THE CHOSEN : The Youth: Historical Fiction (The Chosen Trilogy Book 1)

by Shlomo Kalo

  “Most important of all,” Tabin reminded them repeatedly, with hoarse emphasis – “listen for the sound of the trumpet! It’s the signal for the start – and it’s the only signal that you’ll hear! Anyone who sets off too soon, will be disqualified and even if he comes in first, he’ll be severely punished at the hands of the King, who is a stickler for order and self-discipline! Don’t forget,” he repeated in a more emotional tone than was his wont – “listen out for the trumpet!”

  When his briefing was finished, and before they dispersed, the young riders pressed around him and asked him all kinds of questions, such as who, in his opinion, was most likely to win the race, and on whom would he lay a wager if this were permitted. He replied calmly that things such as these could not be foreseen or predicted in advance, and the whole of the business, including the identity of the winner, was in the hands of Heaven. If any of them was in direct contact with Heaven or its occupants, he should address his questions thither, and if regarded as worthy of it – he might even receive an answer. Speaking for himself, he wasn’t in the habit of discussing things with Heaven or its occupants, and there was no point putting questions like these to him.

  Once more they rehearsed the race from beginning to end, galloping along the broad and smooth track and jumping the ditch, still with its cover in place. It was estimated that the race would last no more than an hour.

  The last day before the race was devoted to “relaxation of mind and muscles” as Tabin called it, and the young men were allowed to do whatever they pleased – short of touching strong liquor or eating anything to excess. Most of them split into groups of three and four and strolled along the outer wall, admiring the gigantic reliefs of lions, bulls and warriors. Some ventured beyond the fortified walls of Babylon and gazed at the mysterious, turbid waters of the Euphrates, flowing with a strange serenity towards the open sea.

  At sunset the youths returned to their quarters, catching a glimpse on their way of the silhouette of the saluting stand that had been set up for the King and his entourage. It towered high above the race track and set in the middle of it was Nebuchadnezzar’s throne, made of solid gold and ivory and adorned with precious stones and carvings telling of the history of Babylon and the exploits of its rulers.

  His heart did not beat fast in anticipation of the race, unlike the hearts of the others. And if it had been possible to discern in him something resembling an emotion – this would have been a mild sense of grief, like a morning mist rising above an enchanted valley, watered by a bubbling, magical river.

  It was obvious to him that there was jealousy and there was malice, and these had grown and intensified and turned into violent hatred – all of it directed at him.

  If it had been possible to forgo the race, he would have done so willingly, but the slightest hint of reluctance on his part would have been misinterpreted, casting a heavy shadow of suspicion not only on him and his close friends but on the whole class and especially on the instructor. If it had been decreed that he was to compete in the race then he would do his utmost, invest all his strength and energy in the effort to win the victor’s laurels.

  He was awakened by the light touch of the slave assigned to this duty

  “Sir!” he cried. “Sir!” he repeated, looking scared and flustered. “The time! The race! Sir!” The slave’s command of the Chaldee tongue was less than impressive.

  He leapt from his bed, washed face and hands in the water that the slave poured into the basin, put on a pair of blue riding britches, a white smock and a red sash, and set out for the compound in front of the palace.

  His companions were already there, all of them without exception, as was Tabin, the instructor.

  The firm lines of his face, his smooth forehead, serene eyes, every movement of his body spoke of freedom, enveloping him as in an aura of splendour and fearlessness, and spreading all around him a festive spirit. A shade of anxiety which had appeared on the Numidian’s dark forehead vanished when he saw him.

  “We’re all ready!” he called to him with an air of joyful enthusiasm that he himself could not account for.

  He approached them, affably shaking the hands extended to him, and in so doing, glimpsed the smiles of Adoniah and Matthew – the first expressing undisguised contempt, the second – something dark, intimidating, impossible to define.

  The youths made their way to the spacious stables, where each of the horses had a stall to itself.

  He examined the harness of Orelian, who whinnied affectionately at his approach, lowered her proud neck, put out her tongue and licked his hand as if to encourage him.

  Did he need encouragement? – he asked himself, and brushed the question aside, preferring not to answer it.

  He examined the knee-joints, ran his hand over the hooves. Everything seemed to be in order.

  Driven by a sudden impulse he fell to his knees, put his hands together, looked up and said:

  “Please, my Father in Heaven and my God, melt the hatred in the hearts of my enemies! Please, my Father in Heaven and my God, preserve us all from sudden death, and cleanse me of the last vestige of pride, the pride that I feel over my faith in You and my trust in You, my knowledge of You, and of Your truth, and of Your existence! Do not forsake me my Father in Heaven and my God, not even for a moment! Guide me always in the right way!”

  He rose to his feet, and found himself face to face with Denur-Shag’s frail and elderly slave.

  “What brings you here?” he asked, astonished.

  “My master Denur-Shag says, check the saddle and especially – what’s under the saddle!” The slave recited his master’s message, bowed low and, tremulous as ever, turned and disappeared the way he had come. For a brief moment he stood there, stunned and motionless, then recovering his senses he approached Orelian, carefully unfastened the girth and lifted the saddle. At the front end of it he saw a dark object, resembling a ball of lead. He tugged at it, and with some difficulty managed to pull it free. It was indeed a ball – but with a sharp and barbed spike embedded in it, and it had been concealed under the pommel, designed to pierce the horse’s body at the crucial moment of leaping over the open ditch. Had the spike not been found in time, both his life and Orelian’s life would have ended that day. He sighed a deep sigh of grief and revulsion.

  He passed a hand over Orelian’s erect and gleaming neck, and the mare turned her head back, put out her tongue and licked the caressing hand.

  He tightened the straps of the girth, dumped the spike in a waste bucket, put his booted foot in the stirrup and with an agile movement, mounted the mare and rode out to the maidan.

  It was a pleasant day to be outside, the air clear, the sky blue – and flawless.

  On both sides of the long track, the crush of Babylonians was barely credible; they resembled a sea of heads, moving back and forth and heaving like waves. The crowd was held back by a triple cordon of tough-looking soldiers, with clubs and drawn swords in their hands. The atmosphere was festive. Colourful banners waved above the sea of heads, in front and behind.

  He joined his companions and together they approached the starting line. Each one of the horses, which had been well trained, took its allotted place. The saluting stand reared up to their right. Surrounded by guardsmen with drawn swords, in gleaming armour and wearing gold helmets, holding shields of solid gold – sat the King on his high throne. They could not see the King’s face, but they caught a glimpse of the crown on his head, consisting of several layers rising to a point of blazing gold, encrusted with precious stones and pearls the size of walnuts. The King’s garments were all of gold brocade, adorned with so many gems and rubies it seemed that from the royal throne a new sun had risen, no less lustrous than the other. At the King’s feet sat his courtiers, in tunics of variegated colours, festooned with jewellery.

  The moment that the riders arrived on the track and took their places – the crowd broke into a loud chorus of applause, and now it was no longer a sea of heads but a forest of ra
ised arms and waving flags, while the unrestrained cries of “Hurrah” made the very air vibrate and ear-drums were on the point of bursting.

  Standing in the appointed place he noticed for the first time the line of trumpeters drawn up at the foot of the saluting stand, trumpets raised in their hands, poised and waiting for the King to give the signal. To the right of the trumpeters stood a line of drummers, huge drums hiding their faces and all of them built like wrestlers in the arena, with their massive shoulders and shaven heads, drumsticks raised in their hands.

  He did not know what their function was, and regretted that Tabin had not mentioned their presence.

  Suddenly, as if his thoughts had been overheard, the drummers struck a single, ear-splitting beat, and the riders had to exercise all their skill in controlling their steeds, keeping them firmly in position.

  Following the drumbeat the tumult of the crowd was hushed and voices stilled, the waving of hands and banners stopped, and an eerie, unexpected silence reigned on both sides of the tracks. And then the silence was shattered by the strident blare of the trumpets.

  He did not see when the King gave the signal. Deep in the recesses of consciousness something came alight and he and Orelian sprang forward like an arrow loosed from the bow of a skilled archer, one who never misses.

  The start was perfect, and no less perfect was the running of Orelian. He could feel how his wishes were transmitted from his head to hers, becoming instructions that her body immediately obeyed. No longer were they two separate bodies but one, subject to the mastery of one mind and the sensibilities of one heart.

  And as they approached the open ditch, the foaming of its waters clearly audible as they rose in spate, he had only to press lightly against her neck to feel how her body was poised, fearlessly, in anticipation of the well practised leap.

  She leapt and hit the ground running, racing on with only the wind, tossing her mane back, to compete with her.

  Moments after the first jump, he caught a glimpse of Matthew’s furious glare. He paid it no heed, concentrating all his attention on guiding Orelian, at speed, into the sharp turn, and back to the ditch. And the mare went racing on as if possessed by a demon, leaving all the other riders far behind and receiving the loud applause and adulation of the spectators on both sides of the track, whose enthusiasm was such that they threatened to break through the cordon of grim-faced soldiers. As he passed in front of the saluting stand he saw how the elegantly dressed courtiers rose to their feet and shouted as one man, admiring the prodigious speed of Orelian.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a horse and rider, apparently exhausted but making desperate efforts to close the gap between them and overtake him at any price. He sensed that this frantic rider could be none other than Matthew, but he dismissed him from his mind, leaning forward on his horse’s neck and leaping for the third and last time across the broiling waters. Only a parasang now separated him from victory. And then he sensed that something was happening behind him, something terrible, but he knew that any attempt to turn and look back would spell doom for Orelian and for himself.

  He galloped and galloped, urging on his mount and never slackening his pace until he reached the winning post, leaving all his competitors far behind. And when he dismounted from Orelian and shook the hand of the agitated Tabin, he heard from his lips how Matthew, pressing on behind him, had come to the edge of the ditch and his horse, which had already jumped it twice, rebelled. He reared up on his hind legs and fell into the flooded ditch, taking his rider with him. Two horsemen who followed close behind Matthew saw what had happened but lost control of their mounts and one after the other they too tumbled into the raging torrent and perished. The water carried their bodies away to the Euphrates. This outcome was utterly unexpected and, as is the nature of facts – could not be reversed.

  He was required to pass with Orelian before the saluting stand. He did this as if in slow motion, calm, relaxed, almost casual, hearing the loud applause of the courtiers and of King Nebuchadnezzar himself, who stood in his honour and ordered that the youth be given a purse of gold coins.

  He bowed to the King and to his cheering courtiers, then turned and bowed to the crowds of spectators, who had recovered from the shock of the disaster that they had just witnessed and were bestowing on him all their affection and admiration, clapping their hands in his honour and pelting him with flowers, colourful little flags and sweetmeats, not to mention coins of bronze, silver and gold.

  He returned to his quarters worn out by the day’s events, washed and went to his cubicle intending to rest, only to find Denur-Shag waiting for him there.

  Denur-Shag did not rise to greet him, and seemed in no hurry to congratulate him, but there was no mistaking his satisfaction at his protégé’s success. His little eyes shone, and no amount of deep breathing could mask his delight.

  “Do you want to know who planted the spike?”

  “No!” he declared.

  “You realise that whoever did this wasn’t simply planning a harmless schoolboy prank?”

  “I realise!”

  But Denur-Shag was warming to his theme:

  “He intended to send you to the world that’s all good, with your horse thrown in for good measure, the majestic Orelian. Perhaps he feared you were going to obstruct him in his pursuit of some goal or other.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I won’t burden you with any more hints,” Denur-Shag concluded.

  They sat in silence for a long moment.

  “How do you do this?” – he finally expressed his bemusement.

  “Do what?”

  “Expose this kind of villainy and nip it in the bud.”

  “I have ears and eyes in various corners of the court. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not in the habit of recruiting informers, but for some reason, people feel obliged to confide in me. As a matter of fact, it’s not me they confide in so much as that doddering old slave of mine.”

  “Could it be that the ‘informers’ really don’t want these things to reach you?” he asked.

  “Anyone who knows my old slave knows perfectly well he would never hide anything from me, even if it cost him his life! There was a time,” Denur-Shag continued with an amiable smile – “when this old slave of mine almost made it onto the menu for the royal lions. This is one of the traditional methods of execution in Babylon’s fair city,” he explained. “In the very heart of the King’s ornate palace a lions’ den has been constructed, and the inmates have been trained to prey on two-legged animals only, a diet of human beings in other words. Offer them wild ox – they’re not interested. And this slave of mine, who was once a scribe, a calligrapher of scrolls, attracted some professional jealousy and was accused of worshipping gods other than the gods of Babylon, Marduk and Bel, who according to popular belief are the defenders of the Chaldean capital. They claimed they had proof of this and they almost succeeded in their conspiracy, and it seemed that the short walk to the lions’ den was going to be the old fellow’s last journey. But then he found an advocate, in the person of a balding teacher of outlandish philosophies and the Chaldee language. And this teacher took his life in his hands and stood before the King and caught the accusers in their own trap, and as there were three of them, the lions’ loss turned into a profit.

  “One way or another, what happened to my old slave left him paralysed, paralysis of the body and the tongue. For some time he lost both the power of movement and of speech. And even when he regained his faculties, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking and this was an affliction for which there was no remedy. Obviously, he was disqualified from his work as a calligrapher, and there was no choice but to send him to the slave market, with the proceeds going into the royal coffers as compensation for the loss of his services. Anyway, I managed to ransom him before he was officially put on sale, for a modest sum of money that I had at my disposal. And since then he’s been with me, and the whole of the royal court knows that he’s more devoted t
o me than a mother is to her children. Incidentally, that modest sum of money came to me courtesy of my wife, who lives in the country and sends her husband gifts from time to time, sweetmeats, rolls of fabric, sums of money. Of course, I only married her to please the King, and uphold the unwritten law of Babylon!”

  “What law is that?” he asked, perplexed.

  “A man who is mature and unmarried shows disrespect to the royal household. He is considered almost a rebel. By withholding his seed he fails to play his part in the increase of loyal subjects of the King, subjects who will uphold his rule, strengthen his arm and assist his conquests. No man who is fertile but unmarried may hold any official post in the court of the King. In certain cases, such a man will be deprived of all his rights and divested of his property.”