To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion (7 page)

“But what?” the ashipu prompted.

“The head charioteer says he's ruined.” He fidgeted a little. For some reason he didn't take pleasure in laying blame upon Habasle in front of this evil-looking man.

Still, no emotion registered on Habasle's face. “How many days have passed since the ashipu treated him?” he asked.

After counting on his fingers, Soulai answered, “Sixteen.”

Habasle squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Sixteen days have passed since your treatment and my horse has not returned to health. Why have the demons lingered so long in his body?”

The ashipu's brow furrowed. “It is not your place to ask about demons!” he shouted. “What do you know about demons?” His breath caught in a faint gasp as an idea appeared to come to him, and the scowl melted away. “Perhaps these are more demanding demons than I realized,” he said in a suddenly smooth voice. “Perhaps they require a sacrifice. A royally bred stallion might appease them.”

Soulai felt the blood drain from his cheeks. He glanced at Habasle, who was paler as well.

“You're bluffing,” Habasle stammered. “What my horse needs is attention to his wounds. Perhaps—”

The ashipu's eyes sparked. “Perhaps,” he interrupted, “perhaps I should turn my attention to you. For you, too, I have come to understand, need attention to your wounds.” The corners of his mouth twisted upward.

For the first time, a shot of undisguised fear flashed through Habasle's eyes. “No, I am healing,” he said.

The ashipu stretched out his arm. As if by sorcery it seemed to grow longer and longer until the curling nails of his fingers closed on Habasle's shoulder. He smiled a wicked smile. “The king, in whose image the gods direct us, has ordered it. And one doesn't deny a god, does one? You will come with me.”

To Capture the Stars

Soulai stood motionless in the unlit room until the footsteps of Habasle and the ashipu had faded. Only then did he try to make his way out. His uncertain steps through the library's maze of rooms attracted the attention of one of the young scribes, who quickly led him back to the entrance. Delivered into the intense heat, Soulai stood squinting beneath the harsh light of midday. After a moment he noticed that Naboushoumidin, still clutching the leash of the mastiff, appeared to be waiting for him. The man nodded as he stepped from the shadow of one of the winged bulls.

“We are headed in the same direction, no?” he asked in his bright manner. The mastiff suddenly lunged after a turtledove, nearly pulling the old scribe off his feet. Several jerks on the leash hauled the huge animal back in line. When the three were again headed to the south side of the palace, Naboushoumidin cast a sidelong glance and said, “You've not been a slave long, have you?”

Soulai, surprised, shook his head.

“How did he know? you are thinking.” Naboushoumidin chuckled. “You see, you are yet wearing that…um…unsettled expression. You are one foot here, one foot there,” he said, hopping from his left to his right. “I mean to say, you want to be elsewhere…but you must be here.”

Soulai felt his head moving up and down.

“I remember how it was,” Naboushoumidin went on. “I was already a young man—seventeen—when my city was captured. Because I had been taught the letters and could read and speak three languages, I was shelved in the library.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh, it wasn't much then. King Esarhaddon, who came before, only wanted his legacy to be conquering the pyramids. But King Ashurbanipal, now there's a scholar. He demands the texts owned by every city he captures. And my work is to copy each and every one of them for the palace collection: lists of omens, incantations for illnesses, puffed-up tales of triumph told over and over.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Endless work, endless! When I was younger I imagined I would simply stop breathing from the awfulness of it all. Even tried it.” Pulling the dog to a halt, Naboushoumidin drew in his breath and puffed out his cheeks. His gray head bobbled as his eyes bulged. Passersby nudged their neighbors and traded smiles. Soulai began to grow nervous. Then the scribe let out his breath in a gush and grinned from ear to ear. “Still can't put myself out of my own misery.” He slapped his chest. “This old body wants to see a few more days.” He shrugged. “Many suns have set; the bones of Esarhaddon, and Sennacherib before him, and Sargon the Second before him, are dust. And King Ashurbanipal's library bursts with 268,492 tablets—now being patiently copied by my assistants. These tablets will outlive us all. So how does a man measure his worth?”

“By his scars, according to my father,” Soulai grumbled.

Naboushoumidin cocked his head. “That is the view of a blind man. Was your city captured as well?”

“No. He…sold me.”

“Ah.” The scribe paused and asked gently, “Some misfortune…?”

Soulai described the fire and the debt owed Jahdunlim. The scribe listened intently, then asked, “And your name?”

“Soulai.”

“Well, Soulai, what is your position here that you wear the face of an old man?”

“Stableboy. I take care of ten horses.”

“And you do not like these horses?”

“Oh, no! I do! I love everything about them: the way their breath smells like honey after they've had their grain, and the way their forelocks fall in fringes across their eyes—I used to put that into my sculptures. And then there's this one stallion—” Soulai cut himself short, blushing.

“Hmmm. You speak as an artist. Perhaps you are misplaced.” Naboushoumidin looked thoughtful. “So it's not the horses. Must be Habasle then.”

Soulai's head jerked up. “How did you know?”

The scribe chuckled. “‘Fierce heart against fierce heart,' ” he quoted. “
The Epic of Gilgamesh
?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Soulai's blank expression showed no recognition. “No matter. There are, perhaps, more persons in this palace who dislike Habasle than I have tablets in my library. But I do not find him so intolerable—his dogs, maybe”—he wrinkled his nose in the direction of the mastiff—“but Habasle—he's just another prince in a long line of princes.” The man snaked his hand through the air in the manner of endless waves upon the ocean.

Soulai frowned. “Habasle says he'll be king.”

His statement was met with a snort. “If I could fasten a harness around the might that Habasle puts into his dreaming,” the scribe said, “I could pull the moon from the night sky. He is much like the king in the story, no?”

Again Soulai wore a blank face.

“Aagh! So much lacking in your education. Come over here. Sit a moment in the shade of this tree.”

“But Mousidnou will—”

“Work can always wait, for there is always more work. I am chief scribe to King Ashurbanipal; I will speak on your behalf. Let's see now…” Lifting a foot precariously high in the air, he cautiously placed it on the mastiff's haunches. The huge animal looked around and, with noticeable disdain, sat. Naboushoumidin settled himself on the low wall surrounding the tree and, resting his sandaled feet lightly atop the mastiff's back, allowed himself a small grin of triumph.

Soulai, respectful of the man's years, sat cross-legged on the tiles, though a wary distance from the dog.

“Now listen to my words,” Naboushoumidin began. “Long ago, in a land not far from here, there lived a young king who wanted more than anything to throw a rope around the great horse of stars in the night sky that he might have it for his own. So he called in his advisers and demanded that they come up with a way for him to reach the sky.

“‘You could build a giant ladder,' said one.

“‘In all of my land there isn't enough wood for that,' argued the king.

“‘You could climb our highest tower and shoot arrows at it,' said another.

“‘I want to capture the horse, not kill it,' sneered the king.

“‘You could harness birds to a basket and be flown up into the sky,' offered a young adviser who was always thinking.

“‘I like it!' said the king, ‘I order you to gather one thousand birds.'

“So a call was put out and all across the land people began snaring birds and bringing them to the palace. Strings were knotted, one end around each bird's leg and the other end to the basket, until there were a thousand birds affixed. Finally, when dusk fell and the stars began twinkling, the king climbed into the basket.

“‘I'm ready!' he cried.

“But the birds, being ravens and doves and plovers, all day-flying birds, slept. The king was furious. He climbed out of the basket and shouted at his young adviser.

“‘Get me some night-flying birds and have this basket ready tomorrow or I'll have you thrown down a well,' he threatened.

“So the next morning another call was put out, and this time, from all across the land, people began gathering bats. As it was daylight, the winged creatures were fast asleep and had no idea that they were being harnessed to a basket. The king was very pleased, and, just as the sun was setting, he climbed into the basket and stared at the sky, waiting for his horse of stars to appear.

“The young adviser appeared at his side. ‘This could be dangerous,' he warned the king. ‘Perhaps we should attach a long rope to the basket—'

“‘So you can pull me to the ground and keep me away from my horse?' the king cried, ‘I won't hear of any such thing.'

“The sun set as he finished speaking and the bats began to stir. Alarmed to find themselves tethered, they unfolded their wings at once and flew into the sky like a great black cloud. The king in his basket was carried along with them, higher and higher and looking smaller and smaller, until he was no bigger than one eye on his great horse of stars.”

Naboushoumidin looked at Soulai and grinned. “I can't tell you what became of him, but I can say that since that day no king has tried to capture the stars.”

Soulai shared the scribe's amusement. “Have you told that story to Habasle?”

“I could tell it, but the question is, would he hear it?”

Naboushoumidin swatted a fly away from his face. “He may one day be king, but you must be the young adviser. Always thinking, no?” He tapped his forehead with his finger.

By this time the mastiff had stretched out, his massive head resting on his paws. His shoulders vibrated with rapid breathing. More flies clustered around the moist rims of his closed eyes. Naboushoumidin rose stiffly, tugged on the leash, and the dog sleepily stood up. The three continued across the courtyard.

Just before they reached the stable, Naboushoumidin spoke. “I have been guessing, Soulai, ever since I saw you at the library's entrance, that you have a question. I have all the knowledge of all the lands at my fingertips. So what is it that most troubles your heart?”

Soulai thought about himself, about the years of slavery awaiting him. Images crashed through his mind; images of his father grabbing his wrists, of his mother crying, of Soulassa—was she a wife already? He remembered her gathering up the stiff-legged horses he had molded from clay. And then he thought of Ti. The dull coat, the lifeless eyes. More than anything else he wanted to know if Ti would ever get better, if he'd get back his spirit. If, somehow, he, Soulai, would be able to—

“What?” the scribe prompted.

“Ti,” Soulai whispered. “Do you know what will happen to Ti?”

“Who is this Ti?”

“A horse…the most incredible horse you could ever…” Soulai's voice trailed off. How could he fit words around the stallion's spirit, a fire he had once sensed but could not see? Suddenly uncomfortable, Soulai bowed his head and turned toward the stable.

“Wait,” Naboushoumidin said and Soulai halted as if under a spell. “This horse, I see now, he is one with you. Perhaps it is his troubled spirit that is showing itself in your eyes. How is he in danger?”

Soulai turned around, the emotions rising within him. He told Naboushoumidin everything about Ti, how the mark of Ninurta forecast a glorious future, how Habasle had nearly killed him during the lion hunt, how the horse seemed to have lost his spirit, and how Habasle was demanding Ti's return so that he could ride him into battle, possibly to be killed for real.

The scribe frowned and drew back. “Are you more worried for Ti or for yourself ?”

“For Ti, of course.” Soulai was surprised. Didn't the man understand that Ti might die?

“Because he might die,” Naboushoumidin said.

The words echoed his thoughts so exactly that a shiver ran through Soulai as he nodded.

“But you have said this horse's destiny is watched over by Ninurta, god of the hunt and god of war. Death is inescapable in both.”

Soulai stared at the gray-haired scribe.

“Listen to me. Each one of us has a destiny that must be pursued wholeheartedly, yea though it brings death early, for death will surely come eventually. ‘Year upon year the river swells past its banks; the butterfly lives but a day.'
Gilgamesh
again. You should read it sometime. You see, animals, people, even kings—they're born and they die. The truly great ones will have their deeds recorded in the tablets and chiseled onto the palace walls, so that they may inspire those who follow. Don't let your own soft heart cheat this horse of his rightful destiny.”

Soulai felt tears welling in his eyes. His only response was to spin and race for the stable, leap down the stairs and tumble into its comforting dusk. Suddenly it seemed that everyone expected Ti to die. Well, he wasn't going to let that happen. He sprinted down the aisle, ignoring the complaints of his leg, skidded around the corner, and rushed to Ti's side.

The horse startled and pulled back on his tether. Soulai boldly threw his arms around Ti's upper neck and let the sobs come. Through his misery, he felt the stallion touch his shoulder, gently nuzzling him, offering a comfort that only doubled Soulai's determination to guard his friend.