“Me. On Ti. Look, I’m spearing a Mede. See? Piercing him straight through his middle. And there’s another I’ve already slain behind me.”
This time Soulai chose not to respond. Habasle twisted around. “Don’t you see it?”
A frown wrinkled Soulai’s forehead.
“So be it,” Habasle said, handing him the white stone. “You do better.”
Soulai sighed and, still frowning, sat down. A rotten odor arose from Habasle’s clothing, along with a moist heat. But at least this was something to do, and, after studying Ti a moment, Soulai bent into the boulder. Thick, confident lines began filling its surface. He thought about the little clay horses he had formed in his hands and rounded his marks with their fullness. He remembered the incredible power of last night’s ride and drew Ti’s barrel lean, the legs stretched long.
Habasle’s attentive silence signaled approval. Somewhat reluctantly Soulai finished drawing his master on Ti’s back and filled in the dying Mede beneath Ti’s pounding hooves. Then, thinking back on the chiseled panels he had studied outside the library, he added a feathered headdress to Ti’s bridle and fastened fat tassels from his throatlatch and breast-collar. The horse’s noble image appeared poised to leap from the boulder.
For a while, Habasle just sat at his side, staring. A smile played about his lips. Then he began to nod. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes. That’s exactly how it will look.” His burning eyes settled upon Soulai. “Draw yourself, too.” He tapped the boulder.
Soulai’s mouth hung open. “Why?”
“Because you are my slave!” The abrupt order shattered the brief accord. “Just do it,” Habasle said in a calmer voice. “Draw yourself carrying my arrows and a spare shield.” He winced; the pain seemed to frighten him. “Listen,” he added, “I didn’t invite you along last night, but you followed anyway. So you’re in the thick of it now, with Ti and me.”
Again Soulai bent into the boulder, but the passion had evaporated. The figure he drew looked small and stiff compared with the other images. He set down the white rock.
“Why does the ashipu want to kill you?”
Habasle chewed on a hangnail and shrugged. “Someone’s mother has crossed his palm with silver.”
“Someone’s mother?”
“The mother of a potential king. I have found that not many of Ashurbanipal’s sons live to greet their own father. Sillaja, my good friend and brother, laid down after breakfast with a fire in his stomach and never awoke. Irsisi carried a message to the ashipu and never returned, though that son of a jackal declares my brother never arrived.”
“But why should he try to kill you? Would he be king then?”
Habasle laced his fingers and loudly cracked his knuckles. “No, but if he has a hand in choosing the next king, he’ll find a way to hold the reins.”
Soulai could barely speak the next words. “Why does he want to kill Ti?”
“That’s my doing. The man owns no interest in horses, probably never even set foot in a stable until I asked him to tend to Ti’s injuries. I didn’t think he’d notice the markings, but he did—or the asu did. Now, having found Ninurta’s omen, he knows that Ti and I together are destined for greatness, so if he can’t kill me, he’ll kill him—in the name of ritual sacrifice, of course.”
A shiver traveled up Soulai’s spine as he gazed at the gold-and-white stallion. “What are we going to do?”
The way Habasle kept chewing on his thumbnail while staring at the horizon made Soulai nervous. “What are we going to do?” he repeated urgently. “You have a plan, don’t you?”
Habasle’s lips spread around his gnawing teeth. “No,” he mumbled. He yanked his thumb away. “Well, I plan on living—at least for a time, I just don’t know where.” He pursed his lips while thinking, and scanned the road below them. Then he looked back toward Nineveh. “Thieves by night,” he mused, “jackals, snakes, and now—possibly—mad dogs and lions. Still, there are any number and sorts of enemies in the day, and those more easily seen.” He turned to Soulai. “It’s about a day’s ride to Dur Sharrukin, where we can hide until we make some plans. Would you rather risk the seen or unseen enemy?”
Soulai stared at the fierce blue creature lying on the pouch. “The uridimmu,” he asked, “it travels by night?”
Habasle climbed to his feet, suddenly impatient. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Don’t waste your time whining about something you can’t control. Now which do you desire?”
Soulai’s indignation returned. He stood as well. “What does it matter which I desire? I’m only a slave.”
For a moment Habasle looked directly at him. It was a look colored by pity. “And you will always be a slave,” he said quietly. “Even when your debt is repaid, you’ll still be a slave because you think like a slave.” He shaded his eyes and glanced at the sky. “We’ll move on until high sun, then rest until nightfall. Fasten the rug on Ti.”
12
River’s Edge
Soulai’s stomach growled louder. His feet burned from the hot grit stuck between his toes and from his sandals’ chafing straps. But he kept plodding.
The sun was beating straight down on their heads now. Its heat radiated off the stone-strewn road; its light glistened through the long string of saliva dangling from Annakum’s black lips. The dog’s curling pink tongue fluttered like a heavy-winged butterfly.
Soulai was walking behind and a little to one side of Ti, resting his hand on the sweat-streaked rump. The silvery tail, dulled with dust, switched fitfully. Although the long hairs stung Soulai’s shoulders and arms, they provided some relief from the bothersome black gnats that dove at his face, tangling themselves in his eyelashes. Swatting them away for the hundredth time, Soulai shaded his eyes and looked to the road ahead. It shimmered with heat, no end in sight.
Habasle pulled on the reins at that moment and the progression halted. He, too, shaded his eyes and scanned the land, not ahead, but east. Soulai followed his gaze. It took a moment to find the faint trail that sloped away from the road and toward a winding growth of dusty grasses and low trees. Annakum took the opportunity to flop down in the scant shadow of a wormwood bush. His entire body shook with his rapid panting.
Habasle looked down at the dog, then at Soulai. His hand still guarded the lumpy bandage beneath his blood-stained tunic, and he hunched upon Ti’s back, blinking, as if trying to steady his thoughts. If he had any, they weren’t shared. Abruptly he pulled the reins to the side. Ti stumbled, then dropped his nose to the ground and, blowing little puffs of dust as he went, cautiously began picking his way downhill.
Against a white sky, the two vultures continued gliding in long, looping circles. Why were they so certain death was near? Soulai thought irritably. Heaving a tired sigh, he started down as well. Annakum shook his head violently, climbed to his feet, and followed.
Soulai watched the ground closely, for the path, if you could even call it that, was pitted with exposed rock and creased with fissures. Half a dozen times he slipped on loose pebbles and almost fell.
Before long, brittle-limbed bushes began blocking their way, some taller than Soulai. Even Ti had to stop and start, sometimes doubling back to find a passage. The slight, hot breeze that had seemed an aggravation on the main road evaporated amid the increasingly dense scrub. Sweat streamed down Soulai’s back.
Scurrying and fluttering and slithering noises increased as the brush thickened. Soulai was mindful that they weren’t the only creatures present, and, with thoughts of the uridimmu consuming him, he flinched. Colorful flocks of darters and bee-eaters waited until the last moment to burst skyward. Red-bellied locusts launched their leathery bodies at his face. At one point, he halted and held his breath as some unseen animal passed nearby. He exhaled with relief when he spotted Annakum weaving his way through the undergrowth. His uneasiness returned, though, when he noticed something unusual in the mastiff’s gait. The dog seemed disjointed; he was stumbling over the uneven ground like a drunken man.
>
Soulai was watching Annakum so intently that a loud grunt dangerously close to his other side caught him by surprise. He spun around in time to get a glimpse of a large, hairy animal pushing its way through the scrub. A boar? Or the uridimmu? He hurried to catch up with Ti.
The stallion moved along more quickly now and Soulai knew why: The cool scent of moisture ahead teased his own nostrils. His dusty throat yearned for a swallow of water, his swollen feet for a soak in a stream. The grasses beneath them turned a brighter green and ceased springing back. Swarms of insects attacked his ankles as a stumpy black and yellow snake glided to cover, leaving a smooth depression in its wake. Hoofprints and footprints began filling with water.
Finally, with the lifting of a palm frond, he could see the river stretched before them, sunlight glinting off its smooth surface. A pair of leggy white egrets waded along the opposite shore. Soulai immediately squatted in the mud and cupped water to his mouth. Ti waded in to his knees, lowered his head and noisily sucked and swallowed, his eyes closed with the sheer pleasure of it. Habasle lifted a leg over the withers and dropped with a small splash. Steadying himself against the horse’s shoulder, he gingerly bent and scooped a little water to his mouth. With careful motions he splashed some along his forehead and neck, too.
He stood looking upriver then, and Soulai, turning his head, saw that Annakum, up to his belly in the water, was still panting heavily, but not drinking. The dog seemed confused. Soulai cast a worried look at Habasle, but he, too, wore a blank stare.
Without a word, Habasle turned and laid his hands on Ti’s back. He made a little leap to remount, but, apparently, he couldn’t summon the strength, for a flick of his wrist summoned Soulai. Although there was no one watching, Soulai flushed with humiliation as he bent his back and Habasle stepped up onto it, then swung his leg over Ti. Habasle gathered the reins and thumped his heels.
Fear grabbed Soulai. Habasle was going to cross the river! And he was taking Ti with him! The opposite shore was only an arrow’s flight away, but between the banks stretched a rippling green skin that certainly hid a host of watery monsters.
He wanted to protest and lunge for the reins. But, at Habasle’s insistence, the stallion was arching his golden neck and stepping hesitantly deeper and deeper into the river. The thick tail was soon taken up by the current and it floated on the surface like an elegantly fringed veil. Ti’s next step apparently found no bottom, for he plunged into the water. The river’s force gathered around his body, angling him and his rider downstream.
Soulai’s heart pounded so fast he grew dizzy. They were leaving him. How could he follow? He couldn’t swim. The current tugged at his calves, taunting him.
He stepped backward, panicking a moment when his sandal got stuck in the mud. He vividly recalled the chiseled stone panel outside the royal library, the one showing people drowning in a river to avoid capture. That’s what would happen to him if he dared take even one more step. The waters would grab him and suck him under, squeeze the life from him. Great fishes would nibble at his fingers with their slimy lips. He’d seen it.
Habasle looked over his shoulder and whistled. “Annakum,” he called. “Here!”
The mastiff stood still, with his head lolled to one side and two long strings of saliva drooping from his mouth, ignoring his master’s summons. Habasle called again; his whistle sounded sharper. The dog pricked his ears but didn’t move.
Angered, Habasle yanked Ti’s head around and rode the horse the short way back. The current landed them downriver. They came splashing through the shallows, Ti nodding his head and chewing upon the bit as if this were but a game. Annakum jumped aside.
“Annakum, here!” The words pierced the air with authority. Obediently the mastiff rose, waded a few paces, and began swimming the river. The waters pulled him south.
“Do I have to whistle for you, too?” Habasle was reining Ti toward the river.
Soulai fidgeted. “I can’t swim.”
“Then drown.” Heels thudded and Ti stepped off into the current.
Soulai watched them go a second time. His shoulders rose and fell with his rapid breathing. Just let him go, he thought. Let him go. He’s sick, wounded—let him die alone. I hope he dies alone. A thought popped into his mind: Then I’ll be free! His mind raced. If Habasle died out here in the wilderness, he could take Ti and find his way home, couldn’t he?
His stomach doubled upon itself. The fleeting thought of freedom was smothered by fear. He had no idea where he was or how he could possibly survive alone. Maybe the vultures did know the future.
As he watched Ti’s gold-and-white head bobbing above the cloudy water, he opened his mouth to beg Habasle to come back. But before there was any sound, the stallion began turning. Ears flattened in annoyance this time, Ti pumped a smooth arc and headed for Soulai.
When his hooves found bottom, the tired horse lugged his dripping body and rider from the water once more. Soulai stared up at the silhouetted pair. Rising as they had from the river’s murky underworld, Habasle and Ti appeared regal and godlike.
Between labored breaths Habasle muttered, “I’m not crossing again, so if you’re coming, climb on now.”
“On Ti?”
“No, on my back. By Ishtar, you’re stupid.” He sucked in his breath as if a sharp pain had grabbed him. After a moment he slowly let it out. “You helped last night,” he said curtly. “I’m helping you now. Climb on.”
Soulai threw his arm across Ti’s slippery rump and jumped. His chest bumped against the horse’s flanks and he slid to the ground. He tried again, grasping the wet rug and jumping higher, but Ti was growing fretful and beginning to prance. A sharp hoof landed on Soulai’s toes.
He refused to cry out, for he saw Habasle’s scornful expression. A hand was thrust toward him. He gripped it, hopped twice, and leaped as high as he could. Habasle groaned but held steady, and Soulai swung his leg over Ti. The hide was slick; there wasn’t much to grab on to. He sat deep, centering his weight over his hips and trying to balance with Ti’s ambling gait, for the horse was already heading toward the water.
Across the river Soulai could see Annakum crawling onto the bank. The dog shook off a great halo of spray, then threw himself into a stand of tall grasses, flattening them as he rubbed his coat dry. Soulai hoped he’d live to feel grasses beneath his feet again.
Already the water was lapping at his toes and calves. As it climbed past his knees, he stiffened. He lifted his chin higher, becoming acutely aware of his own breathing. Then Ti stepped into nothingness. Soulai gasped. The horse sank lower; he couldn’t hold them both! They were drowning! Cold water rushed between his knees and the warm hide, and he felt his seat lifting from Ti’s back. He threw his arms around Habasle’s waist and clamped his chin onto his shoulder.
“Ow! Get off me!” Habasle jabbed an elbow backward, but Soulai’s grip was frozen. With his free hand, Habasle tugged at one of Soulai’s wrists. Strong fingers managed to work it free. Another sharp elbow and Soulai was falling sideways, clawing at Habasle’s tunic. Then Soulai tumbled into the river.
The green water closed over his mouth, his nose, his eyes—a suffocating blanket. He gulped a great swallow of muddy water. Flailing, coughing, choking, Soulai reached out blindly. Each tantalizing contact—a flank, Habasle’s heel, a hock—slipped from his fingers. Ti was pulling forward, Soulai realized, forward and away, and he was sinking down, drowned and forgotten. As if from a great distance, Soulai watched himself struggle.
Somehow the strands of Ti’s long tail drifted between his fingers. They felt as solid as a rope, and he clutched them desperately. Immediately the sinking stopped and Soulai felt himself being towed forward. He twisted, kicking against the water until his face broke through—one quick gasp of air—then sank again below the surface.
Ti’s pumping hock caught him in the belly, but Soulai refused to loosen his grip. The horse’s stroke grew panicky, but Soulai hung on, gritting his teeth through the pummeling, gasping for
air when he could.
At last his toes were dragging through coarse sand. He let go of Ti’s tail, managed to bring his feet underneath him, and stood. Clutching his stomach, he coughed uncontrollably. A giant shivering seized him as he fell to his knees. The coughing turned to retching. Smelly water, colored with mud, pushed past his tongue. Out it spilled, from his mouth and his nostrils. He crawled farther up the bank and collapsed face forward.
Behind him he heard Ti’s labored breathing. It compressed into a brief grunt as the horse shook himself off, pelting Soulai’s back with more water. Then the clanking sound of the iron bit mixed with those of ripping grass and the monotonous twitter of birds. The hot sand warmed Soulai’s thighs and arms; it felt good. The sun was blotting dry his skin, the breeze sifting through his hair. He’d live.
Footsteps approached. Soulai opened his eyes to a blurry view of Habasle’s feet. Dried figs plopped one after the other onto the sand in front of his nose. Then the feet disappeared.
13
Beggars and Dreamers
For the third time since they’d left the river, Habasle counted on his fingers and looked over his shoulder. Soulai had turned twice, cringing, expecting to see the uridimmu—in whatever horrible form it took—stalking them. But land and sky, and a sun sinking behind frayed pink clouds, were all he saw. So this time he bent his head and continued trudging up the long, grassy slope. He was exhausted and, to tell the truth, empty of caring. All he wanted was to collapse somewhere and sleep.
As the sun touched the horizon, a quickening wind began flinging dirt and bits of leaves at them. It grew stronger and stronger until both boys had to shield their faces. Ti bent his head into his chest and pushed on. Annakum was nowhere to be seen.
Dur Sharrukin’s walls finally loomed ahead and Soulai risked a glance between splayed fingers. The city stretched only half as wide as Nineveh, though a spectacular temple rose from its midst, spiraling in brilliant enameled tiers toward the heavens. The outer walls bristled with nearly half a hundred square towers, their broad stone faces reflecting the orange sun like warriors’ shields. He couldn’t say exactly what it was, but he sensed there was something odd about this city.
To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion Page 9