‘Simon?’
‘I had a friend called Simonides,’ said Milon shortly.
‘And the horse is your friend now. Well, Milon’s son,’ the girl said, looking at him straight in the eyes, ‘why do you stay?’
Milon blinked. ‘What?’
‘Horses are tethered. You’re not; a man can choose what he does. Why don’t you run away?’
‘I can’t run.’ Milon gestured to his leg. ‘I limp. That’s why I lead the horse after the harvest, or milk the sheep in summer. I’m no use for any other work. Even if I ran, where could I run to? They’d find me, bring me back. Escaped slaves are branded, didn’t you know?’
‘Is that what they do around here? I wouldn’t know. We haven’t been in these parts before. We’re traders,’ she added.
‘I thought most traders came by boat.’
‘Boats!’ Zanna looked scornful. ‘We’re horse people, we always have been. We trade things that come from the far east road, like bronze mirrors and silk — it’s even finer than linen that’s been beaten thin on the rocks. Do you know what mirrors are?’
Milon nodded. ‘They show your reflection like pools of water do. My grandmother had a mirror.’ For a moment he wondered who had it now.
‘You won’t find those on boats,’ said Zanna with satisfaction. ‘But we trade other things too. It depends where we’ve been, where we plan to go. Aunt Anitha takes the omens and decides, or just lets the horses choose which road to take.’
‘You let the horses decide?’
‘Sometimes. Why not? It’s what our ancestors have always done.’ She laughed, high and clear as a bird. ‘The horses led us up here, through the fog. We were going to go right, along the plain, but the horses took the cart to the left, so we followed.’
‘But there’s nothing up here,’ said Milon. ‘Just farms. No-one who could afford the sort of things you bring.’
‘So what? Tomorrow we’ll go back down again.’ Zanna laughed again. ‘The world is our home. It doesn’t really matter what room we’re in today.’
‘You don’t fear bandits?’
Zanna grinned at him. ‘There are eight of us — all armed! Spears, javelins, arrows …’ She gestured at her horse and for the first time Milon noticed the bow and arrows lashed to the saddle.
The shock must have shown in his face; Zanna’s grin grew wider. ‘I’m not one of your soft village women! My arrows shoot straighter than any man’s. My mother is the same.’
‘Your father doesn’t mind?’
‘He’d mind if she didn’t!’ Zanna glanced down at the house. ‘I must go and check out the pasture before it gets dark, or Aunt will have my hide.’
For a moment grief felt like a spear thrust, it was so sharp. The girl was the first person in two years to talk to him as a person, Milon realised, not a slave. Suddenly he desperately wanted to thank her, to do her some service in exchange.
‘Your horse,’ he said suddenly. ‘It has a cut on its leg.’
‘What?’ The girl looked down. ‘It’s only a small one. We must have brushed against a thorn bush in the fog. I’ll wash it later.’
‘Thorn bush scratches fester,’ said Milon. ‘Perhaps you don’t have them where you come from?’
The girl shook her head.
‘But there is a herb, it grows in a mat by the rock, the leaves are furry, greyish and they smell sweet when you crush them. If you boil them, they make a good wash. It won’t fester at all if you do that.’
The girl gazed at him again. ‘You know medicine?’
‘My father was a horse doctor. A good one,’ he added.
‘And you’re a slave,’ said the girl, as though deciding something. ‘Well, Milon, Milon’s son, I must go.’ She mounted in one swift movement. A minute later she and the horse had vanished in the fog.
The shed smelt of mould and damp. Outside the fog grew thicker in the darkness. The air clung and chilled and crept inside your skin. Milon huddled into the musty straw and listened to the talk around him.
Only four slaves slept in the hay shed. The others were farm workers, older and tougher. The difference in age and experience made Milon more lonely in their presence, not less. The household slaves slept indoors, the Steward in his small room off the kitchen, and the women in the women’s wing, where they could hear if one of the Master’s grandchildren cried in the night.
‘Came out of the fog, they did.’ It was Old Heron’s voice. ‘Took me by surprise so I nearly dropped the prunings. Must’ve taken the wrong turning in the fog, rich folk like that …’
‘Did you see their horses? Never seen so many horses, so fine and big.’
‘Women too, right up there on their backs. Reckon the Master’ll …’ Old Heron broke off.
A lantern was approaching across the dark courtyard, a puddle of gold light in the fog-smudged dark. The Steward’s harsh face appeared at the door. ‘Milon,’ he said shortly, ‘you’re wanted.’ He turned and was halfway back across the yard before Milon caught up with him.
The thick wooden door to the inner courtyard was open. It was the first time Milon had been inside. He caught the scent of damp cold herbs, their scent almost smothered by the fog. A pattern of fish and dolphin tiles flashed by in the lamplight and then came the wall of the house.
The house was an old one, built of mountain stone. One of the house slaves opened the door.
A hall with a tiled floor. A smell of marble, and beeswax, so that Milon felt a pang of memory. Those were the smells of home.
Another door. The Steward scratched at the door and opened it. ‘Here is the boy, Sir.’ He ushered Milon in then stood back against the wall in case he was needed to pour the wine.
Milon looked around. It was a long room with painted walls and it was well furnished: couches, a table with a wine jug, a bowl of white sheep’s cheese and wheaten bread and raisin cakes. Milon’s eyes caressed the raisin cakes. He could almost taste them.
‘Well,’ said the Master. ‘Is this the boy?’ It was only the second time Milon had seen him up close, a tall man with black and grey hair and shaggy brows and a smooth combed beard.
‘I imagine so,’ said a voice calmly, an older, richer voice than Zanna’s, but with the same accent.
Milon stared. A woman lay on one of the couches, just as a man might do.
She was the fattest woman Milon had ever seen. Her face was oval, like a swollen egg, the eyes like tiny bright-blue raisins in the fat. Her cheeks were tattooed blue as well. Her face merged with her neck and her neck with her body. Layer upon layer of gold necklaces like leopard claws dropped below her chins; her tunic was thin linen, with embroidery at the base. Like Zanna she wore linen trousers underneath, sandals with gold buckles and studs, and a single crescent earring. Her hair was red like Zanna’s too and gathered in a long thin braid that poked through a hole in the top of her pointed cap.
She gazed at Milon calmly, looking him up and down. The small blue eyes were shrewd. Milon wondered if there was straw in his hair or clinging to his clothes. But he kept his hands still.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘So this is the boy.’
‘A good worker,’ said the Master, smiling as he sipped his wine. ‘Well worth the price.’
‘I doubt it,’ said the woman. She must be Zanna’s aunt, thought Milon, the one who took the omens and decided with the horses where to go. ‘But I’m prepared to pay it. My niece has sense. If she says we should buy the boy, we should. And perhaps that is why we took the turn up here, in the fog. There is usually a reason, if you wait. ’
‘A fine girl, your niece,’ purred the Master.
The big woman shrugged, sending ripples through her fat. ‘Perhaps she will take the omens after me. Or perhaps she will decide to marry instead, like her mother. But, yes, she is a girl to be proud of.’ She flicked a finger. ‘Come here, boy.’
Milon walked forward. ‘I plan to buy you,’ she said, ‘and for a ridiculously high price. Have you anything to say?’
Milo
n’s heart shuddered. He tried to steady his breathing. ‘You’ll take me away from here?’
‘We will. We will also free you. I’ll not have any slave travel with us, to steal away while we sleep. You’ll come freely, or not at all.’
The world tilted even further. It was as though the fog had gathered even in this room, as though it was impossible to see.
Dimly he heard the Master start to protest, and the fat woman cut him off. ‘If I buy him, he is mine to free or not.’
Freedom, freedom, freedom … Suddenly the fog cleared, as though a sharp wind blew inside his brain. He could see tomorrow almost as though he was there, walking down the road beside the wagon, the farm behind him, and Simon left on the hill. Another slave watched Simon working now, a slave who held a whip, while Milon wandered free …
And suddenly Milon knew what he must do.
‘No,’ he said.
‘What! How dare …?’ The Master began to struggle to his feet. The fat woman waved him back. Either her presence — or her gold — commanded him. He sat down again.
‘No?’ asked the woman quietly.
Milon shook his head. ‘If you buy me and free me, I won’t really be free. I’ll be yours, because you bought me.’
The Master began another protest. Again the woman waved him silent.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ she asked. It was impossible to tell her reaction from her tone.
‘No. Please … if you have the gold to spare, will you buy the horse? The white horse. He’s in the sheep pasture now with yours.’
‘A white horse? White horses have always been special for us,’ said the fat woman slowly. ‘Why should I buy a horse instead of a boy?’
Milon hesitated. He knew what he felt, but it was hard to put it into words. ‘Because … because a man can choose the things he does,’ he said. ‘Mostly, anyway. But a good horse works for man and should be protected by him. Simon is a loyal horse. He shouldn’t have a ring through his nose. He should be galloping across the plain, not pulling a pole in a small circle on the mountain.’
‘Is that the only reason?’ asked the fat woman.
Milon hesitated again. Finally he added, ‘Because Simon is my friend. What can a slave give a friend? This the one thing I can do for him.’
Milon heard the Steward gasp behind him. Perhaps he’d get a beating later. But at the moment it didn’t matter.
The woman was silent for a moment, her eyes half closed so they were almost lost in the fat. Then she opened them again, and Milon forgot the fat in their brightness.
‘So,’ she said slowly. ‘You’re young to have learnt that lesson. No, you can’t give someone freedom. You can help them take it, that’s all. Well,’ she added, more briskly, ‘let it be done then.’
She turned a careless gaze at the Master — far more careless than she’d given his slave. ‘I presume if you’ll sell the boy, you’ll also sell the horse.’
The Master’s eyes grew calculating. ‘A horse is worth much more than a boy,’ he said. Milon noticed he didn’t mention that he thought the horse was lame. ‘Especially a white horse.’
‘A white horse is no more valuable to you than a brown one,’ said the fat woman. ‘Nevertheless — shall we say six times the weight of gold I offered for the boy?’
The Master’s eyes widened with shock and pleasure. The woman nodded, as though he’d spoken. ‘That’s settled then.’ She reached into a pouch at her waist and fumbled briefly, then beckoned the Steward. ‘Give these to your master,’ she instructed.
The Steward gaped at the coins, then crossed to his master.
‘Come here, boy,’ said the fat woman, as the Master gazed at his gold. She bent her head. ‘We leave here tomorrow morning. We’ll travel west along the road, and down the mountain,’ she whispered, too softly for the Master to hear. ‘Surely a boy who wants his freedom can run as far in a night as horses can walk in a day?’
Then she straightened, and hunted for the plumpest raisin cake with her fat fingers, as though Milon didn’t exist.
The Steward grabbed Milon’s shoulder. It was difficult to read his expression. He seemed half angry at Milon’s effrontery, and half awed at the amount of gold offered for one lame boy. But the Steward was experienced at keeping his emotions to himself.
Would his own face be as blank as the Steward’s, wondered Milon, after forty years of slavery?
‘Back to the shed,’ grunted the Steward.
Neither the fat woman nor the Master glanced at either of them as they left.
It was impossible to sleep. Milon lay among his straw, listening to the snores on either side of him, the distant bleat of sheep, and an owl booming far off up the mountain, the sound louder and clearer in the fog.
Freedom, offered to him like a honey cake on a plate. And he had turned it down. But … was it really freedom? Had he really turned it down?
Wherever his words had come from, he knew that they’d been right. Your soul must be free as well as your body, and if his body had been bought again, he knew he would never feel free.
But what had the fat woman meant — ‘a boy who wants his freedom can run as far in a night as horses can walk in a day’. Did she mean …? Surely she meant …
It was almost dawn before exhaustion overtook him and he slept.
He had thought Zanna might come to say goodbye. He had no reason to think so, but he had. But she didn’t come.
Milon ate his barley gruel, sour and thin as always. This morning he was told to watch the sheep, up on the hill. They would be lambing soon, so there would be foxes about. The grinding would have to wait until the master bought a donkey with the traders’ gold.
The sheep pasture was a green flat, high up on the mountain. It looked as though the cliffs had hiccupped as they rose and left one grassy clearing. It was bordered by cliffs and fallen rocks from some long past rockfall — a high and silent place, especially in the fog.
His leg ached by the time he reached it, but then it always ached in damp weather. He gazed around the clearing. The sheep glanced up, damp and dust-grey as the rocks, then ignored him. There was no sign of the traders’ horses. Simon was gone as well. The traders must have taken him already.
Milon sat on a rock and tried to rub the pain from his leg. He hadn’t thought, last night, what the loss of the horse would mean to him. He had only thought of what he could do for his friend.
A raven yelled above, hoping for lambs; an old ewe bleated warily, then bent her head again. Milon had never felt so alone. He hadn’t realised how much he would miss the horse. Every creature needed friends, he thought; even the sheep had each other.
He had to think, but it was hard to think. Slaves had no need to think, just to obey. It had been two years since he had wondered how tomorrow might be different from today.
‘A boy can run,’ she’d said. But though she’d glanced at his scarred leg under the shabby chiton, perhaps she hadn’t realised he was lame. Milon would never run again.
If he tried to escape and was caught he would be beaten, so badly that perhaps he would die. A lame boy slave was no great loss, and his death would be an example to other slaves who might dream of freedom too. And if he lived a hot iron would burn into his forehead, to brand him in case he ever escaped again.
And if he didn’t escape, what then? Day after day would pass, and every one the same, till he grew like Heron; an old slave still sleeping among the straw.
Thinking was easier now, he found. For there really was no choice at all.
The night air seeped into the shed, fresher than the smells of sweat and musty hay. The last lamps had been extinguished in the house. Milon stood up cautiously and trod warily through the hay. It rustled beneath his feet, but made no more noise than the mice that hunted seeds beneath it. The snores of his companions didn’t falter.
Milon hesitated at the door. The watchdogs slept in the courtyard. They knew him but they would bark if they woke up. He must be quiet; he must get over th
e wall with no noise at all.
He crept along the wall. Yes, here it was, the foothold he’d noticed many times before. If he put his foot there and his hands here he could haul himself up. Now if only there were another foothold … and another … yes, here was one …
It had been two years since he’d climbed a wall. He had forgotten his lame leg. All at once his knee refused to take his weight. His leg grazed painfully against the rock as his fingers grasped desperately at the stones.
A dog barked below him and then the other.
Milon froze. The barking was frantic now, as below him the dogs leapt at the shadow on the wall.
A spark of light flashed inside the house, then became a lantern’s glow. Footsteps ran across the inner courtyard; the door to the outer courtyard opened. The Steward gazed out, holding his lantern high.
The light shone on the leaping dogs, the boy clinging to the wall. Shadows danced around the courtyard.
‘What is it?’ It was the Master’s voice from inside the house.
The Steward looked straight at Milon, his face expressionless. For one long moment he didn’t move. Then he turned.
‘It’s nothing, sir!’ the Steward called. ‘The dogs have cornered a rat, that’s all. I’ll quieten them down. Here, boys, here!’
The dogs bounded over to him. The Steward lifted the lantern higher, so it shone to the top of the courtyard wall. He was lighting his way, Milon realised.
His hands were trembling almost too much to move. But he forced himself to take another handhold, to shove as hard as he could with his good foot. The next shove took him to the top of the wall.
He glanced back. The Steward still stood there, the lantern in his hand, the dogs at his feet, his face still blank. The habit of hiding his thoughts was too strong to break now. Who was the Steward? Milon wondered suddenly. Had he been born a slave? Or sold for his father’s debts perhaps, or his own? He’d never know. He could never ask the Steward now.
The Steward would be beaten in the morning, when the Master realised Milon had escaped. But suddenly he raised his hand. It was a gesture of farewell. It also said: this is all I can do for you boy. Don’t waste the only thing I have to give. Milon nodded. He would have liked to smile, but it was as though he had forgotten how. He would have liked to wave in return, but both hands were needed now.
The Book of Horses and Unicorns Page 4
