by AM Kirkby
***
Lessons were harder than ever; strategy, politics, and now also understanding of trade and how it affected the affairs of the cities and their rivals. Master had a feeling Ramtha wouldn't have approved of that aspect of his lessons, and he never discussed it with her, though sometimes he heard Laris saying things that were very similar to what the general had told him, and wondered whether they had talked - though he had never seen them together, and never carried messages to Laris' house.
One day, Master had told the general about Laris' statement that his life had been saved by a goatherd. The general laughed sadly. “Yes. And mine. Not the same goatherd, I don't suppose.”
“Could you tell me, sir? Was it a war?”
The general smiled. “No. Not a war. It was in Clevsin - a chariot race. I was one of Ramtha's golden youths, you know; one of those heroes who could drive a chariot through the ranks of the enemy without getting scratched. And I did, too. Stupid. Bloody stupid. Chariots though. They do something to you.” He fixed Master with his eyes. “You ever driven one?”
Master shook his head.
“You wouldn't know then. It's glorious. Everything is tense; a sprung pole, a lithe axle. You're balanced on a springy leather floor; everything in balance, everything moving. You can feel every rut and pebble under the wheels, every leap and spring and unwinding of the horses' withers. Terrifying. Marvellous.”
“You must have been very athletic, sir.”
“Maybe. It's not that wins races though. It's cunning and speed of thought. I could spot a hair's breadth of space and angle my way through it, I could see before they moved just how the chariots in front would approach a corner.
“There were four of us that day. When we came up to the second from last turning, I was last. A gap opened up.
“I saw my chance and shot in between the next pair - hubs grinding against each other - just enough space. I came out of that corner in second place. Only one team ahead of me, a driver from Cisra I remember, with matched white horses. Flashy.
“By the next turning. He was turning wide. Worth the risk? I thought it was. I knew how I could win. It wasn't pretty. I caught him broadsides, turning tight, flipping him over. I thought the race was won.
“Then I felt the axle give and the whole chariot tip. They told me afterwards the lynchpin had gone. Perhaps smashed when I went between the last two, or against the turn when I went tight, I don't know.
“I was rolling in the dust, and I felt the reins tightening around me. You always have a knife on you, just in case. But when I went for it, I couldn't find my knife to cut them away, and I was being dragged behind the horses. At least I got myself on my back, but I couldn't last long.
“I never saw Kavie - everything I know, I've been told since. He ran across - under the hooves of the oncoming horses - one of the chariots swerved across the track, the horses spooked - ran across and jumped for the horses, hanging off their necks till he had managed to cut through the reins and I was free, and lying winded on the sand.”
He stopped short. Master realised the general was breathless, as if he'd been trapped in the chariot reins one more time, as if he'd been facing a fear he'd thought he'd forgotten. He looked into the general's eyes and saw a beaten man.
“You think you know all about leadership. How to inspire men. You know nothing. Nothing, you hear me? Till you see a man risk his life for you. Everything changes. Everything.”
“What happened to him, sir? Did you reward him?”
The general clenched his hands into tight fists. “Yes. I gave him a hero's burial. And I cut the throat of the horse that killed him.”
The general closed his eyes for a moment, and breathed out slowly. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright; the tension had drained from his face.
“Boy, will you compete at the games? I'd like you to.”