As their ride went on and on Zayin became less and less sure that the men part of this partnership were ordinary men like him. To watch them was a pleasure: to imitate them was torture. This was a thing that he did not so much think with his head, as feel with the whole of his body. His back was wrenched with the unaccustomed movement, his legs ached with gripping the horse’s sides and his arms ached with clutching the mane; and no longer was there any comfort in sitting. His thoughts were jolted and jumbled, and he was hardly capable of wondering where he was going or what was going to happen to him. When some of the party set up wild yells and went galloping ahead of the rest crouched over their horses’ necks, he only hoped that he was not expected to do the same himself.
Then he saw ahead of them, at the mouth of the valley, some kind of camp or settlement. He could make out huts, the smoke of cooking fires, many horses hobbled or tethered, men, dogs, and even, as they drew nearer, women and children.
The whole party galloped up to the camp with a flourish, coming to a halt by a group of huts. The other riders leaped from their horses and Zayin did his best to look as if he, too, were not merely falling off. Only then, as the strange tribe gathered round, old men, young men, women, children, and dogs, did it come home to him that he was a helpless captive among an outlandish people, with whom he did not even have a word in common. He felt very weary, hungry, and defeated, but he tried to put on a bold front.
“I am Zayin, commander of the army of Gebal,” he said. “I demand to see your ruler.” But his words meant nothing to them. They just stared and laughed a little. The leader of his captors came up to him and felt his muscles approvingly. Either they’re going to eat me or make me their slave, thought Zayin. Yet he hardly cared which.
There was a big cooking pot bubbling over a fire of branches near his captor’s hut, but it seemed that Zayin was to feed out of it rather than be put into it. For after the leader and the warriors had been fed, followed by the women and children, and the dogs had been given the bones, Zayin was allowed to scrape it out. There was quite a lot of stew in the bottom, and it tasted good to the hungry Zayin. He wondered whether these people ate horses too.
When he had eaten the women made sighs to him that he was to scour the pot out. For a moment Zayin boiled with indignation. He had never washed a pot in his life. That he should finish his quest for monsters by working as a scullion in a camp of barbarians! It was all so casual. He felt he could have stood imprisonment, chains, even torture—these were the common fortunes of war and defeat. Great kings made captive generals wait on them at table at their ceremonial banquets, loaded with golden chains. But there was no ceremony here: these barbarians, once they were off their horses, were a squat and squalid lot of bandy-legged little men. Their homes were made of skins and canvas on poles, and the only things fine about them were the carpets they sat on. And they did not even pay him the compliment of putting him in chains: they just let him sit around the camp with the stray dogs. What was to stop him running away? He was sure he could outrun any of these short-legged savages. But then he looked at the dogs: any fugitive would soon be pulled down by them, and every tent seemed to have a horse hitched to it. The camp was in the middle of the plain at the mouth of the valley. If he ran, there would always be someone to leap on a horse and hunt him down. The only thing that was swifter than one of these horses was another horse. Zayin wished he knew the secret of riding them.
In the days that followed Zayin learned to make himself useful around the camp. He carried fuel for the fires, was taught by the women how to scour out a pot properly with water and ashes and hay, chopped meat for the stews, and churned butter in a leather bag. But life was simple and there was not much domestic work to do, so that more and more he was allowed to give a hand with the real business of the tribe—the care and training of the horses.
He began by cutting and carrying green fodder for the tethered horses. These animals, trained and accustomed to being ridden, were hobbled and allowed to graze for themselves. But sometimes the men rode out into the valley, unarmed and carrying ropes with nooses. They went among the grazing herds, singled out the nearly full-grown foals and brought them back, wild-eyed, shying, and bucking, in tow on the ends of their ropes. They were tethered among some older, quieter horses and fed by hand. This became Zayin’s job. Skillful horse breakers began training them, making them circle at the end of a rope, accustoming them to being handled and mounted, teaching them the meaning of the controls of rein and bronze bit. Zayin watched every stage of the training with fascination. The hardest lesson, it seemed, for these wild horses, was learning when to stop. It was in their nature to fix their eyes on the horizon and gallop for it; they needed little urging to go forward. But how, Zayin wondered, could a man, mounted on a horse’s back, bring it to a halt? He had been on his brother’s ship, and to stop it drifting with wind and tide they had thrown out a stone anchor on a rope—but there was no anchor you could use on a horse. There had to be an understanding between horse and rider about starting and stopping, and some horses never seemed to learn.
There was one horse in particular which Zayin began to notice. It came in with a lot of young horses from the valley, but it seemed to be bigger and older than the others. Perhaps it was one that had been missed at the time when it was young enough to train. While the other youngsters were shy and suspicious of everything—of the rope with which they were led, the halter and the tether, even the bundles of fodder Zayin offered them, which they would sniff at for a long time before touching—this one seemed remarkably quiet during its first introduction to the camp. It stood quietly, fed well, and even circled obediently at the end of a long rein. Then the day came for a horse breaker to mount it.
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 t
he 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.
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