, though refusing to sit. Soulai knelt beside Habasle, longing for him to awaken and devise a plan to rescue Ti.

At last, Habasle stirred. “What night is it?” He searched blindly around him, finally settling a hand on one of his two pouches. When he fumbled with the opening, Soulai leaned forward and tugged it wide. Habasle reached in and carefully lifted out a palm-sized clay tablet. He cradled it to his chest. “What night is it?” he repeated. “What night?”

“It is the fifth of Tisri,” Naboushoumidin answered loudly from down the aisle. The same bald-headed asu that had attended Ti's wounds followed uncertainly in his footsteps. “And the moon is straying from its calculated time.”

“No,” Habasle groaned. “It must be there, or—”

“—or there will be an invasion of a mighty city.” Naboushoumidin finished the omen for him. “Yes,” he continued, “the stars are spinning in the heavens, the warriors are gathering at the borders, the power is”—he cupped his hands together—“hanging like a nut from a tree and those who think they are the tallest are jumping to grab hold of it.” He smiled as if enjoying a staged entertainment.

With great effort, Habasle straightened. He leveled a solemn stare at the gray-haired scribe. “How is my father preparing to battle the Medes?”

“By fasting in the darkness.” A thinly veiled note of sarcasm colored the response. “The ashipu says he has read in the stars that King Ashurbanipal must prepare for war by fasting in seclusion: all day in the darkness, fasting, no meat; emmer but no meat.” The familiar words rang in Soulai's ears, the same ones Habasle had mumbled at Dur Sharrukin. “Yes,” Naboushoumidin said, “the ashipu is holding the reins to your father's kingdom.”

“What's going to happen?” Soulai blurted.

“Ah! The power of the story: What's going to happen?” Naboushoumidin threw up his hands. “I don't know exactly—though I expect Habasle does.”

Although all eyes turned upon him, Habasle's face remained mysteriously blank.

Naboushoumidin went on, more slowly. “I know that the ashipu wants to chase away the moon to prove his power, for if he can claim power over the stars, it is not a reach of his audience's imagination for him to claim power over the kingdom—”

“He can't!” Habasle hissed.

Naboushoumidin held up both hands. “I also know that he had wanted to sacrifice that horse of yours, the one with Ninurta's mark, to the god of war, but—”

“
Had
wanted?” Soulai asked.

Again the scribe raised his hands. “But power resides with he who possesses the knowledge. ”

Habasle removed his hands from the tablet and reluctantly offered it up. Naboushoumidin pounced. He quickly traced the symbols with his fingers, his lips moving silently as he read. Then he looked up, grinning. “He's planning a moonlit ceremony on the palace steps for two nights hence. But I believe there has been an error in his calculations.”

“The moon will disappear on the sixth,” Habasle said confidently. “Please, there is not much time. Tell us what you know.”

Naboushoumidin shot a stern look at the still silent asu and squatted. He explained how the ashipu had come tearing through his library, searching for the tablets regarding the moon's actions. “This man had to have his tablet so badly that I simply made one for him. Give a child what he wants to stop his screaming, I say. Or what he thinks he wants.” He grinned.

“What do you mean? ” Mousidnou asked.

The scribe's blue eyes were twinkling. “I may have accidentally mistaken some of the dates and alliances on the tablet that I prepared for him. It wasn't easy making it look aged, but I have some skills that I haven't put to use in a long time.” He looked at Habasle. “But I'm afraid the moon is not the only actor who will fail to play his part for the ashipu.” He paused, scanning the expectant faces in front of him. “His sacrificial victim is no longer available. ”

Soulai gasped. “Is Ti dead?”

Naboushoumidin smiled mysteriously. “He walks with the dead.”

Walk with the Dead

Keeping to the shadows and out of the moon's glare, four figures crept from the stable, passed through empty courtyards, and traveled up and down stairs. Naboushoumidin led the way, the spring in his step revealing his excitement. Soulai followed at a less even gait, for Habasle's arm was flung heavily across his shoulders and the prince's unsteady legs threatened to topple them both. The asu lagged in the rear. At the outset, the asu had voiced an unwillingness to take part in the plot, until Naboushoumidin had shaken a finger at him and admonished that “King Ashurbanipal himself has asked us to look after his son.” While those words had subdued the asu, they lit a proud smile across Habasle's face that even now seemed to help carry him along their trek. Mousidnou had stayed behind. He had offered to do anything he could to help, but the chief scribe suggested that he return to his room, and to his work in the morning, and listen for palace rumors.

Out of the darkness, twin flights of stairs appeared before them. One led up to a courtyard that surrounded the harem; the other led down to a small landing that in turn opened onto another flight of narrow stairs. Naboushoumidin darted down the second flight.

Even before the heavy stone door at the bottom was eased open, Soulai suspected what it hid: a tomb. Dread stirred in his belly. More death. Naboushoumidin cautioned them to silence with a finger to his lips, then slipped through the gap. After a few breathless moments, a small flame illuminated the entry. Habasle, Soulai, and the asu crept into the tomb.

The dry air stung their nostrils. Faint odors arose, some pungent, some sweet and lingering. Still another smell, a sharp one, assaulted them as Naboushoumidin smeared a thumbprint of black grease across each of their foreheads. “To fend off the spirits,” he whispered.

The light from his lantern danced across a wide, vaulted passage. Stone sarcophagi, partially submerged in the hard earth, lay in orderly rows on either side of a brick walkway. Dust clouded the intricate inscriptions on their lids. As Soulai proceeded, large, shadowy shapes loomed out of the darkness. He recognized them as chariots resting on empty shafts. A few more steps and he discovered rotting harnesses surrounding crumbling bones—the skeletons of horses, he realized with a sudden queasiness.

A tremulous nicker from the darkness startled him. The spirit of a dead horse! But it couldn't be. Its familiarity tugged at his senses. It had to be Ti!

The chamber ended with two short passageways extending left and right. Peering down one, Soulai saw stacks of lances, shields, bows, and quivers stuffed with arrows. At the entrance to the other, two carved ivory chairs waited like upright skeletons. Habasle collapsed into one, holding his side. Naboushoumidin shot a stern look at the asu, who immediately bent over Habasle and began probing his wound.

The nicker sounded again, and, as the scribe set about lighting lanterns, Soulai peered down the blackened passageway until he gradually made out the form of his beloved stallion. The horse had been hobbled and blindfolded, and thick cloths wrapped his hooves. The head, unseeing, was lifted in their direction.

Soulai walked straight to the bound horse, knelt, and removed the blindfold. Ti shook the forelock out of his eyes, then laid his head in Soulai's lap, letting out a great sigh. Although there were no marks on him, he seemed near death. Trying to control his worry, Soulai stroked Ti's brow while listening to the old scribe.

“I found him in the farthest reaches of my library last night,” Naboushoumidin was explaining, “hobbled and blinded like so. I suspect the ashipu hid him there. But you know how I feel about beasts in my library.”

Habasle responded with a brief, bitter smile. Soulai knew he was remembering Annakum.

“The hoof cloths were my own addition,” the scribe went on, “so that I could move him here without anyone hearing. It was before the moon rose; I don't believe anyone saw.”

He fell silent. An invisible power had been growing, emanating from Habasle. The two men seemed to recognize it, and, in fact, seemed to wait for it to direct their lives. As ill as he was, or maybe because of it, Habasle's eyes began to burn with a determined fire.

“What does my father want me to do?”

“Is the king still fasting?” Naboushoumidin asked the asu, and when the bald man nodded, he continued. “As he's yet captive in his own darkness, I'm not sure he could tell you what to do.”

There was a pause before Habasle posed a second question. “What do
you
think I should do?”

Naboushoumidin laced his fingers and stretched his arms over his head. “The horse, Ninurta's messenger, is rightfully back in your hands,” he said, “as well as a tablet—perhaps not so rightfully—endowing mastery over the skies. With the ashipu believing you are dead, you also possess an element of surprise—the hunter's most valuable asset.” He spread his palms and bowed grandly. “Thus, I say it is up to you, Habasle, to write the next chapter.”

“To make my mark,” Habasle murmured thoughtfully. “The moon disappears tomorrow night. Do you think we can hide here for one more day?”

Naboushoumidin nodded. He pointed to a pouch resting beside a pitcher. “I've brought food and water for you, though I couldn't provide anything for the horse without being found out.”

Soulai looked up. He saw that Habasle sat straighter, that he no longer clutched his side. Their eyes met. “Return to the stable,” Habasle commanded. “Seek out Mousidnou and only him, but tell him nothing. Just request as much hay and grain as you can carry in my pouch”—he dumped the remaining contents onto the floor and handed it to over—“and make certain that no one sees you or follows you—”

“Perhaps,” interrupted Naboushoumidin, “perhaps I should go. Should anyone find us out, we'll pay with our lives.”

Habasle shook his head, his solemn gaze never leaving Soulai's face. “I trust him,” he said. “No one will find us. Now go.”

Caught up in the power of the moment, Soulai lifted Ti's head from his lap and stood. “He needs water, too,” Soulai suggested as he fit the pouch over his shoulder. It occurred to him that he had said these same words on their first meeting. Habasle must have remembered, too, for a smile flickered across his lips. He spoke sternly, however, as a master must to his slave. “We'll share the water that is already here for now. But you shall find a bucket and carry more from the trough.”

The asu turned from attending Habasle's wound. “There's a lion loose in the city, you know. A mad one, they say.”

“A mad lion?” Habasle repeated with interest. He reached for his other pouch, and the asu quickly handed it to him. Digging through it, he pulled out the blue amulet depicting the uridimmu. A shiver ran up Soulai's spine. “And you wanted to throw it in the river,” Habasle said. With a free hand, he dismissed Soulai.

Soulai gave Ti one more caress and turned to go. Silence followed him as he tentatively made his way toward the tomb's entrance, silence except for Habasle's parting order: “Be careful.”

With no lantern to light his path, he had to shuffle, arms outstretched and toes feeling for the bricks. When his fingers finally touched the stone door, he let out a sigh of relief, then squeezed through the narrow opening. The chill night air prickled his skin—he hadn't realized how warm it had been inside the tomb. Turning, he pushed against the heavy door, which made such a loud scraping sound as it was closing that he could only push a little at a time. At last he tiptoed up the steps and proceeded around the shadowy edges of the first courtyard's barren expanse.

The escaped lion could be padding through this same courtyard, he thought, and at the same instant: for once in your life, don't be a coward. Breaking out in a nervous sweat, he carefully measured the distance from one doorway to the next and crept through the darkness.

But the lion was not the night's only predator. Soulai knew that palace eyes were always watching from somewhere and so he took a particularly circuitous route back to the stable. He walked past the kitchens and angled toward the room he had once shared with the other stableboys. Hugging the walls, he crossed another courtyard, headed for the library, then circled back toward the stable by another series of courtyards and steps.

Only when he descended into the warm, fragrant atmosphere of the stable did Soulai realize he had been holding his breath. A hand grazed his shoulder and he jumped, gasping. It was Mousidnou.

“I have the hay and grain,” he whispered. He tipped his head toward a sheaf of hay on which rested a pile of grain.

“How…how did you know?” Soulai stammered.

“The ashipu just left here. Woke me from a dead man's sleep to ask about the parti-color stallion. I told him I hadn't seen the damned horse in a week. After he left, I couldn't find you, or Habasle, so I figured the two of you had something to do with it. Say, what's that on your forehead?”

Soulai rubbed at the grease mark, trying to decide how much he should tell.

“I'll help you carry the feed,” the stable master said. “Where are you keeping the stallion?”

Dropping his hand, Soulai studied the oiliness on his fingers while contemplating his answer. This was Mousidnou, who had ridden back to rescue Habasle; surely he could be trusted. But that brought back Habasle's words:
I trust him. No one will find us.
Soulai shook his head. “I can't say,” he said. “I have to take it alone.”

Mousidnou raised himself up and Soulai cringed, expecting a blow. But the man only shrugged, looking almost hurt. “Here you are, then,” he said gruffly, taking the pouch from Soulai's shoulder and stuffing the grain and hay into it. “You'd better fetch him some water, too. I've hidden a bucket behind the large olive tree near the well. Now move your ass. I'm not staying awake all night for palace gossip.”

Soulai nodded respectfully, backed down the aisle and out of the stable. He paused in the doorway to scan the courtyard.

The air hung still. Muted voices from the palace kitchens drifted through the darkness. Soulai saw a bat skim the trough for a quick drink. Footsteps sounded and he spotted a guard patrolling the walled terrace, the butt of his spear thumping with each step. Soulai waited for him to pass, then slipped across the courtyard.

The skin bucket was nestled behind the potted olive tree as Mousidnou had said. Soulai dropped the bulging pouch and carried the container to the trough. He laid it in the water, but the water was too shallow; he'd have to pull more from the well. That wasn't good. The ropes rubbing on the wheels would surely make noise. He looked around again, saw no one, and reached for the main rope. The first tug let out a loud squeak. He tried coaxing the rope along slowly, and though this softened the sound, it lasted much longer. After an eternity, he felt the weight of a full bucket rise. The rope squeaked louder. Nothing to do but keep pulling, steadily.

“What are you doing there?”

Heart leaping, Soulai looked up at the guard leaning over the wall.

“Getting some water for a horse,” he croaked.

“Why don't you bring him out to the water?” The voice sounded suspicious.

“He's been injured,” Soulai answered truthfully. “Mousidnou told me to fetch water with this bucket.”

The guard hesitated, then seemed satisfied, for he returned to his thumping strolling, though Soulai noted he adjusted his path closer to the wall and frequently glanced over it. In fact, when Soulai tipped one of the well's buckets into his smaller one and turned to leave, the guard was leaning against the wall watching him. Feeling self-conscious, Soulai picked up the pouch and, rather than leaving the courtyard by the steps, turned and reentered the stable. He waited inside, nervous, biding his time like a mouse in its hole. He counted the guard's thumping, peeking out often enough to see the stars shift in the skies. Time was passing. Surely Habasle and Naboushoumidin would be wondering where he was. Ti, poor Ti, who had passed more than two days with nothing to eat, would be growing hungrier and thirstier by the moment.

The thumping faded and disappeared. Soulai counted to a hundred and when the thumping still hadn't returned, he cautiously stepped outside. He waited, listening. The courtyard and the walled terrace above it remained empty.

Still on the alert, he tiptoed toward the steps. He was on the third one when a hand brushed his back, startling him into a loud gasp. He turned to respond to Mousidnou but instead came face-to-face with the ashipu. A sinister smile twisted the man's features. When he spoke, the deep voice could have been one of the tomb's evil spirits.

“You have something I want.”

Illogically, the hay-and-grain-filled pouch came to Soulai's mind and he involuntarily placed a hand over it.

“Not that, you fool. The stallion, the parti-color stallion. Where is he?”

Soulai shook his head. Despite his trembling, he had to feign ignorance.

The ashipu grabbed him and, with fingers as strong as iron, dragged him down the steps and back across the courtyard. The skin bucket slipped from Soulai's hands, spilling its water across the tiles. The man strode straight for the well and shoved Soulai against it so hard that the brick edge cut him across the middle, doubling him over. A dank odor splashed across his face as his head dangled in the void. The point of a knife poked beneath his ribs.

“Where is the stallion?” the evil voice hissed again.

This was it, Soulai thought. The moment when he had to be brave enough to choose death rather than surrender to the enemy. He pictured the bas-relief carvings surrounding the library, the panels showing the citizens of the captured city boldly jumping into the river and drowning. He remembered the fishes nibbling at the bloated bodies. But Ti was worth it. Then he jammed an elbow backward into the ashipu, leaned farther into the well, and dove into the darkness.