by AM Kirkby
***
Then it was months training the two horses on the long rein in the soft dust behind the house, getting them to walk in circles, and to trot, and to canter collectedly, till they were settled and equable. And if the boy had thought his days of servitude were over once he no longer had to fetch and carry for the kitchens, he'd been wrong; he had to lay sand down on the training ground after rain, so it didn't get muddy; he had to fetch the hay for his stabled pair, the feed for them, to bandage their knees with liniment sodden rags, to see to their feet and their grooming. Then there was the sword drill, and the five-mile run, and if he had any time left he might actually manage to get the horses tacked up for training before the sun was too high; then of course at midday there was his session with the general, so that, already physically tired, he was struggling against somnolence for the whole lesson, feeling his eyelids growing heavier all the while he was listening to the general talking about the right formation of the Greek hoplites, or watching him move the knucklebones about his table to show the disposition of a cavalry battle.
But it wasn't for lack of interest that he felt himself growing weary; he began to see beyond the rote moves of the sword drill to how you might use men in a fight, to feint, or to hold, or to cover an excape route. You could use a phalanx to smash your way through the enemy; or you could push a few men forward to draw your enemy out, then reap a bloody harvest with the charging cavalry. He saw each movement of the drill now redolent with new meaning, as if he'd looked down on a dead landscape and suddenly the sun had shone from behind a cloud, filling it with highlights; when he stepped forwards now with a spear, he saw in his mind's eye the whole phalanx pushing on against a bridgehead; when he stepped back, an orderly retreat. Yet it was difficult, even so, to fight against the fatigue that threatened to overcome him.
He never missed his time with the horses, though, even when he could feel the grit in his eyes from lack of sleep. He started them on a long rein, walking them gently, letting them settle, so that he could feel the pull of their mouths against the bit. At first they pulled against him, throwing their heads from side to side; then, as they became used to his touch, they bowed their necks into the bit, rounding their bodies and tightening their stride.
Once they would walk in a loose circle on the rein, he started to make them turn tightly to left or right. The first time he tried this, they sprawled, walking sideways, legs crossed over each other, and one nearly fell as its hooves slipped in the dust. He took them round again, patiently, and as they recognised the command, and began to understand what he wanted, their movements became smoother, the turns tighter.
Sometimes, when they reared, or clipped their front legs with their back feet, he was close to swearing, and he felt the tension in his arms. But he held himself back from striking at the horses, and kept his hands soft on the reins. Patience for him was something hard, harder than anger; to be soft was difficult, but he managed it, and the horses began to trust him.
At last, after several weeks, he had them working well at a walk. He'd worked out their characters through the training; one was looser, bolder, less disciplined, while the other was more tame to the bit, but more easily spooked - it would try to jump the shadows, flinch or even rear if it caught sight of a piece of cloth fluttering or a person it didn't know. It was this horse - 'Flighty', he'd named it - that he decided to trot first. Coaxing it with a click of his tongue, he took it up to a trot, round and round in the soft sand, watching it settle into the rhythm, its muscles firm, shining in the sun.
“Not bad. You could improve it a bit, but it's not bad.”
It wasn't till he heard that flat voice that he realised Rasce was sitting on one of the grain sacks, watching. He had no idea how long the lad had been there; he'd not been there when he started, he was sure of that. He glanced back, not moving his head, but finding he could just see the lad out of the corner of his eyes.
Suddenly his hands felt empty, then the rein pulled tight against his left hand; he'd let his attention wander, and the horse was spooking, swerving as a tiny dust-devil blew up the dirt. He felt the sweat spring up on his skin then as he flushed - stupid to be caught out the very moment he realised the lad was watching, but wasn't that always the way? - but keeping his hands gentle, he reined the horse's head in and down, feeling it come back on to the bit, and settling it back into that easy trot. He didn't look behind him again. Rasce would have noticed, of course; he was bound to.
“You haven't ridden them yet.”
“No. I want them more settled first.”
“Try them with a blanket first. Get them used to that on their backs.”
“Thanks. I will.”
He eased the horse into a canter then, till it could go sun-wise and counter-wise tightly, and worked it gently till he was satisfied with it. When he finished, the lad had disappeared again, as noiselessly as he had come.