The 22 Letters (14 page)

It was the turn of a young boy, and it seemed that the older trainers looked at each other and winked and smiled as he approached the horse. But there was no bucking and plunging as the lad got up on its back, and sat there, cocksure and proud, with another man still holding the horse's head. The man let go, giving the horse's rump a smack with his hand as it passed. The horse threw its head up and forward, seemed to bunch its muscles, and shot out of the camp like an arrow from a bow. The boy tugged at the reins, but nothing that he could do seemed to make any difference; and as they receded rapidly into the distance the other trainers slapped each other's shoulders and supported each other as they staggered around, weak with laughter at their successful horseplay. This was early in the morning: it was nearly dark when the lad arrived back in the camp, furious and scowling, on foot and without the horse.

As the days passed, Zayin was allowed to mount and ride one or other of the older workhorses when the foraging parties went out farther from the camp. The tribesmen were not at all fond of such work as cutting grass and were glad to have their slave do it for them: but, on the other hand, they did not like to see a grown man walking on his feet, even if he were a slave. The great moment came when Zayin was given a pair of old trousers so that he could sit a horse in comfort. He felt ridiculous on the ground with his twin stalks under him, but once mounted it made all the difference. He learned to handle the reins, and his muscles became accustomed to the various paces of the horse so that it was no longer agony to keep up with the working parties.

One day he was washing a horse on the outskirts of the camp. Horses did not often get washed, and men never, but this was a white horse—though with the summer dust you might well call it gray—which belonged to the chieftain. It had got well caked with mud fording a river. So Zayin had been given a bucket of water and told to get on with it. It was a nervous, well-fed animal, but it seemed to enjoy its ablutions, and Zayin had got used to quieting his charges by talking to them. It also gave him an opportunity to speak his own language, which he was afraid of forgetting, after they had sent his fellow prisoner, the sergeant, to another camp. He had come to realize that though a horse might really understand two or three words, beyond that it was not particular about the language in which it was addressed.

“Stand still, then, can't you!” Zayin scolded. “A nice wash you're getting, you dumb bottom half of a centaur you! All right, it's those young men galloping round there that's upsetting you! Easy now, easy!” Not far off a group of young warriors were galloping around a sack stuffed with straw and shooting at it with bows and arrows. Two of them, intent upon the target, nearly collided with each other, but at the last moment the horses swerved and avoided each other.

“Now there's where man plus horse scores over a mere centaur. Two pairs of eyes are better than one, and horse sense is useful as far as it goes.”

The warriors were now attacking the leather bag with lances, riding full tilt and crouching in their saddles. “What can a mere footslogger do about
that
?” Zayin continued to the horse. He sighed. “D'you think they'll ever let me become a mounted soldier?”

Then Zayin laughed. “Get over, you brute!” he said curtly to the animal. “You don't realize the honor being done to you. You're being washed by General Zayin of Gebal, no less. And General Zayin's wondering if they're going to let him play soldiers. You know what? General Zayin's going to command an
army
of horse soldiers one day. D'you hear that?” And he slapped the animal a little too heartily on the hindquarters, and it began to dance around the picket to which it was tethered, and Zayin the groom had to speak honeyed words to calm it down again.

The young men finished their military exercise and walked their steeds off to the horse lines, and Zayin got on with his job in peace. But not for long. Soon the horse began to prick its ears again and snort, and suddenly it gave forth a strident neigh like a war trumpet.

“What's got into you now?” Zayin wondered, looking around. “Aha, visitors!” For on the horizon to the East was a cloud of dust advancing toward the camp, and now he could detect the drumming of hoof beats which the horse had heard before him. As far as Zayin knew there were no parties away from the camp at that time, so they must be strangers. His military instinct told him to give the alarm or call out the guard, but he shrugged and carried on with his work. He was only a groom, after all.

The dust cloud got nearer and the hoof beats louder, and the barking of watchdogs and neighing of other horses soon roused the camp. When the party galloped up with the usual flourish of whoops and yells, Zayin could see that they were tribesmen similar to his own captors. But the leader, a young man with more than the usual amount of gold ornaments about him, seemed to be a person of some consequence, for the chieftain of the camp himself was hurriedly called from his tent to meet him. The young man flung himself from his horse and the two chiefs embraced each other with extravagant gestures. A carpet was brought out and laid before the tent, women were sent for food and drink, and the two men and their companions settled down for what looked like a formal conference.

“This might be interesting,” murmured Zayin to the horse, and proceeded to lead it back to the chieftain's tent, without, however, showing any outward interest in what was happening. He busied himself with tethering and settling the horse in its usual place by the tent, but kept his ears open for any words he could pick up. His knowledge of the tribal language was still very slight, but it was more than the tribesmen thought.

The conversation consisted for some time of formal greetings. Then Zayin could detect a change of tone as they got down to business.

“A hundred horses for Nineveh!” That phrase came over clearly enough. Zayin had gathered already that much of the wealth of the tribe came from supplying schooled horses to the capital of the East. But a hundred at a time was a big order from such a small tribe. Even the chieftain showed his astonishment. There followed an impassioned speech from the young man, of which Zayin understood nothing except some threatening gestures and a lot of pointing, directed toward the West. And then he was sure that he heard the words “Ugarit” and “Gebal.” Gebal! What could these wild men know of his home city? What business could they have with the coast there, and with Ugarit, the next city to the North. Why were they recruiting horses by the hundred? Whatever was afoot, it boded no good for Zayin's people. It could only mean invasion, perhaps a great movement of armies westward to the sea. At last, Zayin thought, he had come across the military information which the King had sent him to find—but what use could he make of it, a captive and a slave?

He heard then the chieftain of the tribe speak the words “Man of Gebal,” and saw that he was pointing Zayin out to the guest. The other said something. “He does not understand our language,” the chieftain answered. So Zayin continued to polish the bit of the bridle he was holding, and pretended not to have noticed anything. But it confirmed that he was not mistaken: it was certainly Gebal that the warriors were talking about.

The conference on the carpet seemed to come to a climax when the young envoy reached into a leather wallet he carried at his waist and took out a small, square clay brick, which he handed with a flourish to the older man. Then there was a great deal of laughter as it was handed from one to another of the shaggy men sitting there: it was obvious that it was a written message of some sort that of course not one of them could read. The last man to be handed it showed the general contempt which they felt for it by tossing it over his shoulder into the dust.

Later that evening Zayin, doing his rounds with a crude wooden bucket and shovel to clear up after the horses, picked up the brick. He looked at the neat rows of characters impressed into the clay, each one like an arrangement of little nails, sharp at one end and with a head at the other. It meant nothing to him either, yet something made him put it into his pouch.

The days after that were full of activity. Horses were being judged and selected for the draft to Nineveh, the schooling of the half-trained horses was intensified, and more and more were brought in from the plain to replace them. Now Zayin's mind was filled with one thing only: the possibility of escape. But his chances seemed no better than before. He had to work harder, the camp was in a wakeful bustle all day and most of the night, and even the watchdogs seemed to be more alert.

Then one day the big bay horse that had run away with the boy came back. A rounding-up party had gone out as usual, and returned with the bay trotting tamely on the end of a rope. It was clear enough to Zayin that the drift of the ensuing argument was: “Why bring that animal back to camp again? We can't do anything with it, anyhow.”

Then Zayin noticed that among the rounding-up party was the lad on whom the trick had been played, and he guessed that he wanted to have a second chance at breaking-in the animal.

That evening as Zayin was carrying fodder to the tethered animals, the young horse breaker came up to him and said something abrupt to him.

“I don't understand a word, my boy,” said Zayin in his own language. “All I know is that it's my job to feed these horses.” He threw down a measure of fodder in front of the bay, but the young man again spoke sharply to him, and gestured as if he was to take the fodder away again. Zayin looked at him. “I see, my young cock,” he said slowly. “You can't ride this beast when it's well fed, so you want me to starve it for you.” And he laughed mockingly.

The young man struck Zayin across the face with his whip, kicked the pile of fodder away from the horse, and stormed off. Zayin stood there, clenching his fists. He longed to fall upon the young man and beat him into the dust, even if it were the last thing he did. But at that moment a very different idea flashed across his mind. He stood for a long time while plans formed in his head.

After dark he saw to it that the bay was well fed and watered, and he spoke to it quietly: “We captives must help each other, eh?” That night he went to sleep on his pile of old sheepskins in the rough shelter where the fodder was stacked, but by his side was a leather bag full of cheese, dried meat, and odd scraps of food he had been able to steal from the women's quarters.

He woke at dawn and lay there awhile, thinking over his plan. It all seemed so simple, even too simple. What was there to prevent his riding away before the camp was roused? But there would be no savor in that.

He deliberately carried out his duties as usual—or rather he made it look as if he were doing so. He went among the horses apparently checking their tethers; but in fact he was loosening picket pegs and easing knots so that the slightest pull would free them. He collected together all the bridles and reins he could find and hung them along a line ready for use; but he took care that they were all cunningly threaded, one through the other. He was even able to cut halfway through the bowstrings of some bows that were hung outside ready for use. Then, going from horse to horse of those that were hitched outside the tents, ready to be mounted at a night alarm, he made sure that each one was unobtrusively attached to a cooking pot or sleeping mat, or even to one of the now friendly watchdogs. The only horse that remained properly bridled and ready to mount was the big bay. The men of the camp watched him approvingly as he went busily about his jobs.

He waited until the men started coming from their tents, and the horse breakers were making their way to the horse lines. Then he untethered the big bay and led it into the middle of the exercise ground. The men seemed surprised and they looked at each other and asked who was foolish enough to want to waste time with this bolter. The young man was crosser than ever: he was not ready to make a fool of himself yet again. But Zayin smiled cheerfully at them and said politely and clearly, using the few words he knew in their tongue:

“Me—ride—this horse.”

And pausing just long enough to see understanding dawning on their faces, followed by various expressions of astonishment and fury, he leaped on to the back of the bay.

The horse threw its head up, bunched all its muscles, and bolted. It was the one thing it had learned to do with a man on its back. Zayin made no attempt to stop it. He concentrated on staying on, yet he could not resist turning his head, to see what was happening in the camp. As he had intended confusion at once broke loose. Men rushed for the horses tethered by the tents, mounted and discovered too late that they were galloping off with a cooking pot bounding behind them, or a sleeping mat flapping wildly through the air, or an excited dog making rings round the horse on the end of a line. Others rushed for the bridles, and cursed as they fought to unravel one vast irreducible tangle. Bows were snatched up for the bowstrings to snap in the archers' face. Green horses reared in alarm at the horse lines, pulled up their picket pegs, or slipped their head ropes, and milled around adding to the confusion. Zayin was only sorry he could not stay and watch the fun.

He had seen the bay gallop, and he was satisfied that there was no other horse in the camp that could catch it, even without the handicaps he had prepared for them. All he had to do now was to cling on, and use what influence he had to guide the horse's flight in a generally south-westward direction. He found the first to be easier than he expected: the horse seemed to speed smoothly through the air like an arrow, its feet hardly touching the ground. And by pulling on the left rein only and leaning his weight to the left he was able to persuade the bolting animal on to a curving course which led, he hoped, where he wanted to go. As for the horse, it did not seem to care where it went as long as it bolted.

Zayin guessed that it had had more than one experience of running away with a man, who had been only too pleased to let it go, and walk back. What the foolish animal did not realize was that this time it had a passenger who wanted to run away just as much as it did.