Most of the horses looked capable of fulfilling the demanding requirements of the game, but Ross's choice settled on a tall white stallion, the most spirited of the lot. The horse's eyes glittered with fierce intelligence and its slight, impatient movements made the silver plates on his bridle flash in the sunlight. A challenging mount, Ross guessed, but one that would reward the effort of mastering him. "This one."
Behind him, Dil Assa gave a gasp of outrage. "Rabat is my finest horse. I am riding him today!"
"Ah, my apologies," Ross said, not entirely surprised, for the stallion's quality was obvious. "I would not dream of depriving you of the horse you need for victory."
The Turkoman gave Ross a smoldering glance, but pride compelled him to say, "I do not need Rabat to win, ferengi. You are welcome to ride him—if he will allow you to."
"You are most gracious," Ross said, suppressing a grin. "I imagine that Rabat has been trained to perform special bozkashi maneuvers. What need I know to ride him properly?"
Fortunately half a dozen men chimed in with answers, for Dil Assa seemed disinclined to reply. After listening for a few minutes, Ross thought he understood what he might expect of a Turkoman-trained horse.
To accustom Rabat to his voice, Ross spent a few moments stroking the wary animal's neck and talking softly in English. Then, after checking the tightness of the girth and lengthening the stirrups, he swung lightly into the saddle.
Outraged by the stranger's impertinence, Rabat immediately exploded into action, bunching his muscles and rearing up in a furious attempt to dislodge his unwelcome rider. The stallion had a really impressive repertoire of bucks, twists, and sideways hops, but Ross had noted the warning in Dil Assa's words and he was prepared for such behavior. As the audience prudently withdrew to a safe distance, there followed a brief, intense bout in which man and horse tested each other's mettle.
It required all of Ross's strength and concentration to stay on the animal's back and establish which of them was in charge, but as Rabat whipped sideways like a mongoose, Ross did catch one glimpse of Juliet. Even though she was veiled, he sensed her satisfaction with his performance. Score one for the British.
There was no real vice in the white horse, just high spirits and a mischievous refusal to tamely accept an unproved rider. After Rabat had burned off some of his excess energy, he settled down and began to respond to reins and knees.
Wanting to know just what his mount could do, Ross rode away from the tents into the open plain. Then he put the stallion through its paces, systematically learning how to make the beast stop, wheel, and jump.
Rabat was amazingly quick, instantly sensing what his rider wanted. He could also turn on a farthing, and was one of the most powerful jumpers Ross had ever ridden. Testing the horse's capabilities was similar to testing a new rifle, only more challenging, because Rabat had a mind of his own.
The unfamiliar harness also required getting used to. There was only a single pair of reins, and the saddle was very high in front and back. In addition, a tall horn rose from the pommel. The configuration was unusual, but it would offer valuable support for a rider engaging in wild bozkashi maneuvers.
After a quarter-hour of increasingly strenuous activity, Ross felt that he and the stallion had developed a reasonable understanding of each other. As a final experiment, he put Rabat into a full blazing gallop, then grasped the saddle horn and slid down so that most of his body hung precariously over the stony soil. It was a dangerous trial, for a swerve or misstep by the horse would pitch Ross headfirst into the ground at high speed.
But in spite of his rider's unbalanced weight, the stallion held rock-steady as Ross plucked one of the fragile desert flowers. He pulled himself back into the saddle, then slowed to a canter and rode back to the watching Turkomans, laughing from sheer exhilaration. Most of the audience was smiling and calling out approving comments, but Dil Assa watched in dead silence.
Undeterred by his host's expression, Ross exclaimed, "Magnificent, Dil Assa! If you had the schooling of Rabat, he does you great honor."
With a blend of irritation and grudging respect, Dil Assa growled, "Aye, I trained him. When Rabat was born, I caught him with my own hands so he would not fall to the earth and break his wings. When he nursed, I fed his mother a dozen eggs a day so his coat would be sleek. For three years he ran completely free, unhampered by bridle or saddle. For five years more I have trained him in all the maneuvers of the game. There is no finer bozkashi mount anywhere. See that you use him well."
"I shall try to prove worthy," Ross said. "By the way, do you have another mount that my servant can use to ride with us to the site of the bozkashi match?"
Eyes narrowed with malice, Dil Assa scanned the remaining horses. After mounting a fiery-looking dark bay, he said, "Your Tuareg slave can ride that chestnut."
Speaking in Tamahak, as if translating, Ross told Juliet, "Careful, slave. I think our kind host wants to see someone's neck broken today."
Without deigning to reply, Juliet adjusted the chestnut's cinch and stirrups, then mounted. The nervous young gelding was not as hell-bent on having its own way as Rabat, but it was very skittish, so another battle for control took place. Juliet did not have Ross's strength, but she had an uncanny ability to sense what a horse would do next, and she brought the chestnut into order very quickly.
Dil Assa scowled. "Perhaps your slave should also play bozkashi today."
"No," Ross said flatly. "If Jalal is injured, who will care for my camels?"
Accepting the logic of that, Dil Assa ordered the rest of his men to mount, and the group set off to the site of the bozkashi match. It was about two miles away, and as Juliet had predicted, hundreds of spectators had arrived and were spread out along the dunes, ready, willing, and eager to follow the action. Numerous peddlers were also present, busily offering food and drink to the crowd.
It was easy to pick out the bozkashi players, for they were idling about on their mounts. There were about three dozen, all of them lean and dangerous-looking. Most wore caps edged with karakul or fox fur, and all carried the short, ugly whips.
Juliet slid off the chestnut and handed the reins to one of the Turkomans, then went on foot to find Saleh and Murad. Dil Assa rode over and gave Ross a terse set of explanations. "There is the boz, the goat." The headless, sand-weighted carcass lay in the middle of a circle drawn with white quicklime.
He waved his hand toward the horizon. "There is the pole which the boz must be carried around. Since the sun is hot and this is only a small, friendly match, the pole was set near." In fact, it was just barely visible in the distance.
Finally he indicated the quicklime circle. "The boz must be returned to the hallal, the circle of justice. The man who throws it in the circle is the winner." With a wolfish flash of teeth, Dil Assa said, "Shall we begin, my ferengi friend?"
"Ready when you are," Ross said pleasantly.
At Dil Assa's signal, the bozkashi master, an older man with a whip-scarred face, gave a shrill whistle between his fingers. Immediately the players trotted over and gathered in a rough circle around the goat. Ross found a place opposite Dil Assa. The air vibrated with tension as the riders jockeyed for position, their faces avid with the desire to be first and fiercest.
The master raised his arm, then chopped it down. "Begin!"
Instantly the circle dissolved into a maelstrom of chaotic activity as the riders spurred their horses forward. Only Ross held back, preferring to observe until he better understood the game.
A slightly built man proved quickest, and he leaned over and jerked the goat from the ground. Immediately it was ripped away by two players who began pulling on different legs, both of them screaming like fishwives. A third man drove his horse between their mounts and reared his horse straight up, separating the other two so he could seize possession himself.
A whirlwind of activity followed as the goat changed hands over and over, passing high and low, over necks and saddles and under horses' bellies. T
wice the body fell to the ground, only to be instantly snatched up again.
It was a scene of pure savagery, and soon the air was heavy with the pungent scents of horse, sweat, blood, and leather. Ross learned that the whips were less for horses than opponents. Hands and faces were slashed to the bone, but in the frenzy of competition, no one noticed. High- heeled boots kept riders in their stirrups when they lunged out to seize the prize, eyes wild and whips clamped between their teeth.
It was not only the players who fought. Their horses were equally aggressive, charging into the fracas with bared teeth, chopping hooves, and neighs of challenge. Riders and horses moved as one, like a race of centaurs in which a single will drove both man and mount. And at the very center of the storm was Dil Assa, the wildest of the wild.
Once the swirling mass of riders surged into the crowd. Howling spectators scattered in all directions, but some were not quick enough, and when the bozkashi action moved away, three bruised and complaining casualties were left behind.
Surrounded by an eye-stinging cloud of yellow dust, the struggling mass of riders slowly moved in the direction of the pole. To Ross it seemed that most of the players and their mounts would exhaust themselves long before the circle of justice was reached. By holding back and husbanding himself and his horse, a player would have a much better chance of becoming the ultimate winner. But strategy meant nothing to the men in front of him; they played for the sheer barbaric joy of it.
The tides of violence whirled around Ross and Rabat, kindling a fire in the blood that called them to surrender to the madness and join that furious tumult. Trained and honed for bozkashi, the white stallion fought to join the fray, but Ross held him back, needing the full force of his arms and knees to keep the raging horse under control.
Even more fiercely than he fought his horse, Ross battled the siren lure of violence. He had intended to participate in a moderate way once he had observed how the game was played, but now he feared joining in. It would be easy, so easy, to drown in that swirling chaos, to lose all balance and restraint.
Though there had been a handful of times in his life when his control had been on the edge of shattering, Ross had never succumbed, for on some deep level he feared what might happen if he did. If he once gave way to madness, would he ever again be free of it? And so he held back, keeping himself and Rabat on the edges of the fray.
The match progressed slowly, every inch fought over with grim determination until the boz was three-quarters of the way to the pole. Then a single rider managed to break clear, the goat slung across his saddlebow.
Dil Assa. In spite of hot pursuit, for a few brief glorious minutes he ran free as the crowd shrieked encouragement. He gave a bellow of triumph as he circled the pole, but in order to reach the goal, he had to return the way he had come—and when he did, his opponents were waiting for him. Once more the match turned into a free-for-all.
Ross had been riding along at the edge of the main group, watching but not taking part, more concerned with his inner struggle for mastery than with who had possession of the increasingly ragged goat. Suddenly Dil Assa appeared before him, eyes wild and face sheened with sweat and blood.
"Coward!" he snarled. "You waste the finest bozkashi horse that ever lived. You are less than a man." Far beyond remembering the promise he had made to the khalifa, he raised his heavy lead-tipped whip and slashed it at Ross's face. "I spit on you, ferengi!"
Reflexively Ross reared the stallion back, taking him out of reach of the whip. Undeterred, Dil Assa drove his mount forward and tried again, striking wildly in his fury.
The results were explosive. Usually Ross glided through life as a calm, detached observer, but proximity to Juliet had dangerously strained his control. As the Turkoman's whip snapped viciously across his back and shoulder, rage shattered the remnants of his restraint.
When Dil Assa lashed out again, Ross reached out with cat quickness and grabbed the thong with his left hand. Ignoring the searing pain, he yanked back with all his strength, jerking the whip from his opponent's hand.
"If you want to lose, Turkoman, so be it!" He hurled the whip to the ground. "Now I play to win!"
He wheeled Rabat sharply and set off in pursuit of the main body of players, which had passed by while Ross and Dil Assa were engaged in their private combat. There had been another breakaway where one man carried the goat halfway to the goal before being overtaken. Now all of the players were involved in a wild general melee.
The stallion trumpeted with joy at being given his head and charged over the barren plain like an avenging angel. Knowing that the boz would be in the center of the crowd of riders, Ross drove straight for it, intending to force his way straight in.
Then he realized that Rabat was gathering himself for a leap. In an instant of perfect communication between man and mount, Ross sensed that the stallion wanted to hurdle right on top of the brawling, seething mass of riders and horses.
It was madness, yet Ross didn't hesitate for an instant. In bozkashi, anything was allowed. Anything.
His mind at one with his horse, Ross felt Rabat's sweeping strides and bunching muscles, the fierce equine aggression, as if they were his own. Together they rose into the air and for a moment soared like Pegasus.
Then man and beast smashed down on top of the roiling, cursing throng. It was pure chaos. Kicks, fists, and whip lashes rained down on Ross and the stallion, but the sheer weight of their descent forced a space to open beneath them, right next to the bitterly contested goat.
Oblivious to the buffeting of other riders, Ross clamped the whip between his teeth, then dived through the choking dust toward the boz, stretching perilously over empty air with only a boot heel and his grip on the saddle horn to anchor him to his mount. At the farthest limit of his reach, he managed to seize a back leg of the mangled carcass.
The man who had possession fought viciously to retain it, but he lacked his assailant's fierce, fresh strength. After a sharp struggle, Ross wrenched the prize away.
When the full weight of the carcass lurched into his grasp, Ross almost crashed down to the stony soil. It took all his strength to regain his seat, but he managed to do it without losing the goat to the clawing hands of other players.
Ross draped the battered boz in front of his saddle, then began the slow, violent process of fighting his way out of the melee. In his state of exhilarated fury, he felt none of the blows that fell on him, and he had no compunction about striking back in kind.
Every hand and whip was raised against them, but he and Rabat were unstoppable as they barreled through the mob, knocking the other riders aside. They emerged in the clear only a couple of hundred yards from the circle of justice.
Dust stung Ross's eyes so that he could barely see the goal, but blindly he kicked Rabat into a gallop, relying on the stallion's training and instinct to take them to the circle at top speed. Needing to clear his vision, Ross lifted one hand from the goat and used the tail of his turban to wipe his eyes.
In the instant that his grasp on the carcass was less secure, another pair of hands seized it. Once more it was Dil Assa, his black eyes wild with jubilant fury as he dragged the boz onto his own horse.
He spurred the bay in an attempt to escape, but before he could succeed, Ross retaliated, stretching across the intervening space to grab one of the goat's hind legs. His muscles knotted with strain as he tried to wrench the carcass back, but Dil Assa held a front leg with equal stubbornness, refusing to let go.
The two horses thundered toward the goal side by side, for neither of the men would yield in their grisly tug-of-war. Other riders surrounded them, yelling and striking with their whips, but Ross was aware only of Dil Assa and the savage struggle for primacy between them.
To break the perilous stalemate, Ross locked one leg around the high cantle of the saddle, then slid down the far side of the horse, using his weight to get the extra force he needed. Something had to give, and with shocking suddenness, it did.
The
goat surged over to Ross and he lost his precarious balance. He almost pitched off his mount under the hooves of the pursuing riders, but once again the saddle horn saved him.
As Ross heaved himself upright, he saw that the animal's front leg had torn away in Dil Assa's hands, leaving the main carcass in Ross's possession. Shrieking with rage, Dil Assa heaved the foreleg at his opponent and made another attempt to seize the boz, but it was too late. They had reached the goal.
Ross flung the ragged carcass into the quicklime circle, and shouts of "Hallal, hallal!" rose from the spectators. That quickly turned into a chant of, "Khilburn, Khilburn!"
When Ross raised one arm in acknowledgment, the crowd went wild. Fierce, primitive exultation surged through Ross's veins. Though he had played team sports in school with great success, no team victory had ever given him such pure, arrogant satisfaction in his own prowess.
Rabat was equally exhilarated, and pranced and curveted in a triumphant stallion strut.
Ross had noted earlier where Juliet watched with Saleh and Murad, and now he looked for her, instinctively wanting to share his elation. It was easy to pick her out, for she was a tall, slim raven among the colorful Turkomans.
For a moment their gazes met. He felt an odd jolt, but the distance was too great to read her expression. Then she turned her head sharply away. Perhaps she was upset that he had forgotten his intention to glide through the match without risk.
Whatever the motive, her gesture served to bring Ross back to earth. As his mania ebbed, he was grateful to find that his sanity seemed intact, though he also became aware of just how hot, tired, and bruised he was. His chest heaved with exertion, and his ribs ached with every breath he drew.
The bozkashi master trotted over to Ross from his place on the sidelines to perform one last ritual. While the clamor made it impossible to hear his words, the master's beaming face was easy to read when, with a flourish, he pressed a small object into Ross's hand.
Silk and Secrets Page 18
