by Mary Renault
“Are you calling me a liar? Well, come on, are you?”
“Hephaistion, you fool, you can’t fight here.”
“Don’t call me a liar, then.”
“You do look fourteen,” said a peacemaker. “In the gymnasium, I thought you were more.”
“You know who Hephaistion has a look of? Alexander. Not really like, but, say, like his big brother.”
“You hear that, Hephaistion? How well does your mother know the King?”
He had counted too much on the protection of place and time. Next moment, with a split lip, he was on the ground. In the stir of the King’s approach, few people saw it. Alexander all this while had kept the tail of his eye on them, because he thought of himself as their commanding officer. But he decided not to notice it. They were not precisely on duty, and the boy who had been knocked down was the one he liked the least.
Philip rode up to the stand, escorted by the First Officer of the Guard, the Somatophylax. Pausanias saluted and stepped aside. The boys stood respectfully, one sucking his lip, the other his knuckles.
The horse fair was always easy-going, an outing where men were men. Philip in riding-clothes lifted his switch to the lords and squires and officers and horse-dealers; mounted the stand, shouted to this friend or that to join him. His eye fell on his son; he made a movement, then saw the little court around him and turned away. Alexander picked up his talk with Harpalos, a dark lively good-looking youth with much offhand charm, whom fate had cursed with a clubfoot. Alexander had always admired the way he bore it.
A racehorse came pounding by, ridden by a little Nubian boy in a striped tunic. Word had gone round that this year the King was only in the market for a battle-charger; but he had paid the sum, already a legend, of thirteen talents for the racer that had won for him at Olympia; and the dealer had thought it worth a try. Philip smiled and shook his head; the Nubian boy, who had hoped to be bought with the horse, to wear gold earrings and eat meat on feast-days, cantered back, his face a landscape of grief.
The chargers were led up, in precedence fiercely fought over by the dealers all the forenoon, and settled in the end by substantial bribes. The King came down to peer into mouths and at upturned hooves, to feel shanks and listen to chests. The horses were led away, or kept by in case nothing better turned up. There was a lag. Phili looked impatiently about. The big Thessalian dealer, Philonikos who had been fuming for some time, said to his runner, “Tell then I’ll have their guts for picket ropes, if they don’t bring the beas now.”
“Kittos says, sir, they can bring him, but…”
“I had to break the brute myself, must I show him too? Tell Kittos from me, if I miss this sale, they won’t have hide enough left between them for a pair of sandal soles.” With a sincere, respectful smile, he approached the King. “Sir, he’s on his way You’ll see he’s all I wrote you from Larissa, and more. Forgive the delay; they’ve just now told me, some fool let him slip his tether In prime fettle as he is, he was hard to catch. Ah! Here he comes now.”
They led up, at a careful walk, a black with a white blaze. The other horses had been ridden, to show their paces. Though he was certainly in a sweat, he did not breathe like a horse that had been running. When they pulled him up before the King and his horse trainer, his nostrils flared and his black eye rolled sidelong; he tried to rear his head, but the groom dragged it down. His bridle was costly, red leather trimmed with silver; but he had no saddlecloth The dealer’s lips moved viciously in his beard.
A hushed voice beside the dais said, “Look, Ptolemy. Look at that.”
“There, sir!” said Philonikos, forcing rapture into his voice “There’s Thunder. If there ever stepped a mount fit for a King”
He was indeed, at all points, the ideal horse of Xenophon. Starting, as he advises, with the feet, one saw that the horns of the hooves were deep before and behind; when he stamped, as he was doing now (just missing the groom’s foot) they made a ringing sound like a cymbal. His leg-bones were strong but flexible; his chest was broad, his neck arched, as the writer puts it, like a game-cock’s; the mane was long, strong, silky and badly combed. His back was firm and wide, the spine well padded, his loins were short and broad. His black coat shone; on one flank was branded the horned triangle, the Oxhead, which was the mark of his famous breed. Strikingly, his forehead had a white blaze which almost copied its shape.
“That,” said Alexander with awe, “is a perfect horse. Perfect everywhere.”
“He’s vicious,” Ptolemy said.
Over at the horse-lines, the chief groom Kittos said to a fellow slave who had watched their struggles, “Days like this, I wish they’d cut my throat along with my father’s, when they took our town. My back’s not healed from last time, and he’ll be at me again before sundown.”
“That horse is a murderer. What does he want, does he want to kill the King?”
“There was nothing wrong with that horse, I tell you nothing, nothing beyond high spirits, till he lost his temper when it took against him. He’s like a wild beast in his drink; mostly it’s us men he takes it out of, we come cheaper than horses. Now it’s anyone’s fault but his; he’d kill me if I told him its temper’s spoiled for good. He only bought it from Kroisos a month ago, just for this deal. Two talents he paid.” His hearer whistled. “He reckoned to get three, and he well might if he’d not set out to break its heart. It’s held out well, I’ll say that for it. He broke mine long ago.”
Philip, seeing the horse was restive, walked round it a few paces away. “Yes, I like his looks. Well, let’s see him move.”
Philonikos took a few steps towards the horse. It gave a squeal like a battle-trumpet, forced up its head against the hanging weight of the groom, and pawed the air. The dealer swore and kept his distance; the groom got the horse in hand. As if dye were running from the red bridle, a few drops of blood fell from its mouth.
Alexander said, “Look at that bit they’ve put on him. Look at those barbs.”
“It seems even that can’t hold him,” said big Philotas easily. “Beauty’s not everything.”
“And still he got his head up.” Alexander had moved forward. The men strolled after, looking out over him; he barely reached Philotas’ shoulder.
“You can see his spirit, sir,” Philonikos told the King eagerly. “A horse like this, one could train to rear up and strike the enemy.”
“The quickest way to have your mount killed under you,” said Philip brusquely, “making it show its belly.” He beckoned the leathery bow-legged man attending him. “Will you try him, Jason?”
The royal trainer walked round to the front of the horse, making cheerful soothing sounds. It backed, stamped and rolled its eyes. He clicked his tongue, saying firmly, “Thunder, boy, hey, Thunder.” At the sound of its name it seemed to quiver all over with suspicion and rage. Jason returned to noises. “Keep his head till I’m up,” he told the groom, “that looks like one man’s work.” He approached the horse’s side, ready to reach for the roots of the mane; the only means, unless a man had a spear to vault on, of getting up. The saddlecloth, had it been on, would have offered comfort and show, but no kind of foothold. A hoist was for the elderly, and Persians, who were notoriously soft.
At the last moment, his shadow passed before the horse’s eyes. It gave a violent start, swerved, and lashed out, missing Jason by inches. He stepped back and squinted at it sideways, screwing up one eye and the side of his mouth. The King met his look and raised his eyebrows.
Alexander, who had been holding his breath, looked round at Ptolemy and said in a voice of anguish, “He won’t buy him.”
“Who would?” said Ptolemy, surprised. “Can’t think why he was shown. Xenophon wouldn’t have bought him. You were quoting him only just now, how the nervous horse won’t let you harm the enemy, but he’ll do plenty of harm to you.”
“Nervous? He? He’s the bravest horse I ever saw. He’s a fighter. Look where he’s been beaten, under the belly too, you can see the
weals. If Father doesn’t buy him, that man will flay him alive. I can see it in his face.”
Jason tried again. Before he got anywhere near the horse it started kicking. He looked at the King, who shrugged his shoulders.
“It was his shadow,” said Alexander urgently to Ptolemy. “He’s shy of his own, even. Jason should have seen.”
“He’s seen enough; he’s got the King’s life to think of. Would you ride a horse like that to war?”
“Yes, I would. To war most of all.”
Philotas raised his brows, but failed to catch Ptolemy’s eye.
“Well, Philonikos,” said Philip, “if that’s the pick of your stable, let’s waste no more time. I’ve work to do.”
“Sir, give us a moment. He’s frisky for want of exercise; too full of corn. With his strength, he—”
“I can buy something better for three talents than a broken neck.”
“My lord, for you only, I’ll make a special price.”
“I’m busy,” Philip said.
Philonikos set his thick mouth in a wide straight line. The groom, hanging for dear life on the spiked bit, began to turn the horse for the horse-lines. Alexander called out in his high carrying voice, “What a waste! The best horse in the show!”
Anger and urgency gave it a note of arrogance that made heads turn. Philip looked round startled. Never, at the worst of things, had the boy been rude to him in public. It had best be ignored till later. The groom and the horse were moving off.
“The best horse ever shown here, and all he needs is handling.” Alexander had come out into the field. All his friends, even Ptolemy, left a discreet space round him; he was going too far. The whole crowd was staring. “A horse in ten thousand, just thrown away.”
Philip, looking again, decided the boy had not meant to be so insolent. He was a colt too full of corn, ever since his two precocious exploits. They had gone to his head. No lesson so good, thought Philip, as the one a man teaches to himself. “Jason here,” he said, “has been training horses for twenty years. And you, Philonikos; how long?”
The dealer’s eyes shifted from father to son; he was on a tightrope. “Ah, well, sir, I was reared to it from a boy.”
“You hear that, Alexander? But you think you can do better?”
Alexander glanced, not at his father but at Philonikos. With an unpleasant sense of shock, the dealer looked away.
“Yes. With this horse, I could.”
“Very well,” said Philip. “If you can, he’s yours.”
The boy looked at the horse, with parted lips and devouring eyes. The groom had paused with it. It snorted over its shoulder.
“And if you can’t?” said the King briskly. “What are you staking?”
Alexander took a deep breath, his eyes not leaving the horse. “If I can’t ride him, I’ll pay for him myself.”
Philip raised his dark heavy brows. “At three talents?” The boy had only just been put up to a youth’s allowance; it would take most of this year’s, and the next as well.
“Yes,” Alexander said.
“I hope you mean it. I do.”
“So do I.” Roused from his single concern with the horse, he saw that everyone was staring: the officers, the chiefs, the grooms and dealers, Ptolemy and Harpalos and Philotas; the boys he had spent the morning with. The tall one, Hephaistion, who moved so well that he always caught the eye, had stepped out before the others. For a moment their looks met.
Alexander smiled at Philip. “It’s a bet, then, Father. He’s mine; and the loser pays.” There was a buzz of laughter and applause in the royal circle, born of relief that it had turned good-humored. Only Philip, who had caught it full in the eyes, had known it for a battle-smile, save for one watcher of no importance who had known it too.
Philonikos, scarcely able to credit this happy turn of fate, hastened to overtake the boy, who was making straight for the horse. Since he could not win, it was important he should not break his neck. It would be too much to hope that the King would settle up for him.
“My lord, you’ll find that—”
Alexander looked round and said, “Go away.”
“But, my lord, when you come to—”
“Go away. Over there, down wind, where he can’t see you or smell you. You’ve done enough.”
Philonikos looked into the paled and widened eyes. He went, in silence, exactly where he was told.
Alexander remembered, then, that he had not asked when the horse was first called Thunder, or if it had had another name. It had said plainly enough that Thunder was the word for tyranny and pain. It must have a new name, then. He walked round, keeping his shadow behind, looking at the horned blaze under the blowing forelock.
“Oxhead,” he said, falling into Macedonian, the speech of truth and love. “Boukephalos, Boukephalos.”
The horse’s ears went up. At the sound of this voice, the hated presence had lost power and been driven away. What now? It had lost all trust in men. It snorted, and pawed the ground in warning.
Ptolemy said, “The King may be sorry he set him on to this.”
“He was born lucky,” said Philotas. “Do you want to bet?”
Alexander said to the groom, “I’ll take him. You needn’t wait.”
“Oh, no, sir! When you’re mounted, my lord. My lord, they’ll hold me accountable.”
“No, he’s mine now. Just give me his head without jerking that bit…I said, give it me. Now.”
He took the reins, easing them at first only a little. The horse snorted, then turned and snuffed at him. The off forefoot raked restlessly. He took the reins in one hand, to run the other along the moist neck; then shifted his grip to the headstall, so that the barbed bit no longer pressed at all. The horse only pulled forward a little. He said to the groom, “Go that way. Don’t cross the light.”
He pushed round the horse’s head to face the bright spring sun. Their shadows fell out of sight behind them. The smell of its sweat and breath and leather bathed him in its steam. “Boukephalos,” he said softly.
It strained forward, trying to drag him with it; he took in the rein a little. A horsefly was on its muzzle; he ran his hand down, till his fingers felt the soft lip. Almost pleadingly now, the horse urged them both onward, as if saying, “Come quickly away from here.”
“Yes, yes,” he said stroking its neck. “All in good time, when I say, we’ll go. You and I don’t run away.”
He had better take off his cloak; while he spared a hand for the pin, he talked on to keep the horse in mind of him. “Remember who we are. Alexander and Boukephalos.”
The cloak fell behind him; he slid his arm over the horse’s back. It must be near fifteen hands, a tall horse for Greece; he was used to fourteen. This one was as tall as Philotas’ horse about which he talked so much. The black eye rolled round at him. “Easy, easy, now. I’ll tell you when.”
With the reins looped in his left hand he grasped the arch of the mane; with his right, its base between the shoulders. He could feel the horse gather itself together. He ran a few steps with it to gain momentum, then leaped, threw his right leg over; he was up.
The horse felt the light weight on its back, compact of certainty; the mercy of invincible hands, the forbearance of immovable will; a nature it knew and shared, transfigured to divinity. Men had not mastered it; but it would go with the god.
The crowd was silent at first. They were men who knew horses, and had more sense than to startle this one. In a breathing hush they waited for it to get its head, taking for granted the boy would be run away with, eager to applaud if he could only stick on and ride it to a standstill. But he had it in hand; it was waiting his sign to go. There was a hum of wonder; then, when they saw him lean forward and kick his heel with a shout, when boy and horse went racing down towards the water-meadows, the roar began. They vanished into the distance; only the rising clouds of wildfowl showed where they had gone.
They came back at last with the sun behind them, their shadow thr
own clear before. Like the feet of a carved pharaoh treading his beaten enemies, the drumming hooves trampled the shadow triumphantly into the ground.
At the horse-field they slowed to a walk. The horse blew and shook its bridle. Alexander sat easy, in the pose which Xenophon commends: the legs straight down, gripping with the thigh, relaxed below the knee. He rode towards the stand; but a man stood waiting down in front of it. It was his father.
He swung off cavalry style, across the neck with his back to the horse; considered the best way in war, if the horse allowed it. The horse was remembering things learned before the tyranny. Philip put out both arms; Alexander came down into them. “Look out we don’t jerk his mouth, Father,” he said. “It’s sore.”
Philip pounded him on the back. He was weeping. Even his blind eye wept real tears. “My son!” he said choking. There was wet in his harsh beard. “Well done, my son, my son.”
Alexander returned his kiss. It seemed to him that this was a moment nothing could undo. “Thank you, Father. Thank you for my horse. I shall call him Oxhead.”
The horse gave a sudden start. Philonikos was coming up, beaming and full of compliments. Alexander looked round, and motioned with his head. Philonikos withdrew. The buyer was never wrong.
A surging crowd had gathered. “Will you tell them to keep off, Father? He won’t stand people yet. I’ll have to rub him down myself, or he’ll catch a chill.”
He saw to the horse, keeping the best of the grooms beside him for it to know him another time. The crowd was still in the horse-field. All was quiet in the stable yard when he came out, flushed from the ride and the work, tousled, smelling of horse. Only one loiterer was about; the tall boy Hephaistion, whose eyes had wished him victory. He smiled an acknowledgment. The boy smiled back, hesitated, and came nearer. There was a pause.
“Would you like to see him?”
“Yes, Alexander…It was just as if he knew you. I felt it, like an omen. What is he called?”
“I’m calling him Oxhead.” They were speaking Greek.
“That’s better than Thunder. He hated that.”
