To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion

by Diane Lee Wilson

  Like a hundred other boys, Soulai scurried. Darting round a corner post, he unexpectedly stumbled face first into the royal stable master, Mousidnou, who had stopped his bellowing long enough to bite into an orange. Juice and seeds trickled through his long beard, and, as Soulai pulled himself away, a stickiness clung to his skin. He backed one cautious step, ducked his head respectfully, and tried to pick a careful path around the man’s protruding belly. Before he could escape, however, a bear-sized paw of a hand smacked his buttocks.

  “Pick up your ass and move it, boy! You want to wiggle it like that, I’ll send you to dance in the harem.”

  A group of stableboys nearby snickered. Soulai flushed as he trotted on toward the hay storage. There, shoulder to shoulder, he fought his way to the front, absently counting the rhythmic pings and rushing sighs as the great sheaves of barley hay were slashed open to spill over the floor. He gathered an armload and staggered back to his horses, returned for another load, and then another. Afterward, he swept the aisle and offered to Ti what scraps of hay he’d gathered. The stallion accepted the morsel but ignored the affectionate pat accompanying it. Disappointed, Soulai tackled the watering.

  Each of the royal horses was led to water three times daily and the noise exceeded even that of the feeding. Shrill whinnies split the air and hundreds of hooves clattered on brick as Soulai tentatively joined the procession. The excited horses could be dangerous. As if to remind him, the gray colt he was leading suddenly reared and a sharp hoof narrowly missed his head. Soulai snapped the lead rope, as he had seen other stableboys do, shouted, and shoved his own small weight against the fractious animal, finally managing to guide him to the courtyard.

  When they’d both made it safely to the watering trough, Soulai breathed a sigh of relief. This was his one opportunity to stand, without fear, and look around, for Mousidnou stressed that the horses must always be allowed to drink their fill.

  The daily commotion of the palace was taking place along the tiered courtyards above his head. As on previous mornings, he noted that the bustle increased with the sun’s ascent. He observed the long-robed scribes furiously carving messages onto clay tablets and palace servants sprinting with their missives. He saw the coded nods between passing guards who gripped cumbersome bows, the fringed parasols shielding royal heads while swaying palm fronds chased away flies. He wondered if one of those royal heads was that of his owner. But as three weeks had passed and he had yet to see the prince, Soulai had decided that the man must have no interest at all in horses.

  When Ti’s turn came, Soulai proudly led him to the end of the trough closest to the well. The water was coolest here, he reasoned, as he watched bucket after bucket rise from the dark mouth. This was another of his gifts to Ti, and he smiled as the stallion stretched out his neck and sucked noisily. He waited until the head was lifted, water dribbling from the fleshy lips, to search the jeweled eyes for acknowledgment. But Ti stood regal and expectant, looking right through him, as though he didn’t exist.

  Heaving a sigh, Soulai returned to the stable and the task of removing manure. Each morning he had to lug unwieldy basketfuls of warm green turds down the long aisle and out to an enclosure to be overturned onto mountainous heaps. There, slaves no older than one of his younger sisters worked all day raking the dung into a fine layer that baked in the sun. With his empty basket flopping against his calf, he shuffled around the moist clumps to another pile, this one brown and fluffy. He scooped the dried manure into his basket, then returned to the stable to sprinkle it atop the layer already packed down by hooves. He could see that lying in the powdered manure was good for the horses: Their coats gleamed as if polished with silk scarves.

  “You, you, and you!” Mousidnou was coming through the stable again, bellowing his orders laced with threats. “Set rugs upon these three and trot them out to the armory. Now! And you’ll fasten the girths tight or I’ll use your scrawny sinews in their place.” This sent Soulai sprinting, along with the other boys who had been singled out, to the stern-faced keeper of the royal tack. Begrudgingly the man handed out the required bridles and rugs. His yellowed eyes narrowed as he doled out his own threat to Soulai: Return them undamaged or replace them with your own hide. Soulai swallowed hard and nodded.

  It was the chestnut who had been chosen this time, and as soon as Soulai had him ready, he led the bit-champing horse out of the stable and out through the palace gates. A wide, curving ramp dropped them into the midst of the bustling city. Soulai’s pulse quickened. A stench of rotting meat and urine-soaked straw choked this route to the armory, for it was flanked by Nineveh’s zoo. Past the high walls he caught glimpses of the strangest animals: bulging-eyed birds standing twice as tall as him, white-faced monkeys reaching toward him with their almost human fingers, creatures with black twisted horns or curving yellow fangs. The strange howls and grunts made the back of his neck tingle. But there was one sound he dreaded more than any other, and he shuddered each time he heard it: the unmistakable thunder of a lion. Once, he saw a thick-maned lion being hauled forth in a paneled wooden crate so small that the creature had to crouch. It took four strong men leaning into ropes to drag the snarling lion away. Soulai wondered about the animal’s fate.

  The instant the chestnut was delivered to the armory, Soulai raced back to the stable. Mousidnou was in full swing, barking out more orders. As fast as he could, Soulai tacked up another horse and returned to the armory. By the time Shamash blazed high in the sky, Soulai was still bridling and unbridling and leading sweat-soaked, blowing horses to the watering trough.

  The order for Ti to be readied came late in the day, and, as Soulai bent over to fasten the girth, the muscles in his back clenched with pain. To make matters worse, Ti bit him. Soulai jumped aside with a cry. Rubbing the welt, he looked tearfully at the gold-and-silver stallion. It was the insult, more than the injury, that hurt. He’d placed all his hopes in the horse, done everything he could to befriend him. But after three weeks, what was the use?

  That night, curled on his mat, Soulai counted in small groans the bruises and cuts that another day’s labors had branded into him. As usual, his thoughts wandered to Ti. He shut them off. The horse’s indifference cut him more painfully than did any of his visible injuries.

  Reaching for a happier time, he tried to recall the different horses he had sculpted from clay. But he couldn’t picture any of them. He opened his eyes to the darkness and touched the tips of his fingers together. There had been a creative fire there once, he was sure of it. He had been able to pick up a lump of clay and create life from it. Now there was nothing.

  When the next day dawned, Soulai climbed to his feet more lifeless than ever. He plodded through the routine, fell onto his mat at night, and began the next day in the same way. And then the one after that and the one after that. The days of his slavery became linked in an endless chain of dust and sun and sweat.

  Until one hot morning in the month of Ab. He had completed the graining and, as usual, was lingering beside Ti. He never heard them coming; he saw Ti jerk his head up in alarm and in the next instant found himself backed against the trough. Two mastiffs, one liver-colored, one silver, were suddenly probing Soulai’s body with their dripping noses. Ti shook his head in annoyance, then returned to eating. Soulai shrank back and held his breath.

  “You!” An unfamiliar voice pulled his attention away from the dogs. Still clutching onto the stone trough, he looked up to see a smooth-skinned boy about his own age draped in a long, richly embroidered blue-and-white tunic. The boy pointed a finger at him. “Set a rug on this horse here and another on one for yourself.” When he turned to speak to two men carrying bows, the mastiffs abandoned Soulai to romp in the aisle.

  Soulai exhaled. He shook his head to clear the dizziness. Ready two horses? It was too early for training at the armory and, well, he was supposed to ride? He’d have to speak up. “The horses,” he began, “they haven’t had their hay. And they need water.”

  The boy spun, th
e silky fringe on his tunic swirling about his ankles. He appeared to grow taller at will. “Who are you to speak thus to me?”

  A small alarm sounded in Soulai’s head.

  “Answer me!”

  “I’m Soulai,” he responded in a voice suddenly so parched it crackled to a whisper. “I care for these ten horses.” He stiffly extended his arm to indicate the well-groomed animals busily nibbling their last bits of grain. “They still need hay and water.”

  The boy stepped close to Soulai, causing the mastiffs to swing their attention back to him. One shoved his nose up under Soulai’s short tunic, sniffing between his legs. He pushed at the dog’s massive head with both hands; a sick fear told him he was about to be bloodied. To add to his torment, the fancily dressed boy was sharply tapping the clay tag resting on Soulai’s chest. A hammered silver bracelet set with lavender stones shimmered on his forearm. An intricately carved blue stone hung from his neck. These, and the overwhelming aromas of frankincense and mint, announced that this was, indeed, the first royal Soulai had encountered face-to-face.

  “What does it say here?” The boy was still tapping the tag.

  Soulai flushed. Although he had been told the tag’s meaning, he couldn’t specifically decipher the wedge-shaped characters. And that was the point, wasn’t it? This boy was reminding him that he was only a slave, as stupid as an animal, of no more importance than dust itself. Anger stirred within him.

  He glared at the face that might nearly have been his own had he been born in the palace. The same shock of black hair arched over a similarly narrow brow. The same raisin-brown eyes sat a little too close alongside a slim nose. But this boy’s locks were crimped into neat curls, and a light powder coated his skin. Fine hairs seemed to sprout over the thin upper lip, though it could have been the shadows. Soulai knew his own face had yet to show signs of manhood.

  “What does it say here?” the boy insisted petulantly.

  “I am told it says my name,” he responded in a resentful tone, “and that of another, Habasle. Is that you?”

  The prince grinned at the sound of his name. “A welcome surprise: You’re smarter than you look. So as not to disillusion me, Soulai, don’t open your mouth again. Unless I order it. Now, set rugs on two horses, one of them being this parti-color, and meet me outside. The lion is waiting.” With a haughty jerk of his chin, and the confident air that he’d be obeyed, the prince turned and strode down the stable aisle. The two archers exchanged knowing looks and followed obediently, the mastiffs galloping past them.

  Choking on humiliation, Soulai darted toward the tack room. The keeper was barely awake, hunched against the wall, cradling a clay cup of steaming brew. He pretended not to hear Soulai’s pleadings until Habasle’s name was mentioned, and then the cup was set down so abruptly that half the liquid splashed out onto the floor. Soulai loaded his arms with bridles and rugs and their attendant cruppers and breast-collars. On his staggering journey back down the aisle he still managed to scoop up some barley hay for Ti and the stocky bay gelding tethered next to him. The others whinnied jealously, but they would have to wait. Soulai didn’t know which he feared more: the wrath of Mousidnou, or that of his surprisingly young owner, Habasle.

  Ti was nosing aside the hay to get the last of his grain; a wary eye rolled askance as Soulai slipped in beside him. “Easy, there,” Soulai said as he placed the black-fringed rug behind Ti’s withers. He smoothed away the wrinkles, then cautiously bent under Ti’s belly to fasten the girth. As he fitted the breast-collar, Soulai realized his fingers were shaking. Anger or fear? he asked himself. Inside, he knew the answer.

  He well remembered the panicked bleating of his father’s two goats as they’d crumpled in the jaws of the lion. Again he saw the flash of fangs, the bloody lips. And the most frightening part? He’d never even heard the lion coming.

  He slipped the bridle over Ti’s head, though Ti insisted on continuing to eat, and moved on to the bay gelding. Soulai wondered if he’d be able to stay seated on the horse. He’d sat on a donkey’s back more than a few times, but never a horse and never at a gallop. Quickly he offered up a prayer that the bay be steady. And speedy.

  “Here!”

  Soulai jumped and the girth fell away.

  “What in the name of Nergal are you doing? ” It was Mousidnou this time, stomping along with his lantern. He peered into the mostly empty trough and squinted his small eyes at Soulai. “These horses haven’t even been fed.”

  Soulai caught the girth and pulled it tight around the bay’s belly, his back hunched, prepared for the blow. “Habasle ordered these two made ready,” he said. He quickly adjusted the breast-collar and crupper. “Habasle said the lion is waiting.”

  “Oh.” Mousidnou seemed to accept this event as nothing out of the ordinary. “Didn’t see the runty little master of the hunt come through. His dogs with him?”

  Soulai managed a nod as he kneed the gelding in the belly one more time and pulled the girth tighter. He was not going to slip from this horse’s back.

  The stable master shook his head. ”Can’t tell if it’s bravery or folly drives that boy.” He looked at Soulai, the sharpness suddenly colored by concern. “Listen to me. You watch yourself today.”

  Soulai had untied the bay and was fitting the bit between his teeth. He paused and looked up.

  “I’ll deny every word if you survive to repeat it,” Mousidnou continued, “but I’m telling you now that Habasle chews through young stable hands the way his dogs chew through hares. After the last incident I thought he’d given up the horses, but…” He shrugged, then cast an appreciative eye over Ti. “Shame if he injures this one, though. Sure, he shows promise, but it’s too soon for lions.”

  The throaty barking of the mastiffs traveled down the stable aisle and Mousidnou shot an urgent look at Soulai. “I’ll see that your horses are fed. You be off,” he said. “Here’s a leg up.” Setting down his lantern, he boosted Soulai onto the gelding’s back. Then Mousidnou backed Ti into the aisle. He handed the reins to Soulai and gruffly patted the boy’s leg. “Keep your wits about you now,” he warned.

  5

  A Hunt

  Ignorant of the morning’s danger, Ti pranced in the narrow aisle. He playfully dove at the bay’s neck, once, twice, and was threatening again when Soulai snapped the reins, signaling the stallion to behave. Soulai fully intended to keep his wits about him and he’d do his best to make certain Ti did as well. Knuckles tight around the gelding’s reins, legs squeezing his barrel, Soulai pulled Ti’s head close to his thigh, and they began moving toward the pink square of light at the end of the stable.

  In the courtyard, Soulai found Habasle ringed by a dozen tall, bearded archers. The mastiffs were now leashed, though the slaves restraining them had to use both hands and the weight of their bodies to hold them back. Ti whinnied loudly and the gelding echoed him.

  Something pale and billowy dangled from Habasle’s fist as he strode across the tiles. He took Ti’s reins from Soulai, then lowered the stallion’s head and fastened a decoration to the top of the bridle. When Ti lifted his head, a white plume stood erect, and silky black fringe cascaded over his brow, framing his gold and blue eyes. He looked every shekel a regal horse of the hunt and Soulai shivered with a mixture of pride and dread. Next, Habasle replaced the reins with intricately braided ones specially weighted with pom-poms to ensure that they dropped evenly on either side of Ti’s neck. Then he stepped back, nodded approvingly, and, in one graceful move, leaped onto the stallion. Soulai frowned at the bronze spurs he spotted tied to the young nobleman’s sandals. Ti hardly required motivation. Lifting his arm in the air, Habasle led the way out of the courtyard. The archers, the mastiffs, and Soulai followed obediently.

  Soulai knew he should relax astride his mount; he just couldn’t make his body do it. His fingers gripped both reins as well as a good hank of mane. And his knees kept searching for a niche to lock into. But when something in the half-light caused the bay to snort and dance
sideways, Soulai not only managed to stay on, but also to rein the animal back in line. For a moment the pleasure of sitting atop such a powerful creature quelled his own trembling.

  The early morning entourage left the palace through a massive gate, traveling down the curving ramp and along the walled passageway, which was eerily empty in the predawn. The zoo’s animals remained silent, as if they sensed the hunters. As they skirted the marketplace, where vendors were just arriving, Soulai caught the whiff of meat grilling. The aroma, normally enticing, stirred his unsettled stomach to nausea.

  One of Nineveh’s fifteen gates loomed ahead and the line halted while Habasle spoke to two guards. Soulai heard his voice rise in a sharp, arrogant tone, then saw the men abruptly step back and let Habasle pass. One by one they filed through the arched opening in the thick inner wall, then passed through the well-guarded outer one. Ishtar, the goddess of Nineveh, protected her city well, Soulai thought as he rode through the tunnel of bricks.

  As soon as they had crossed the moat, Habasle turned south. A grassy plain stretched before them, rolling gently toward the ribbon of trees lining the Tigris River to the west and the manicured banks of the Khosr directly ahead. A hazy yellow sun had blossomed behind the city’s jagged silhouette, a breath of warm air touched Soulai’s neck.

  So far, no one except Habasle had spoken. The archers walked behind him in pairs, while the houndmen followed, struggling with every step to control the two mastiffs. Soulai brought up the rear. He noted that Habasle frequently glanced over his shoulder, but when he himself did so, he saw nothing. There was no time to ponder the matter for, just as they were climbing a small rise, a lion’s throaty roar split the morning like thunder.

  Both horses snorted and Soulai jumped. Habasle calmly motioned for Soulai to move forward and for the archers to fan out on either side of him.