Atop the rise, Soulai looked down upon a wooden crate set amid the emptiness of the flatland. A piteously small slave stood uncertainly beside it; another crouched on top of it. Soulai recognized the crate as the one he had seen dragged in and out of the zoo, and he guessed its occupant. Another roar sounded and the wooden box rattled. The man on top jumped off, saw Habasle, and climbed back on, where he huddled like a frightened rabbit.
Motioning for Soulai to stay put, Habasle led the archers down the slope. The barking mastiffs followed, dragging the handlers in their wake. After some two hundred paces, the procession stopped; the men pulled arrows from their quivers and knelt in the yellowed grasses.
Suddenly Habasle turned and cantered back. Soulai envied how well Ti behaved for him.
“You ride at my side,” his owner called when he got close, “but stay out of my aim. It’ll go like this: I’ll drop my arm and the lion will be released. In a count of three, the dogs will be released. Once they engage the lion, I’ll ride forward, you at my side—but out of my way—understand?” Soulai forced a nod. “I’ll dispatch the lion with my spear, straight down his gullet. I don’t know this horse—”
“Ti,” Soulai offered.
Habasle glared and Soulai remembered the warning about not speaking. He swallowed hard. “The horse is young, I know,” his owner went on, “but I’m told he’s bred for this.” Ti’s ears remained pricked toward the crate and Soulai saw one shiver after another ripple his body. Anticipation or fear? Ti’s jaws ground his bit so furiously that foam speckled his gold-and-white chest. Habasle laid a hand on the stallion’s withers. “If he tries to bolt when we close in, you’re to grab onto the reins and hold him steady while I aim. If the lion gets him, you’re to jump down and I’ll take your horse. Understand?”
Somehow Soulai forced another nod. A shiver not unlike Ti’s shook his own body.
“Let’s begin then,” Habasle said as he urged Ti down the slope toward the dogs and archers. Soulai tightened his reins and followed. The sweat beneath his thighs was making his seat frighteningly slippery. He shifted position, tried to dig his knees into the hollow behind the bay’s elbows, and hoped he’d be able to hang on.
Beyond the crate, distant trees seemed to beckon. Come and hide, they seemed to motion, and for a fleeting moment Soulai thought about clapping his heels to his mount’s sides and galloping far away from the lion, maybe even away from Nineveh! But overwhelming fear froze him from action and he proceeded stiffly behind his owner.
Both slaves had now climbed atop the crate and they crouched, clutching the front panel, their faces turned obediently toward Habasle, waiting. The lion roared again, but this time no one, not even those who could feel the heat of his breath, moved. Slowly Habasle lifted his arm and held it there—halting long enough for Soulai to hear the clear cry of a coot upon the river. Then he dropped it.
Groaning in unison, the slaves raised the heavy panel and cowered behind it. The magnificent, black-maned lion spun within the crate—but could not find its captors. Ears flattened, the big cat crept tentatively into the open. The door thudded back into place just as the mastiffs were unleashed, and in an instant the three tangled in a barking, snarling knot that shattered the morning calm.
“Now!” Habasle shouted. He loosed Ti’s reins, leveled his spear, and charged. Soulai reluctantly urged his own mount forward. I’m going to die, he thought as they neared the vicious animals. Habasle began circling the fray, tightening the diameter with each lap.
With a loud yelp, one of the mastiffs scooted free, dragging his leg. Habasle leaned in and jabbed at the lion’s face. But the agile feline lithely evaded the spear. Screaming with fury, it coiled and sprang at its attacker. Habasle barely managed to pull his leg out from under the deadly claws, which sank instead into Ti’s shoulder, ripping loose a sheet of hide. The stallion screamed and leaped backward, only to stumble over the remaining mastiff.
Frantically, Soulai rushed the bay close to the falling pair, aware that the archers were also running forward. But when the injured mastiff returned to the fight, distracting the lion, Ti managed to get his feet beneath him. Habasle recovered his seat and, ignoring the bloody skin flapping from the stallion’s shoulder, began circling the animals once more. The archers halted and knelt.
Ti’s eyes rolled white with fear. He hopped sideways and strained against the bit to escape. But Habasle gouged him with his spurs, forcing him back to the battle. A wave of cold nausea swept over Soulai: He was going to watch Ti be killed! The lion and the mastiffs bled so much now from gushing wounds that the fight’s tempo slowed. The dogs circled, the cat snarled and swatted. Habasle saw another opening and spurred Ti in close. When he pricked the lion’s back, it spun, roaring, and Habasle thrust the weapon straight at its mouth. But the spearhead became tangled in the thick mane, and, with one agile tug, the lion pulled the shaft from Habasle’s hand.
Soulai couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lion. Horror-stricken, he watched the enormous white fangs clamp down on the spear, saw the huge paw reach up and snap it into pieces with one swat. With his heart in his mouth, Soulai saw the newly enraged creature charge the dogs, give each a lightning-quick swipe, then turn and crouch to pounce again upon his human assailant.
Having no weapon, Habasle panicked. Before Soulai realized it, the prince had jumped onto the gelding’s back. “Get off!” he screamed in Soulai’s ear. The force of the lion’s lunge knocked Ti backward and, as if in a nightmare, Soulai saw that the cat had wrapped its claws around the stallion’s neck and shoulders and was trying to bring him down.
Ti’s screams of terror pierced Soulai’s heart. The stallion was falling, and without thinking, Soulai leaned over and straddled him. Thick saliva splashed onto Soulai’s legs a moment before claws ripped down his thigh. The pain was even hotter than that of the branding iron. But Soulai shunted it aside to focus on jerking Ti’s head around and kicking him with the leg he could still feel. “Try!” he screamed into Ti’s ear, tearing at the bit and pummeling the ribs with one heel. “Try!”
But the stallion kept stumbling and Soulai knew they were going down together. Somewhere amid the confusion he heard the lion roar with fresh pain and knew it was releasing its hold. Ti staggered a few more steps, free now of the giant cat’s weight, then began to right himself. Soulai didn’t pause. He kept tugging on the bit and kicking the blood-slickened sides to urge the stallion away from the battle. Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, he felt Ti begin to move forward. He aimed the horse’s head for the trees and let him bolt.
Only when they were far into the underbrush did Soulai pull Ti to a stop. The stallion was so panicked that he wouldn’t stand still. He spun crazily in circles, his eyes rolling, searching for the lion, until Soulai fell off, gasping when his own injured leg hit the ground. The broken feather, spattered bright red, drooped across Ti’s ears. Soulai tore it away in disgust.
Another horse’s screams rent the air. Filled with dread, Soulai managed to lead Ti back through the underbrush toward the field. He reached it just in time to see the bay gelding fall under the lion’s weight. Habasle was scrambling free and sprinting away. The archers advanced, firing arrows as they ran. Two sank into the lion’s hide, another missed and embedded itself in the gelding. The dogs’ handlers were moving in, too, whistling for the mastiffs to retreat. Soon it was only the archers and the lion and a storm of arrows. The lion collapsed upon the downed horse, which lay quivering. One of the archers ran up and, drawing a knife from his sheath, jabbed it between the horse’s jawbones. The bay fell quiet.
Habasle stomped back toward the two bodies, angrily waving away the archers. He held an unbroken spear in his hand. One by one he began tugging the arrows from the lion’s carcass and tossing them aside. Then he plunged his spear deep into the chest of the dead lion. He turned, triumphant. “I am Habasle!” he shouted.
6
The Leopard’s Broken Leg
A sudden need to cough brought Soulai to con
sciousness. The ensuing hacking made him acutely aware of the dusty closeness of his room, and of a thick, over-sweet taste coating his tongue. What had happened? He blinked, tried to wrap his mind around something that made sense, but a soothing drowsiness pulled him back into slumber.
Again he awoke. This time he struggled to sit up. Thunder in his head—and a knifing pain in his leg—forced him down. He groaned. The rope of light outlining the room’s crooked door glowed with the haze of early morning. Or late afternoon. Which was it?
A bandage cuffed his thigh and Soulai’s fingers blindly probed the coarse cloth. He began to remember the slave woman who had treated him. She had tended him with few words, for she spoke a language he didn’t understand. The woman had splashed his raw wounds with water, then wrapped them in cotton bandages. It was she who had held a ladle of dark syrup to his lips, a liquid that barely disguised its bitter root. After that he remembered nothing.
As Soulai shook off the drugged stupor, bloody images began to emerge from his mind. He remembered Habasle and the hunt—if you could call it that. He remembered the lion. And Ti. Soulai bolted upright. He had to get to the stable.
Clenching his teeth so hard that the ache in his jaws battled the throbbing in his head, Soulai climbed to his feet and managed to hobble to the door before crying out. He didn’t dare sit down, for he knew he wouldn’t get up. Nausea prickled his insides, yet he leaned into the door and pushed it open. He stumbled through it and over to a low wall. One hand gripped the warm bricks, the other hovered protectively over his bandaged thigh. Vaguely aware that people stared, he continued weaving his way toward the stable.
By the time he reached it, Soulai was drenched in sweat. One glance told him it was the afternoon feeding. As he turned down the aisle stabling his ten horses, he discovered Mousidnou. The man’s usual scowl had been replaced with a somber expression that bordered on sadness. He was holding a knife in one hand and a ragged piece of golden hide in the other. Soulai panicked. His eyes darted over the rumps, counting, searching. A blessed relief washed over him as he found the silvery hindquarters. Ti was alive.
The sweat cooled, chilling him, as he hobbled toward the stable master.
“All day and that damned asu still hasn’t shown himself,” Mousidnou muttered to no one in particular. He lifted the limp skin and made a face. “Seems like the thing to do—it’s no use now.” Looking up and down the aisle, past the labors of his stableboys, Mousidnou suddenly seemed to realize Soulai’s presence. With a brusque nod toward the bandaged leg, he asked, “How is it?”
But Soulai was intent on reaching Ti. Ignoring his own pain, he slipped in beside the stallion, tugged on the tether, and lowered his face to the drooping head. No response, not even a nip. He cradled the white jowl in his hand, shuddered at its lifeless cold. The gold eye and the blue eye, each half-lidded, stared dully. The wide nostrils fluttered with rapid, shallow breaths.
“Habasle’s been here,” Mousidnou said louder.
“He’s a cur,” Soulai spat.
The stable master’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s your owner, boy. Watch he doesn’t bite.” He wiped the bloody blade of the knife on his tunic and resheathed it.
“Habasle was near pissed as you when I told him the asu hadn’t come—stomped off to find the man himself. Said he’d bring an ashipu as well, though I don’t know that he’ll see to an animal.”
Soulai ducked beneath Ti’s neck. He cringed at the raw flesh bubbling a yellow ooze. Flies waded through the stuff and he waved them away, but they returned in force to settle into the hairless folds and crevices. Seeing the strands of mane stuck to the pink flesh, he gently tried to pull them out. Ti grunted weakly, then let out a long breath and dropped his head lower.
Soulai gasped. “Can’t you do something?” he begged Mousidnou.
“Huh,” the stable master snorted. “I’ve been to the battle more than a few times. Killed my share of men and cleaned up my share of horses.” He glanced at the flap of skin still dangling from his fist. “But when the demons come for what’s theirs…” He shook his head. “I don’t meddle with Nergal’s underworld.”
Voices sounded from down the aisle and the two looked up to see Habasle and a smallish, bald man in an ankle-length tunic and robe marching toward them. A lion’s limp paws draped Habasle’s neck. The man clutched a leather pouch to his chest like a shield.
“It is this horse,” Habasle pronounced as they reached Ti. His slap on Ti’s rump produced no more response than the thudding sound of hand against meat. “He is of value to me and you must make him live.”
The asu glanced at Soulai, who was still stroking Ti’s head. A tenderness was visible in the man’s eyes, which gave Soulai a glimmer of hope.
“Get out!”
The abrupt command came from Habasle, and Soulai didn’t have to question for whom it was meant. Head dutifully lowered, he slid along the stallion’s flanks and, careful not to brush against him, past the person responsible for Ti’s misery. His nose wrinkled at the pungent scent of freshly bathed skin and perfumed hair. How I hate him! he thought as his fists tightened. Trembling with pain and anger, Soulai waited beside Mousidnou.
The asu pursed his lips and gently laid his hands on Ti. With slow, thoughtful movements he examined the crusted, reddish-brown scratches. When he came to the gaping wound on Ti’s neck and shoulder, he clucked his tongue and reached into his pouch.
Carrying a handful of dried sprigs out to the aisle, the asu knelt, struck his flint, and ignited them. He muttered something into the fire, then dug through his pouch again. This time he pulled out a wood bowl into which he poured a whitish powder. Adding a handful of animal fat, he worked the mixture several minutes with his fingers, then stood and carried the bowl toward Ti. As the salve was pressed into his neck wound, Ti came to life, bucking and snorting.
Instinctively Soulai lunged, but Mousidnou’s iron grip on his arm stopped him.
Ti’s eyes rolled to white. With his head strongly tethered, though, and escape impossible, he fell to heaving his weight from side to side.
The asu kept a calm, yet wary eye on the shifting stallion, stepping away as needed, but always returning to daub more of his sticky concoction into the freshly oozing wound. When the bowl was near empty, he returned to his pouch to pull forth coiled cotton bandages. He began wrapping what he could of the shoulder, as well as the horse’s neck, so tightly that Soulai himself had trouble swallowing.
The tail of the last bandage was still dangling when another man, unusually tall, came striding down the aisle. Like Habasle, he wore a robe of noble length, but his was blood red. A voluminous leather pouch was slung across his shoulder, the straps clamping down on a huge gold medallion. The asu’s eyes widened and he looked as if he wanted to flee.
“This is the beast? ”
“Yes,” Habasle answered regally. “You are ordered to attend him.”
The man cocked his head, examining Habasle with barely disguised disdain. Soulai noticed that his eyes were completely black, as if both pupils had exploded and frozen. “Ah, then,” he said, “we must—no, no, no! Those bandages are all wrong.” In one step and with a great flourish of robes he began tearing away the asu’s careful work. “Such haphazardry might suffice in Elam, but we follow the scholars’ methods in this land.”
The smallish man shuffled aside. “You are the ashipu,” he murmured. “I will watch and learn.” The others appeared to bow to this forceful man as well, but Soulai had a strong sense that Ti would have fared better with the asu. And when the red-robed man, in one yank, tore the sticky mane from the exposed wound, ripping a squeal from the stallion, it took both of Mousidnou’s hands to hold Soulai to his place.
The ashipu bent close to the moist flesh and sniffed. “Alum?”
“In sheep’s lard,” the asu replied.
The tall man nodded. “Adequate.” Picking up the bandages, he deftly rolled them around his thin hand and began wrapping Ti’s neck again. Soulai couldn’t te
ll the difference from the way the asu had wrapped them in the first place.
“You are the stable master, are you not?” The ashipu was speaking with no less disdain to Mousidnou now, who nodded quickly. “Trim the frog of the right front hoof, then.” He stepped aside.
Grunting, Mousidnou bent over his ample belly to lift Ti’s hoof and slice a section from the leathery center, which he handed to the ashipu. The man dropped it into the ashes. Another spark, a small flame, and the moon-shaped piece started to shrivel. Before it was consumed, however, the ashipu plucked it out and ground it up in his own small bowl. Then, poking the powder into a reed, the tall man walked to Ti’s head, grasped an ear, and blew the dust into it.
He held the long fingers of his right hand splayed across the frightened horse’s forehead, holding him magically captive. The man’s eyelids fluttered, then closed. “O Ishtar, goddess of Nineveh,” the ashipu prayed, “let the might of this steed’s hooves pound out the evil that threatens to drive him from the light of this world. O Shamash, exalted in this land, let not the claw of a lion fell this royal creature, but let your mighty hand spare his life that he may see out his number of days and gallop toward the destiny that you alone have determined.”
The ashipu opened his eyes. His gaze fell upon Habasle and his lips curled as he reached out to lift one of the lion’s paws. “Killed by your own hand?”
“I thrust my spear into him.”
The man let the paw drop. “Your mother will be proud.”
“I’d rather my father know the pride.”
The ashipu folded his arms, looked down his hooked nose, and blinked. “But we’ll never know if your father knows, will we, since we don’t know in which alley he sleeps?”
Habasle grasped the hilt of his knife. “My father is King Ashurbanipal.”
“So says your mother,” the ashipu responded with a sneer. Out of thin air a knife appeared in his own hand and he held it high between them. He twisted the blade in the fiery light of the newly lit lanterns. “A claw,” he said, and slashed a toe from the lion’s foot. Soulai heard Mousidnou exhale as the ashipu turned toward Ti and knotted the claw in his mane. And he noted Habasle’s chest rising and falling beneath the limp paws, though his face displayed a rigid calm.
To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion Page 4
