To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion (5 page)

“Now the jackal, being the cunning survivor that he is, has been watching carefully. Quick as lightning, he drags both the boar and the antelope over to the lion and bows as he backs away. ‘I believe that is the lion's share,' he says. ‘With your permission, the leopard and I will share the duck.'

“The lion rumbles with pleasure. ‘How, my friend, did you learn to share so well?'

“‘I took a lesson from the leopard's broken leg!' he says.”

Mousidnou paused. He looked pleased with himself. “I'm warning you,” he said, “no matter what you or I think of Habasle, he is the lion, son of King Ashurbanipal and—”

“The ashipu doesn't seem to think—”

The knuckled side of the stable master's hand cracked across Soulai's face. “Listen, you snot-nosed little turd. I don't know why I'm blowing words into your thick skull, except that your ass is hitched to Habasle's, so you'd better understand his situation.” He lifted his hand again, hesitated, and lowered it. “It's like this. Soon after Habasle's mother came to the palace, still a girl, she had a child, Habasle. She claimed to have lain with the king, but at about that time it was also discovered that a slave boy had been sneaking into the harem. My wife tells me that in the fourteen years since Habasle's birth, his mother has lain with the king many times but has not conceived. So palace tongues wag that this is proof that Habasle isn't royal, that he's the son of the slave who escaped long ago.

“And, as this seems to be my evening for counseling asses,” the stable master continued, “I'll tell you this. The palace runs thick with rumors—some true, most false—all stirred up to sweeten one's position.” His fist found the hilt of his knife as his eyes narrowed. “It was never like this on the battlefield. There, wagging tongues were silenced. But here, the fact of the matter is that King Ashurbanipal has many sons, and only one will be king after him. A mother's love for her own son can, shall we say, breed lies. Now,” Mousidnou said, smoothing his tunic over his protruding belly, “you can burn some of that misplaced anger of yours feeding and watering your horses. And no whimpering like some whipped puppy.” He jerked his head toward Ti. “He's got it a lot tougher than you.”

“I'm not complaining,” Soulai called out in the direction of Mousidnou's retreating back. “And I'm not leaving. I'm sleeping here.”

The lumbering man shrugged. “I'll send my wife with something later,” he answered.

The moment Mousidnou was out of sight, half a dozen stableboys left their tasks to flock around Soulai. Their questions sounded like the chatter of crows. On another day Soulai might have relished telling of the morning's hunt, perhaps even exaggerating his bravery. But now, all Soulai could do was look past the boys to Ti, who lay miserable and unmoving, his massive haunches slack, his silken tail drooping. Only the tether's length kept Ti's head from resting full cheek in the manure. As it was, powdery dung cupped his muzzle. So Soulai said nothing. And one by one the stableboys fell silent and crept back to their duties.

By the time Soulai had led the last horse from the water trough, the three brilliant stars of the summer triangle shone overhead, the great bird with the outstretched wings soaring through their midst. He reentered the stable, knotted the final tether, and, trembling with fatigue and a tremendous throbbing, lowered himself onto the aisle floor. A stab of pain made him dig his fingers into the crevice between the bricks and the wall. To his surprise, he found the familiar grittiness of clay. Scraping up a small amount with his index finger, he wadded it into a ball. Slowly he began coaxing a small horse from the lump, all the while staring at Ti's silvery silhouette.

“How is it?” came an unfamiliar voice.

Soulai started, for he hadn't heard anyone approach. He looked up to find a pear-shaped woman with graying hair gathered at the nape of her neck standing beside him. She was holding a basket covered by a cloth.

“Your leg, how is it?” she repeated. “Can you walk?”

Soulai nodded, then looked back at Ti. The woman followed his gaze.

“He looks bad,” she said gently.

“He is bad,” Soulai whispered. “I think he's leaving the light.”

She folded her hands and waited in silence.

Near to tears, Soulai found himself pouring out his thoughts. “He said Ti had value to him, but where is he now? He's just left him here to die. He doesn't see…” His voice cracked. “He only sees what he wants to see,” he finished.

Refusing to cry, Soulai blinked hard and stared straight ahead. He wasn't aware how much time had passed before it came to him that this woman must be Mousidnou's wife and that she had already tiptoed away, leaving the basket of figs and flatbread at his side. The clay figurine remained unfinished in his lap. The hush of night fell over the palace and still he didn't move. Only when the jackals gathered around Nineveh's gates to yelp their eerie songs did a shiver run the length of his body.

“Please,” he whispered to the demons haunting the black air, “please don't take him.”

Cry and Answer

Each night, the constellation of the great bird soared a little farther across the night sky. Each day, from the month of Ab to the month of Elul, burned a little hotter. Nineveh's palace shimmered in the stifling heat. Yellowed leaves fell from the potted trees and lay motionless until a sudden hot wind swept them, tinkling, across the tiled courtyards. Dry as the desert, the wind and the heat sucked life from every living thing, and the normal palace bustle died to sluggish steps.

The horses and soldiers continued to train, however. Word had come that the Medes were mounting a challenge to Assyria's borders. As Soulai looked over the armory's training grounds one afternoon, he saw and heard a heightened urgency that defied the heat. His eyes scanned pairs of lathered horses pulling heavy, two-wheeled chariots, the drivers' shouts of encouragement punctuating the slap of reins. Raucous barking and growling caught his attention as the royal keeper of the hounds tossed chunks of meat over the heads of his mastiffs. But Soulai was searching for something else—someone else, actually—and he knew he was within sight.

“We'll take them over there,” Mousidnou interrupted. Soulai followed the stable master toward the dappled shade of a large acacia bush. The horses they were leading lowered their heads to nibble the scant grasses.

Shielding his eyes from the dust and sun, Soulai continued to survey the center of the grounds where hundreds of soldiers, horses, and slaves milled about between scattered piles of weapons and shields. Some of the men practiced hand-to-hand combat under the watchful eyes of instructors. Others took turns on the horses, spearing targets with their lances, then charging each other with blunt poles. In one of these clusters, the young men were outfitted in the pale blue and white of royalty. That was where Soulai picked out the boy who owned him.

“Look at him,” he muttered as he watched Habasle aim his pole at a mounted opponent and spur his horse into a charge. “He's practically gagging that horse.”

Mousidnou observed, but didn't say anything. The combatants missed each other on the first pass, spun, and charged again. In the next clash Habasle's opponent grabbed the wobbling end of Habasle's pole and flipped it skyward, knocking Habasle off his horse. Habasle jumped up, yelling, and a commander galloped over to intervene.

Mousidnou grunted. “Loudest of the litter he is, always yapping he didn't get a fair chance at the teat.”

“Fair chance?” Soulai complained. “He doesn't know what fair is. He
owns
people and horses and dogs, and…and he doesn't care if they live, or die a slow death, as long as he gets his way.” He watched Habasle vault onto his mount, jerk the reins so hard that the horse's mouth gaped, then cockily trot back toward a servant who handed him a new pole. Soulai turned away, his face flushed with anger.

He focused his attention instead on the horse he led—Ti. Although gray scabs curled from the cuts on his flanks, the wound at the base of his neck continued to fester and the stallion moved stiffly. For the first weeks of the month of Ab, weeks without sleep, Soulai had cared for Ti. At least four times a day he had lugged fresh water from the courtyard trough and, between chores, had sneaked away to pull tender grasses from the canals. He'd once even risked losing a hand by stealing an apple from a silver tray. Ti had barely fluttered his nostrils at the treat.

While the gods of life and death had fought over his spirit, the horse's body had sweated and shivered in endless rounds. He had finally fallen so weak that even when the battle was over and won, he could hardly nibble the handfuls of grain Soulai had cupped beneath his muzzle. His hide had shrunk to reveal ribs and hips and each bumpy bone of his spine. Soulai had starved with him. How could he eat when Ti was dying?

Kneeling beside him each night, Soulai stroked the horse's flanks, mumbling prayers and pouring out his love. He touched the crest of Ti's drooping neck, let his fingers skim down the broad forehead and across the veins of his cheek. There was no punishing nip. As he memorized each facet of the stallion's face, Soulai felt the creative fire returning to his hands. He recalled that he had once been able to breathe life into shapeless clay, and the rhythm of his strokes quickened. With keen concentration, then, he began kneading and rubbing and polishing Ti's body, willing the spark of life to take hold.

Gradually the animal's appetite improved, and after some time he was able to stand for the greater part of the day. Soulai heaved a sigh of relief, yet one that was not completely without worry. For while he had been able to rub a shine back into Ti's coat, the horse's spirit remained lackluster. He did prick his ears now when Soulai approached, and he even sounded an occasional nicker of gratitude, but otherwise he showed no interest in the world around him. It was Mousidnou who had suggested that before the evening's chores a walk outside the stable might do the stallion good.

A rising cheer from the grounds caused the horse that Mousidnou led to lift his head, but Ti only cocked an ear. The head charioteer had loosed his blue-black stallions along the armory's curving inside track and the driver nearest him was urging his pair into the contest. The two men exchanged grins as they slapped their reins and their teams stretched into a pounding gallop. Shouts erupted from the soldiers as the horses took a dangerously wide sweep around the end of the grounds, scattering dogs and men. They raced wheel to wheel the length of the field, careened around the far turn, and came charging up on the rows of chariots in training maneuvers. Several of the horses in harness reared and bucked in attempts to join the gallop.

The teams slowed. The race was over and the two men reined their horses into line with the front row of chariots. Just as both teams came to a blowing, prancing walk, however, the head charioteer whistled to his horses and they sprang again into full gallop, leaving a thick cloud of dust over their challenger.

The dark stallions came surging around the turn again, and this time pulled to a halt right in front of Soulai and Mousidnou. Ti shied away. As Soulai soothed him with a calming hand, he admired the magnificent, sweat-slickened animals harnessed to the chariot. Their manes, shiny as the feathers of a glossy ibis, fell from bulging crests. The whites of their eyes flashed as they tossed their heads and champed their bits. Every muscle in their bodies was chiseled like a warrior's.

Mousidnou congratulated the charioteer, who grinned and nodded respectfully in return. But the smile vanished when he saw Ti.

“Isn't this the young stallion marked by Ninurta?” He jumped out of his chariot, tossing a look of alarm at Soulai as he stomped past. “I thought I told you to look after him!” Ti responded to the agitation by snorting and pulling away, and the man wisely slowed his approach. He circled the nervous animal, shaking his head as he took in the injuries. “What in the name of the wind demon happened?”

Soulai looked to Mousidnou in a silent plea for help, but the stable master remained stone-faced.

“Well?” the charioteer demanded. “How did you let this happen, boy?”

“It was a lion, but I didn't—” Soulai began.

“A lion? You took this horse after lions—at his age? By whose order?”

Again Soulai glanced toward Mousidnou, but the man's attention seemed to be focused on other chariot maneuvers.

“Habasle's.” Soulai's voice cracked, though a thrill ran through him as he placed the blame.

For all his fury, the charioteer looked more sad than angry. “Do you know what you've done?” He gestured toward Ti. “You've ruined him. One of the king's finest-bred stallions—and you've ruined him before the end of his fourth year.”

Each harsh word pierced Soulai like a tiny arrow.

“Just look at his eyes,” the man implored. “Remember what I said about the odd-colored ones, how rare they are, how they show courage? Well, look. What do they show now?”

Biting his lip, Soulai looked directly into Ti's eyes. They showed…

“Nothing! That's right, nothing. They're weak, dead.
Pfftt!
No fire, no courage. This horse is no better than dog meat now. Cut him up for the mastiffs, Mousidnou, because he's not worth the rope 'round his head.”

Soulai winced. It couldn't be true.

“In some fairness,” he heard Mousidnou saying, “the boy did save the horse's life by risking his own. And he's tended to him while keeping up his duties, though hardly able to walk himself.”

Soulai's tunic hid his own scars, so the charioteer's downward glance found no reason for sympathy. He sneered. “Well, you needn't waste any more time.” He shook his head in disgust and stepped into his chariot. Gathering the reins, he leveled a pained look at Soulai. “It seems you and your master have more in common than your looks, you're both careless with a thing of value.”

Soulai stood stunned and speechless as the charioteer galloped his horses away. He turned to Mousidnou and barely croaked, “What he said about Ti, is it true?”

The stable master shrugged. “It's his business to know horses,” he said. “And it has been more than two weeks, with the animal only a shadow of himself.” He paused as he continued scanning the training grounds. “I've watched it happen to warriors as well as warhorses, and my answer would be to give him a chance to live. But whether he has the heart to care about living is the question.”

Soulai looked again at Ti, and this time saw with shocking clarity that he looked more like a cheap cart horse than a prize stallion. With tears in his eyes he spun toward the training grounds that Ti would probably never again visit. How he wished for the gods to fling some evil down upon Habasle! He'd destroyed Ti, turned him into dog meat!

He blinked harder and faster and shot a fierce glance across the field. Habasle was galloping again toward an opponent, pole raised. Soulai hurled his hatred at him!

A sharp, sudden cry arose from the commotion. Soulai watched, dumbstruck, as Habasle slumped over his mount's neck, then slid off onto the ground. His opponent's pole seemed to have somehow become tangled in his clothing and Habasle clutched it as he fell. Several of the men paused, waiting for Habasle to get up, then one of the commanders jumped from his horse and ran toward him. He knelt and rolled Habasle onto his back. With a chill, Soulai saw the pole—thrust like a spear into Habasle's side.

The commander shouted orders. Then, with one foot on Habasle, he yanked the pole free. Habasle pulled up his knees, shrieking and writhing in pain. Two men approached, grasped him by the shoulders and ankles, and carried him from the grounds. The commander, examining the pole's tip, continued to shout, this time at the opponent, who spread his arms in a gesture of innocence. Soulai could tell by the commander's anger that innocence had no part in Habasle's misfortune.

Guilt swept over him. A moment before he had wished the worst upon Habasle and now, perhaps, it had happened. Have I killed him? he wondered. Or had someone else not wanted him to live?

“You see,” Mousidnou was saying calmly, “the gods have given Habasle many things. But it is like they say in the marketplace: He who possesses much silver may be happy, and he who possesses much barley may be glad, but he who owns nothing at all may, at least, sleep.”