To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion

by Diane Lee Wilson

  “We are headed in the same direction, no?” he asked in his bright manner. The mastiff suddenly lunged after a turtledove, nearly pulling the old scribe off his feet. Several jerks on the leash hauled the huge animal back in line. When the three were again headed to the south side of the palace, Naboushoumidin cast a sidelong glance and said, “You’ve not been a slave long, have you?”

  Soulai, surprised, shook his head.

  “How did he know? you are thinking.” Naboushoumidin chuckled. “You see, you are yet wearing that…um…unsettled expression. You are one foot here, one foot there,” he said, hopping from his left to his right. “I mean to say, you want to be elsewhere…but you must be here.”

  Soulai felt his head moving up and down.

  “I remember how it was,” Naboushoumidin went on. “I was already a young man—seventeen—when my city was captured. Because I had been taught the letters and could read and speak three languages, I was shelved in the library.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh, it wasn’t much then. King Esarhaddon, who came before, only wanted his legacy to be conquering the pyramids. But King Ashurbanipal, now there’s a scholar. He demands the texts owned by every city he captures. And my work is to copy each and every one of them for the palace collection: lists of omens, incantations for illnesses, puffed-up tales of triumph told over and over.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Endless work, endless! When I was younger I imagined I would simply stop breathing from the awfulness of it all. Even tried it.” Pulling the dog to a halt, Naboushoumidin drew in his breath and puffed out his cheeks. His gray head bobbled as his eyes bulged. Passersby nudged their neighbors and traded smiles. Soulai began to grow nervous. Then the scribe let out his breath in a gush and grinned from ear to ear. “Still can’t put myself out of my own misery.” He slapped his chest. “This old body wants to see a few more days.” He shrugged. “Many suns have set; the bones of Esarhaddon, and Sennacherib before him, and Sargon the Second before him, are dust. And King Ashurbanipal’s library bursts with 268,492 tablets—now being patiently copied by my assistants. These tablets will outlive us all. So how does a man measure his worth?”

  “By his scars, according to my father,” Soulai grumbled.

  Naboushoumidin cocked his head. “That is the view of a blind man. Was your city captured as well?”

  “No. He…sold me.”

  “Ah.” The scribe paused and asked gently, “Some misfortune…?”

  Soulai described the fire and the debt owed Jahdunlim. The scribe listened intently, then asked, “And your name?”

  “Soulai.”

  “Well, Soulai, what is your position here that you wear the face of an old man?”

  “Stableboy. I take care of ten horses.”

  “And you do not like these horses?”

  “Oh, no! I do! I love everything about them: the way their breath smells like honey after they’ve had their grain, and the way their forelocks fall in fringes across their eyes—I used to put that into my sculptures. And then there’s this one stallion—” Soulai cut himself short, blushing.

  “Hmmm. You speak as an artist. Perhaps you are misplaced.” Naboushoumidin looked thoughtful. “So it’s not the horses. Must be Habasle then.”

  Soulai’s head jerked up. “How did you know?”

  The scribe chuckled. “‘Fierce heart against fierce heart,’ ” he quoted. “The Epic of Gilgamesh?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Soulai’s blank expression showed no recognition. “No matter. There are, perhaps, more persons in this palace who dislike Habasle than I have tablets in my library. But I do not find him so intolerable—his dogs, maybe”—he wrinkled his nose in the direction of the mastiff—“but Habasle—he’s just another prince in a long line of princes.” The man snaked his hand through the air in the manner of endless waves upon the ocean.

  Soulai frowned. “Habasle says he’ll be king.”

  His statement was met with a snort. “If I could fasten a harness around the might that Habasle puts into his dreaming,” the scribe said, “I could pull the moon from the night sky. He is much like the king in the story, no?”

  Again Soulai wore a blank face.

  “Aagh! So much lacking in your education. Come over here. Sit a moment in the shade of this tree.”

  “But Mousidnou will—”

  “Work can always wait, for there is always more work. I am chief scribe to King Ashurbanipal; I will speak on your behalf. Let’s see now…” Lifting a foot precariously high in the air, he cautiously placed it on the mastiff’s haunches. The huge animal looked around and, with noticeable disdain, sat. Naboushoumidin settled himself on the low wall surrounding the tree and, resting his sandaled feet lightly atop the mastiff’s back, allowed himself a small grin of triumph.

  Soulai, respectful of the man’s years, sat cross-legged on the tiles, though a wary distance from the dog.

  “Now listen to my words,” Naboushoumidin began. “Long ago, in a land not far from here, there lived a young king who wanted more than anything to throw a rope around the great horse of stars in the night sky that he might have it for his own. So he called in his advisers and demanded that they come up with a way for him to reach the sky.

  “‘You could build a giant ladder,’ said one.

  “‘In all of my land there isn’t enough wood for that,’ argued the king.

  “‘You could climb our highest tower and shoot arrows at it,’ said another.

  “‘I want to capture the horse, not kill it,’ sneered the king.

  “‘You could harness birds to a basket and be flown up into the sky,’ offered a young adviser who was always thinking.

  “‘I like it!’ said the king, ‘I order you to gather one thousand birds.’

  “So a call was put out and all across the land people began snaring birds and bringing them to the palace. Strings were knotted, one end around each bird’s leg and the other end to the basket, until there were a thousand birds affixed. Finally, when dusk fell and the stars began twinkling, the king climbed into the basket.

  “‘I’m ready!’ he cried.

  “But the birds, being ravens and doves and plovers, all day-flying birds, slept. The king was furious. He climbed out of the basket and shouted at his young adviser.

  “‘Get me some night-flying birds and have this basket ready tomorrow or I’ll have you thrown down a well,’ he threatened.

  “So the next morning another call was put out, and this time, from all across the land, people began gathering bats. As it was daylight, the winged creatures were fast asleep and had no idea that they were being harnessed to a basket. The king was very pleased, and, just as the sun was setting, he climbed into the basket and stared at the sky, waiting for his horse of stars to appear.

  “The young adviser appeared at his side. ‘This could be dangerous,’ he warned the king. ‘Perhaps we should attach a long rope to the basket—’

  “‘So you can pull me to the ground and keep me away from my horse?’ the king cried, ‘I won’t hear of any such thing.’

  “The sun set as he finished speaking and the bats began to stir. Alarmed to find themselves tethered, they unfolded their wings at once and flew into the sky like a great black cloud. The king in his basket was carried along with them, higher and higher and looking smaller and smaller, until he was no bigger than one eye on his great horse of stars.”

  Naboushoumidin looked at Soulai and grinned. “I can’t tell you what became of him, but I can say that since that day no king has tried to capture the stars.”

  Soulai shared the scribe’s amusement. “Have you told that story to Habasle?”

  “I could tell it, but the question is, would he hear it?”

  Naboushoumidin swatted a fly away from his face. “He may one day be king, but you must be the young adviser. Always thinking, no?” He tapped his forehead with his finger.

  By this time the mastiff had stretched out, his massive head resting on his paws. His shoulders vibrated with rapid br
eathing. More flies clustered around the moist rims of his closed eyes. Naboushoumidin rose stiffly, tugged on the leash, and the dog sleepily stood up. The three continued across the courtyard.

  Just before they reached the stable, Naboushoumidin spoke. “I have been guessing, Soulai, ever since I saw you at the library’s entrance, that you have a question. I have all the knowledge of all the lands at my fingertips. So what is it that most troubles your heart?”

  Soulai thought about himself, about the years of slavery awaiting him. Images crashed through his mind; images of his father grabbing his wrists, of his mother crying, of Soulassa—was she a wife already? He remembered her gathering up the stiff-legged horses he had molded from clay. And then he thought of Ti. The dull coat, the lifeless eyes. More than anything else he wanted to know if Ti would ever get better, if he’d get back his spirit. If, somehow, he, Soulai, would be able to—

  “What?” the scribe prompted.

  “Ti,” Soulai whispered. “Do you know what will happen to Ti?”

  “Who is this Ti?”

  “A horse…the most incredible horse you could ever…” Soulai’s voice trailed off. How could he fit words around the stallion’s spirit, a fire he had once sensed but could not see? Suddenly uncomfortable, Soulai bowed his head and turned toward the stable.

  “Wait,” Naboushoumidin said and Soulai halted as if under a spell. “This horse, I see now, he is one with you. Perhaps it is his troubled spirit that is showing itself in your eyes. How is he in danger?”

  Soulai turned around, the emotions rising within him. He told Naboushoumidin everything about Ti, how the mark of Ninurta forecast a glorious future, how Habasle had nearly killed him during the lion hunt, how the horse seemed to have lost his spirit, and how Habasle was demanding Ti’s return so that he could ride him into battle, possibly to be killed for real.

  The scribe frowned and drew back. “Are you more worried for Ti or for yourself ?”

  “For Ti, of course.” Soulai was surprised. Didn’t the man understand that Ti might die?

  “Because he might die,” Naboushoumidin said.

  The words echoed his thoughts so exactly that a shiver ran through Soulai as he nodded.

  “But you have said this horse’s destiny is watched over by Ninurta, god of the hunt and god of war. Death is inescapable in both.”

  Soulai stared at the gray-haired scribe.

  “Listen to me. Each one of us has a destiny that must be pursued wholeheartedly, yea though it brings death early, for death will surely come eventually. ‘Year upon year the river swells past its banks; the butterfly lives but a day.’ Gilgamesh again. You should read it sometime. You see, animals, people, even kings—they’re born and they die. The truly great ones will have their deeds recorded in the tablets and chiseled onto the palace walls, so that they may inspire those who follow. Don’t let your own soft heart cheat this horse of his rightful destiny.”

  Soulai felt tears welling in his eyes. His only response was to spin and race for the stable, leap down the stairs and tumble into its comforting dusk. Suddenly it seemed that everyone expected Ti to die. Well, he wasn’t going to let that happen. He sprinted down the aisle, ignoring the complaints of his leg, skidded around the corner, and rushed to Ti’s side.

  The horse startled and pulled back on his tether. Soulai boldly threw his arms around Ti’s upper neck and let the sobs come. Through his misery, he felt the stallion touch his shoulder, gently nuzzling him, offering a comfort that only doubled Soulai’s determination to guard his friend.

  10

  Gallop without Warning

  Soulai’s vow of protection doubled his work pace. So worried was he to be apart from Ti now that he trotted the other horses out to the watering trough, fidgeted while they skimmed the rippling surface with their lips, then hurriedly returned them to the stable. And even though the month of Elul continued to burn with the heat of the kilns, he jogged from task to task: flinging manure, raking bedding, running horses to and from the armory.

  The wound in Ti’s neck finally healed, and Soulai began slicking the stallion’s hide with his hands and his spit until the fine hairs gleamed. But try as he might, he couldn’t smooth away the scars. Their defiant ugliness marred Ti’s beauty the way the fire’s snaking cracks had scarred his clay horses. The scars implied that the gold-and-white stallion was imperfect—tested and found wanting. Soulai reminded himself that Ti’s scars were the lion’s fault, or rather, Habasle’s. He rubbed cedar oil into the thickened skin and polished Ti’s arching neck, all the while staring into the pale blue eye that yet spoke nothing.

  He had to help Ti recover his courage, Soulai decided, but in the next instant he just as vehemently changed his mind. No, no, he didn’t have to. If Ti remained timid, no one would ask anything of him. Habasle would forget the stallion and there would be no lions to face, no wars to join.

  The unresolved worry drew him to Ti’s side day and night until Soulai gave up and began sleeping in the stable. To feed himself he begged from the kitchens a roasted ear of corn or a duck egg, or he stole from an unattended basket a handful of almonds. Sitting in the darkness, then, he watched and chewed and contemplated. To his surprise he noticed that the forearms resting atop his knees were now banded with muscles. And a finger to his ribs showed that despite the little food he was eating, he had actually grown larger. A wave of pride in his manliness surged through him before self-consciousness chased it away.

  Over the next several weeks, in the quiet of the night, Soulai became a part of the stable’s private world. He was surprised to learn that it was a world in which the inhabitants slept very little. A few horses dozed off and on in the powdered manure, but most stood throughout the night, swishing their tails and nickering to each other. An occasional squeal spoke insult, a snap of the teeth, retort.

  Soulai discovered other inhabitants of the stable: bats living beneath the high thatched roof. He watched with keen interest as they unfolded nightly from their upside-down sleep and winged out of the stable entry. For some reason, one bat kept returning throughout the night. After several nights Soulai made out the tiny pink shape of a baby bat plastered to the rafters, and this became the first place Soulai looked each evening. He began counting the number of trips the mother made, usually nodding off to sleep after four or five.

  One night, after the mother bat had flown off with the now furry baby clinging to her chest, Soulai was lying on a rough cushion of barley hay listening to an unseen horse steadily pawing at the stone floor. The monotonous scraping was lulling Soulai to sleep when he realized that the rhythm had become footsteps. He opened his eyes just enough to make out someone carrying an armload of tack down the aisle. Pretending to be asleep, he kept his eyes slitted, watching, until the person stopped in front of him. Long bronze spurs poked from the backs of heavily tooled sandals. Soulai opened his eyes wider and saw Habasle, with two leather pouches draped across his shoulders, fastening a rug onto Ti’s back.

  Soulai sat up. “What are you doing?”

  Habasle unknotted the tether and slipped a bridle over Ti’s ears. “Taking my horse,” he said without turning around.

  “Where?”

  Ti was backing into the aisle. The sharp hooves narrowly missed Soulai’s toes as he scrambled to his feet.

  “Where are you taking him?” he asked again.

  “You ask too many questions for a slave. Get out of my way.”

  “Wait.” Soulai boldly reached for the reins. “Take me, too.”

  Habasle slapped away the hand. “No! I order you to stay.” He began leading Ti toward the starlit opening at the end of the stable. Fear seized Soulai. He stumbled after Habasle. On impulse he dove amid a row of horses and unknotted the tether of a bald-faced chestnut stallion. He hurried him backward, then trotted him all the way to the courtyard.

  Habasle was untying the same mastiff he’d had at the library, the one he called Annakum, and to Soulai’s surprise, he fussed over the dog as he would a s
mall child. Gently he rubbed each ear between his fingers. Putting a finger to his lips, Habasle offered Annakum a treat. The moment was interrupted by Ti squealing a challenge and the chestnut answering it. Habasle immediately straightened. He looked embarrassed, then frowned at Soulai. “This doesn’t concern you. Go back to your sleep.”

  “I’m supposed to take care of your horses,” Soulai responded stubbornly, “especially Ti.”

  But Habasle, juggling the mastiff’s collar and a spear in one hand, and Ti’s reins in the other, began walking away. Soulai took a deep breath, looked over both shoulders and up at the blue-black sky. A brilliant star chanced to arc through the void like a hurled spear. When it disappeared, Soulai bit his lip and set off after Habasle.

  What are we doing? he wondered. Going on a hunt—in the middle of the night? He looked at the chestnut stallion pacing alertly at his side. And why, of all horses, did I untie this one? Ti hates him.

  Soulai grimaced as he recalled the day when the two stallions, tethered side by side, had suddenly pinned back their ears and begun kicking. Wicked screams had punctuated the sickening thuds of hooves into flesh as stableboys ran from all directions. At Soulai’s begging, Mousidnou had let Ti stay; the chestnut was exchanged for a mousy roan.

  If only I’d decided to follow sooner, he thought, I could be leading that roan. He shook his head as a distinct uneasiness tickled his belly. I don’t have a rug; I don’t even have a bridle. If Habasle is planning one of his hunts—as the mastiff and spear seem to indicate—I may as well jump headfirst into the lion’s mouth.

  But instead of leaving the stable courtyard and the palace by the curving ramp, Habasle headed in the opposite direction. He led Ti up the limestone steps to an adjoining courtyard, turned, and walked up another set of steps. The horses slipped and scrambled over the uneven ground and Soulai was certain that their clattering hooves would alert a guard. But none approached, and soon they were making their way through the kitchen’s shadows and past the glowing mouths of the kilns. Bakers working through the night lifted their heads to watch indifferently before returning to their paddles and fragrant loaves.