To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion (6 page)

Destiny's Drawings

This is the library. Habasle said to wait here.”

The child runner who spoke had latched onto Soulai's wrist as Soulai was carrying a basket of dung from the stable and had tugged him on a winding course through the palace grounds. Now, just as abruptly, the boy released it. Without a backward glance, he trotted across the tiles and disappeared into the comings and goings of the other workers.

Soulai waited. He'd spent much of last night and all of today wondering if he'd killed Habasle. Well, he thought, obviously Habasle wasn't dead; so I'm innocent, true? Yet he guiltily fiddled with the clay tag around his neck while watching a beetle crawl atop a wall. He sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Increasingly anxious, he looked around. But the walkways surrounding the library remained empty.

Still, something, he was certain, was about to happen. He felt eyes watching him. Again he searched the area—left, right, in front, and behind—and saw no one. But blinking up into the bright sunlight, he caught his breath. Two monstrous stone lamassu glowered above him, their shadowed brows suspending heavy, knotted beards that stretched halfway to their cloven limestone feet. Wings the size of oxcarts shielded their powerful bull's bodies. No matter which way he turned, it seemed, their stern faces followed him.

Soulai crossed his arms and sidled around the corner, out of their sight. Maybe the runner had gotten Habasle's message wrong, he thought; maybe I should return to the stable. The shadows were growing shorter; the morning was almost over and Mousidnou would surely be growling about Soulai's unfinished chores.

He fingered the clay tag again. With a grimace, he admitted he couldn't leave. As much as he hated it, Habasle owned him—owned all his actions—and Habasle had commanded him to come here. He had to wait.

As the empty morning dragged on, Soulai discovered a series of carved stone panels that wrapped the library like a wondrous belt. Each one portrayed an Assyrian victory at war. Such was the talent of the unknown artist that the chiseled figures seemed to act out their stories right before Soulai's eyes.

In one scene, odd-looking men astride camels—two to a hump—were fleeing the Assyrian army, and archers on foot and horseback pelted the defeated men with arrows. Soulai could almost hear the thunder of hooves, the incessant whine of arrows, and the thud and scream as iron dug into flesh. He peered into the unblinking eye of a man stretched upon the ground, one hand clawing the dirt. An arrow jutted from his shoulder. As if by its own will, Soulai's hand stretched toward the stony shaft. His fingers traced its length to where it pierced the man's skin. He flinched and yanked his hand away. Not realizing he had been holding his breath, he let it out and moved on.

A few panels down, Assyrian soldiers scaled the walls of an enemy city. So frightened were the inhabitants that they leaped from the towers to drown in the river below. The sculptor had carved the naked bodies of men and women mingling with the fishes below the surface of the roiling waters. Soulai shuddered. Would he have had the bravery to jump to his death rather than be taken captive? He remembered his stumbling journey down the mountain beneath Jahdunlim's whip. Jumping to his death had seemed an escape then; but he hadn't, had he? He was a coward in death as well as life.

Running his fingers along the undulating crevices that described the river, he moved to the next panel, another battle scene, the Assyrian army once more victorious. Hundreds of mounted archers trampled the fallen enemy. But these victims, destined to die with the next hoof fall, thrust long spears into the bellies of the horses that rode over them. So while the battleground was cluttered with human remains, Soulai noted that scores of horses flailed there as well. His throat tightened as he saw the eyes bulging in pain, the mouths gaping midscream. One horse stumbled on three legs with a broken spear embedded in its chest. Soulai searched the panel for the rider, but could not find him. With a rapid heartbeat he remembered how Habasle had abandoned Ti the instant he was injured. Obviously it was the same in battle. The horse was just another tool, no better than an arrow or a spear, to be flung at the enemy and forgotten.

“What do you wish to know? Only but ask. Only ask. What is it?”

A brisk voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned to find an old man, woolly gray head bound in a silver-embroidered band, clasping his hands to his chest and smiling a toothy grin.

“I am Naboushoumidin,” the man said, “chief scribe to King Ashurbanipal and keeper of the royal tablets. I will search for your answer if you will only tell me the question. Any question.” He twisted his hands in fidgety enthusiasm as he smiled. Soulai guessed by the man's flat nose and ample lips that he, too, came from somewhere else, and he was sorry to dampen the enthusiasm in the striking blue eyes. “I was brought here,” he said, “Habasle sent for me.” The scribe's smile disappeared. “Habasle is here again? Not with his dogs!” The fringe of his yellow robe swirled about his ankles as he pivoted and plunged into the shadows of the arching entry. “No, no, no, no, no.” Soulai heard him chattering over and over like an angry ground squirrel. “He's not to bring those slobbering beasts into my library.”

Rather than continuing to wait, Soulai ducked his head beneath the stony glares of the lamassu and followed. Inside it was one narrow room after another. The flickering oil lamps revealed thousands of clay tablets spilling from every corner. Some were as small as his palm, others as broad as a soldier's shield. Two of the larger rooms contained ornately carved tablets at which young scribes sat, surrounded by hills of still more tablets. Soulai saw that they patiently copied the wedge-shaped marks of the baked tablets onto the moist clay of others. His fingers tingled at the sight, but he hurried after Naboushoumidin. Close on the man's heels, Soulai traveled the maze until they came to a small, unlit room. The rumbling growl of a large dog halted his steps.

The old scribe extended a protective arm across Soulai and they stood motionless until their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Gradually Soulai made out Habasle crouched in the corner, one hand on the collar of a drooling mastiff.

Naboushoumidin cleared his throat. “We've been through this,” he began somewhat hesitantly. “You know I cannot—I simply will not—tolerate beasts in my library. These tablets are much too rare. What if one broke? The loss: unimaginable, irreparable, irretrievable! Your father has gone to great lengths to—” He screwed up his face and thrust out a hand. “Give me the dog.”

Soulai watched in astonishment as Habasle climbed to his feet and marched the huge animal, hair abristle on its neck and still growling, straight toward the old man. He feared the worst, but Naboushoumidin didn't flinch, just resolutely wrapped his finger around the studded collar, backed out of the room, and, with his arm stiffly extended, said, “I will return him to the keeper of the hounds.”

“You will hold him for me at the library's entrance,” Habasle ordered.

“As you wish,” the scribe murmured without pause.

Habasle snickered as the awkward pair moved away, each equally suspicious of the other. “Naboushoumidin won't dare to breathe for fear Annakum will devour him.”

Soulai looked at this boy whom he hated. There was something different about him today. Maybe it was the dim light, but Habasle's face looked sallow beneath his dark curls. And though the air this deep inside the library was cool, sweat beaded his brow. Habasle moved his hand to cradle the lumpy bandage beneath his clothing.

“You were watching yesterday,” he said.

Soulai nodded.

“Did you see who did this to me?” He opened his blue and white robe just enough to reveal a blood-spotted tunic.

Soulai wasn't sure how to answer, wasn't sure if he
should
answer.

“Don't tell me you're blind as well as dumb. What did you see?”

Soulai bristled. “I saw you jousting with someone taller,” he responded, “maybe older, but I—”

“No,” Habasle interrupted. He sank back against the wall, plainly weary. “I know with whom I jousted. I mean, did you see who put the spear tip on the pole? They're supposed to be blunt.”

Soulai shook his head.

“You said you were watching,” Habasle spoke angrily. “Why weren't you watching
me?
You're my slave; you're supposed to take care of me.”

“I…I didn't know,” Soulai stammered. “I was grazing Ti.”

“How is he?”

The question stunned him. Why do you care about Ti? he thought. You're the one who abandoned him to the lion.

Habasle groaned as he lowered himself to the floor. As if he knew Soulai's thoughts, he said, “Haven't you heard? The Medes have taken Harran. That's why I'm here, studying their tactics as they have been recorded. There's going to be a war, you see.” He paused for two labored breaths. “The time is coming,” he continued, “when Ti and I must prove ourselves. Our fates are woven together. Look, just as he bears the mark of Ninurta—god of the hunt, god of war—upon his shoulder, so do I.” With obvious strain, he tugged at the necklines of his robe and tunic, finally managing to pull them down over one shoulder.

Soulai bent to look. A winged image fanned across Habasle's skin, but even in the poor light he could tell that the intricate, reddish lines were only a blurred henna tattoo.

“Do you see it?” Habasle asked. “It's the same as Ti's, isn't it?”

“I see it,” Soulai said.

“And it's the same as Ti's.”

It was the same arrogance as the lion's in Mousidnou's story, and Soulai was finding it difficult to play the subservient jackal. He gritted his teeth. How could this pampered ass think he was anything like the noble Ti?

“Tell me what you're thinking; I order it.”

Sucking in his breath, Soulai said, “I don't think you can simply draw your own destiny.”

To his surprise, Habasle grinned. “Which shows us why you're a slave and I'm the son of a king. Not only am I going to draw my own destiny, I'm going to draw it bigger, and dye it brighter, than old Ashurbanipal himself. I may be only one of his many sons, but with Ti I'm going to prove I'm the best.” He coldly appraised Soulai, then snorted. “Look at us, the same years—thirteen…fourteen, right?—almost the same bodies, though mine is stronger. We even resemble each other in the face; I've heard it commented. And yet”—he tapped his chest with his index finger—“we are much different here. The heart, the seat of bravery, is empty in you.”

Soulai winced as if he'd been slapped. Then he set his jaw. “Why did you call me here?”

“To see about Ti.”

“You could have come to the stable,” Soulai said evenly, “and seen him for yourself. It's been over two weeks.”

Habasle looked away. “Not done as easily as it is said.” He turned back with a crazed grin. “You see, someone is trying to, shall we say, clip my wings?”

Just one? Soulai thought grimly.

“It's because I'll be king after Ashurbanipal.”

Soulai remembered the ashipu's mocking words. Again his thoughts must have shown on his face, for Habasle spoke vehemently. “I wouldn't place too much faith in the idle chatter of washerwomen,” he said. “I am what I say I am, and what I will be. Now, how soon can Ti be ridden?”

Soulai couldn't rein in his emotions any longer. “He's useless to you,” he declared. “The head charioteer says he's ruined. He said you took him on the lion hunt too soon, that it stole his courage.”

“He'll find it again,” Habasle said. “He has to.”

“Why does he have to?”

“The mark of Ninurta. It's his destiny to be a great horse—courageous in hunt, brave in battle.”

“Even if that means being killed in battle?”

“What more glorious destiny? As long as you take the lives of two or more enemies first—at least you've improved the odds. As Enlil is my witness, do they breed boys without spines in your mountains?”

Again Soulai felt as if he'd been struck. The words could have come straight from his father. His shoulders heaved and he didn't hear the next question until it was repeated.

“I said, do you know the month of your birth?”

Soulai glared. “Adar.”

“Aha! The fishes. Do you know which day?”

Soulai shook his head.

“I've just been learning something new about the stars, something they're studying in another land. And I'll bet a whole shekel that when you were born the stars of Pisces were overhead. Which means that as one of the two fishes, you have a choice: to swim upstream—harder, but quite often more rewarding—or downstream, much like a twig at the river's whims.”

“I don't swim,” Soulai started to say, but his words were drowned by the shriek of another's.

“What is this filthy stableboy doing in the royal library?”

The ashipu was blocking the entrance to the narrow room, cutting off what little light filtered in. Soulai cowered as Habasle pushed himself up to a standing position. The tall man walked toward them, flicking his long fingers in the manner of chasing away a bothersome insect. “He is not educated,” he said. “And he leaves his work unfinished. Be off with you. Now.”

Though he wanted nothing more at that moment than to flee the library, Soulai was held in place by a firm “No.” With his heart pounding, he watched Habasle look directly into the ashipu's searing eyes and say, “He stays. I have summoned him to ask about the health of my horse, the parti-color you were ordered to save.”

“And?”

They both turned to Soulai.

“Ssssss!” the ashipu hissed, lifting his hand in the air as if to strike. Soulai cringed. “Come, come, boy. What do you say? How fares the beast?”

“Better,” Soulai croaked. “He's a little better.” He didn't miss the look of relief that smoothed the ashipu's domed forehead. “I grazed him yesterday—the first day he's been out. He's eating more, but…” He paused, glancing between the two.