To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion

by Diane Lee Wilson

  The next courtyard was nothing more than bare dirt littered with broken urns, empty baskets, haphazard stacks of bagged grain, and more than one lopsided cart missing a wheel. Although darkness enveloped them, Soulai could see Habasle looking nervously left and right.

  “What’re you huntin’ at this hour?”

  The gruff voice came from nowhere, Soulai jumped.

  “Whatever’s awake,” Habasle casually answered the guard at a small gate that was nearly hidden by baskets of stinking trash. The man touched his hand to the hilt of his sheathed knife but stepped aside as Habasle pulled on the door and guided first Annakum and then Ti through the narrow opening. The lintel was set so low that the stallion had to duck his head. When Soulai followed, the guard stepped forward, and for a moment Soulai thought he was going to stop him. But the man just looked him up and down, belched, and squatted on the ground, scratching his stomach.

  The stench of rotting garbage that had been dumped outside the palace wall assaulted his nostrils as he followed Habasle north. A skinny yellow dog scuttled away from an overturned basket, but otherwise the city lay still. At the palace’s northeast corner, Habasle paused. He peered into the darkness. The horses stopped, stamped, then suddenly pricked their ears in unison. Soulai shivered; something was waiting around the corner. He held his breath and listened. He heard nothing, but gradually, a reddish shape moved closer until he could see that it was the ashipu himself standing in their path. The tall man confidently reached out and closed his fingers around Ti’s reins.

  “Hunting bats?”

  Annakum growled, long and low.

  “Or showing yourself to be one?” The man’s throaty chuckle held no mirth. “Come—squeak, squeak, boy—like the frightened creature of the night that you are.”

  Habasle stiffened but remained silent.

  “You’re a waste of my time,” the ashipu sneered. “The silver hardly warrants…Give!” He tried to pull the reins from Habasle’s hand. Ti grunted at the blow to his tender mouth.

  “Take your hands off my horse.” The words came quietly, but loaded with warning.

  The ashipu jerked the reins again. Ti’s pained squeal was followed by him heaving his weight left, then right, trying to escape the cruel pressure on his bridle.

  “Your horse.” The ashipu spat. “You insolent cur. He’s been royally bred for royalty only. And now I’ve chosen him for sacrifice.”

  “If you try to harm this horse, I’ll cut out your heart and feed it to you.”

  Soulai, creeping closer, saw the ashipu’s black eyes narrow. The man drew himself up. Summoning his evil powers, Soulai thought. The night air seemed to grow strangely thin and Soulai could scarcely breathe.

  “Your ill manners profess your ill breeding.” Light from the half-moon glinted on the blade of a knife pulled from the ashipu’s robe. In one quick motion he grasped Ti’s headstall and laid the silvery blade against the white throat. Ti snorted but stood as still as stone, as if under a spell. Even Annakum, who had kept up a steady growl, fell silent.

  Habasle immediately dropped the reins, which swung noiselessly in the darkness. He took one retreating step, then another. He switched his spear to his right hand, calmly leveled it to his waist, and eyed the distance to the ashipu’s belly.

  The red-robed man smiled. Still staring at Habasle, he slowly drew the knife across Ti’s hide so that a dark trickle spread through the hairs. He shook his head. “Not a wise choice, little bat. Now put it down.”

  Habasle hesitated. Then he turned and defiantly hurled the spear into the night. No one spoke until they heard it clank to the ground.

  The smile never left the ashipu’s face. “You,” he said to Habasle, “and you,” indicating Soulai, “are going to assist me in a much-needed cleansing ritual.”

  But as the ashipu had drawn his knife, Soulai had begun creeping around to the chestnut’s other side. He hoped they wouldn’t notice him leaning his body into the horse. The pressure signaled the stallion to step toward Ti. Ears twitched. Muscles tightened. Soulai held his breath and leaned again. The chestnut swung his hip forcefully around this time, bumping against Ti. The old feud was rekindled and the parti-color stallion lashed out with both hooves. Humping his back, the chestnut returned the blows, kicking again and again. Ti bellowed and spun sideways, and the knife fell from the ashipu’s hand.

  Encumbered by his long robe, the man tried to evade the flailing hooves of the fighting stallions while searching for the lost dagger. Just as he found it, however, Annakum’s jaws clamped onto his naked wrist. The huge dog shook his head and the man crumpled, shrieking in pain.

  Habasle grabbed Ti’s reins and yanked him away from the fight. In one leap he was on the stallion’s back and drumming his legs along his flanks. They sped toward the city’s walls.

  Soulai yanked sharply on the lead rope of the angry chestnut. In desperation, he jumped for the horse’s back, managing to get only one knee locked over the withers before the animal bolted. The rope fell from his hands. All too aware of the rough ground rushing beneath him, Soulai grabbed for the mane and tried to pull himself upright. With a final, all-out effort he heaved his body atop the galloping stallion, crouched low, and ordered his quivering legs to squeeze tight.

  One of Nineveh’s main entrances, the Nergal Gate, lay directly ahead, but Habasle steered Ti toward a smaller one, which had a door standing ajar and a lone guard waiting nervously beside it. Having neither reins nor lead rope, Soulai felt lucky that his galloping mount veered in the same direction. Ti and Habasle rushed into the tunnel that pierced the thick inner wall. The chestnut charged after, bashing Soulai’s leg against the bricks. In a couple of strides they were passing through a twin gate in the city’s towering outer wall. His entire leg took the blow this time. There was no pausing to notice the shattering pain, for the stallion suddenly bunched and sprang through the darkness over a liquid black moat. They landed hard on the opposite side and Soulai struggled to balance as the horse scrambled. And then they were galloping again, Soulai lurching precariously with each stride, the horse’s spine splitting him with each footfall. Blinded by his wind-whipped tears, he gasped when the chestnut lunged into the air again, grunted when they crashed to ground on the far side of another moat. The coarse hairs of the mane cut into his fingers, but he refused to let go. In the span of a dozen wild heartbeats, they were away from Nineveh, thundering headlong into the blackness of the unknown.

  Part 2

  A sickness coursed through the bat’s veins. He had to struggle just to keep his balance on the edge of the palace watering trough. Over the stable’s manure piles his cousins clouded the night air, swooping low to pick off dung beetles and spiders and carry them to the thatched rooftop to be swallowed. But the young bat couldn’t swallow. He could barely perch, his body swaying from side to side, his mouth agape. Confusion pounded in his head.

  That dog had just come through the courtyard, the same one that he’d bitten…when was it? Through his mind’s haze he recalled the night when the huge dog had surprised him, had knocked him from the trough to the floor. When the black nose sniffed close, he’d sunk his teeth into it. That had prompted a loud yelp, and, while the dog circled, rubbing at his nose with a paw, he’d managed to right himself and finally to fly off. He couldn’t remember when that was now. The moon was always waxing and waning, no end. His head throbbed harder. He shook it, trying to dispel the cloudiness. The movement unbalanced him. Instinctively he spread his wings, but already he was falling.

  A small splash, heard by no one, and water enveloped him. The cold liquid shrouded his weak struggle, gradually suppressed his breathing, then cradled his lifeless body for the remainder of the night.

  11

  The Uridimmu

  Sunlight warmed Soulai’s face, nudging him awake. He rolled onto his back, stretched, and yawned. For a few moments he relished the luxury of uninterrupted quiet. Then memories of the previous night began charging through his mind. He opened his eyes
and was struck by a sapphire sky so immense that he instantly felt small and insignificant. Where am I? he wondered. Curling onto his side again, wincing at the newly aroused aches in his legs and hips, he surveyed the area. Habasle sat a short distance away, his back to Soulai. He seemed to be talking to Annakum, even leaning over to brush his cheek along the dog’s head. Annakum returned the caress with a sloppy lick, and, smiling, Habasle offered the dog a tidbit—a dried fig, it looked like. Then he popped one into his own mouth and shifted his position. Soulai saw now that Habasle had a small white rock in his hand, which he began striking against the flat face of a boulder. He was hunched to the right; the spear wound obviously still troubled him.

  Soulai stretched again, and this time his movement attracted Annakum’s attention. Although the mastiff remained prone, he studied Soulai intently with cold eyes the color of pale moons. Soulai scarcely breathed. He didn’t so much as twitch until he became aware of shadows on either side of him. Glancing over his shoulder and squinting into the sun’s glare, he discovered two bearded vultures on the rocky crest at his back. Their enormous sooty wings hung open like charred palm fronds. Just like Annakum, they watched him. But there was something more in their gaze, Soulai realized; there was a patient hunger, a confident expectance of death—his death!

  He jumped to his feet. That brought Annakum to his, a long growl rumbling from his throat. Soulai tensed. He wanted to run, but wasn’t sure how far a stumbling flight would take him before the dog’s fangs or the vultures’ bony wings knocked him to the ground.

  He shifted his gaze from the shaggy-headed birds to the snarling dog and back again. A fist-sized rock lay within reach, and, keeping a wary eye on Annakum, he cautiously bent to pick it up. The sharp weight in his hand made him feel better and he stood taller. The mastiff quit growling but shot a threatening glance in Soulai’s direction. Then, padding a tight circle, he flopped beside his master.

  Habasle had ignored the standoff, so Soulai broke the silence. “Where are we?” he asked. The words came croaking from his dry throat, sounding more fearful than he would have liked. But the noise was enough to discourage the scavengers. One vulture flapped its wings and lifted itself into the air. After a clumsy bit of hopping, the other bird followed.

  “North of the city,” Habasle answered while continuing to draw. “Near a road leading to Harran. Or to Dur Sharrukin.”

  Soulai sidled toward the line of boulders that partially ringed their encampment. In the distance, Nineveh’s sharp-toothed outer wall glinted in the morning sun. He could see the Khosr River flowing from the city and separating into brown ribbons that filled the moats and canals. Spotting movement atop the walls, he could have sworn that guards pointed in their direction.

  A strange feeling crept over him. Three months ago, when he was being led toward this city, his heart had pounded with fear; now that he stood outside it, he had an irrational longing to return to it.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a rustling in the underbrush. The horses! At least he was still with Ti; he could still protect him. Annakum pricked his ears, but only followed with his eyes as Soulai warily left the clearing.

  A wadi, as deep as a man is tall, and thick with feathery grasses and date palms, lay behind them, and it was there that Habasle and Soulai had hidden the two horses last night. But when Soulai made it to the bank, he found only one horse. He shook his head and sighed. He had expected it, really, for Habasle had ridden from the palace with hobbles tucked inside his pouch, and so Ti still shuffled along the streambed, tugging at stalks with his teeth. The lead rope, which was all Soulai had had to knot around the ankles of the bald-faced chestnut, lay empty atop some crushed grasses.

  Ti heard Soulai’s approach and whinnied. It was the familiar morning greeting that signaled hunger, and Soulai hated not having some grain to feed him. As he picked his way down the crumbling dirt walls, he watched the gold-and-white stallion wade through the sea of plumes like some magical mount belonging to Ea, the water god.

  When they met, Soulai extended his hand. Ti stretched his neck to lick the salty palm, sucked and slobbered, all the while gazing at Soulai with gratitude. Soulai smiled. Until he saw the dried blood on the stallion’s throat. He remembered with horror that the ashipu still wanted to kill Ti. That Habasle wanted to ride him into battle. How am I going to protect him? he wondered. Especially out here, in the middle of nowhere, and on foot.

  He sighed again. Ti stopped his licking to rub his head against Soulai’s shoulder. Soulai smiled and helped scratch the sweat-stiffened hairs left by the bridle. He had been worried that last night’s hard gallop would drain the recuperating horse, but instead it appeared to have invigorated him. Even hobbled, Ti moved with more ease than he had since the lion hunt.

  He continued scratching the horse, flaking away the dried lather on his chest and belly. The white marking of the winged creature, Ninurta’s mark as everyone called it, caught his attention. Slowly he traced his fingers along the outline. Was Ti really destined to go to war? The words of Naboushoumidin, the chief scribe, came back to him: Animals, people, even kings—they’re born and they die…Don’t let your own soft heart cheat this horse of his rightful destiny. Soulai clenched his teeth. No. He couldn’t let Ti be killed.

  When his fingers finally tired, he patted the stallion on the neck, picked up the empty lead rope, and climbed out of the wadi.

  “We’ve lost a horse,” he announced as he entered the encampment.

  Habasle was still busy at the rock. “No,” he responded, “you’ve lost a horse. Mine’s where I left him.” He jerked a finger over his shoulder.

  Soulai glared. He’s already forgotten how I helped him escape the ashipu last night, he thought bitterly. The skin beneath his brand twitched. He was a mere slave, a tool, something to be used and discarded. Just like Ti. He squinted at the vultures circling overhead and vowed not to speak further.

  The sun climbed higher, shadows shortened, and the rocky ground began to burn through his sandals. Only his growling stomach interrupted the quiet in the clearing. But Habasle, who had switched from the figs to a crusty round of emmer bread, didn’t offer to share.

  It was sometime later that the noisy approach of something large startled both boys. Soulai caught his breath and heard Habasle do the same, until Ti shuffled into the encampment and they both relaxed, trying to hide their relief. The horse was all curiosity, nostrils flaring, ears swiveling. He sniffed at the rumpled rug, then at the pouch sitting beside it. When he smelled the lead rope that had been used to hobble the chestnut stallion, he squealed and stamped his front hooves on it. Soulai smiled.

  He’d been watching Habasle’s work for the better part of the morning now. White lines nearly covered the boulder’s surface, and they were beginning to resemble a battle scene. Boredom combined with curiosity overcame his vow. “What are you doing?” he asked at last.

  “Making my mark,” came the reply. The steady clacking sound of rock hitting rock continued.

  “Why?”

  “So they’ll know I was here.”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever, or whatever, is following us.”

  A chill ran along Soulai’s sweaty neck. He remembered the ashipu. Instinctively he glanced toward Nineveh. “What do you mean?”

  Habasle turned around. Soulai was astonished to see how much fresh blood had soaked the tunic. Habasle’s eyes shone dark and feverish; his words tumbled over one another. “I mean that the ashipu saw it, too. All the month of Sebat the three stars on the true shepherd’s belt twinkled, meaning the wings of Ninurta would brush the shoulder of the next king. But while everyone was searching the skies, I found the god’s own image on Ti. And on me.” He pressed two fingers across the tattoo on his upper arm.

  Soulai ignored the claims. “So who’s following us?”

  Habasle reached for the pouch nearest him. The effort made him groan and clutch his side, but he dragged it over, pulled something out, and tossed it.

&nbs
p; A polished stone object landed in Soulai’s palm. His fingers opened to reveal a strange creature, half man and half animal, carved from lapis lazuli. Different from a lamassu, this one had hairy legs, upon which sat the torso of a bearded man; the arms were raised to invoke a prayer—or a curse.

  “What is it?”

  Habasle sank back against the boulder, still cupping his side. “An uridimmu. A mad lion or mad dog, depending on the curse. But it’s meant for us.”

  Sweat dampened Soulai’s palm. “This is what’s following us?”

  “If the ashipu’s powers are strong enough. And they must be, for it appeared in my pouch without my knowledge.”

  “And you’re marking this rock to help it find us?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I want it, the ashipu—I want all of them to find us. I want the whole world to know that I, Habasle, son of Ashurbanipal, king of the universe, king of Assyria, for whom Ashur, king of the gods, and Ishtar, lady of battle, have decreed a destiny of heroism, stood here on this day.”

  The words, bloated with ego or fever, charged through the midmorning stillness. Soulai looked over his shoulder again. Then over the other one. “Shouldn’t we be riding on then?”

  There was no answer, only Annakum’s rapid panting and then the steady clack-clack of Habasle returning to his drawing. Soulai bit his lip. A small panic told him to run far away from the image that seemed to burn like fire in his hand. He dropped the carved blue stone onto the crumpled pouch. The feeling of being small and insignificant returned. He crossed his arms and paced circles. Annakum lifted his head, visibly annoyed, so he stopped. Then he stood watching Habasle. “What are you drawing?” he asked at last.