Although all eyes turned upon him, Habasle’s face remained mysteriously blank.
Naboushoumidin went on, more slowly. “I know that the ashipu wants to chase away the moon to prove his power, for if he can claim power over the stars, it is not a reach of his audience’s imagination for him to claim power over the kingdom—”
“He can’t!” Habasle hissed.
Naboushoumidin held up both hands. “I also know that he had wanted to sacrifice that horse of yours, the one with Ninurta’s mark, to the god of war, but—”
“Had wanted?” Soulai asked.
Again the scribe raised his hands. “But power resides with he who possesses the knowledge. ”
Habasle removed his hands from the tablet and reluctantly offered it up. Naboushoumidin pounced. He quickly traced the symbols with his fingers, his lips moving silently as he read. Then he looked up, grinning. “He’s planning a moonlit ceremony on the palace steps for two nights hence. But I believe there has been an error in his calculations.”
“The moon will disappear on the sixth,” Habasle said confidently. “Please, there is not much time. Tell us what you know.”
Naboushoumidin shot a stern look at the still silent asu and squatted. He explained how the ashipu had come tearing through his library, searching for the tablets regarding the moon’s actions. “This man had to have his tablet so badly that I simply made one for him. Give a child what he wants to stop his screaming, I say. Or what he thinks he wants.” He grinned.
“What do you mean? ” Mousidnou asked.
The scribe’s blue eyes were twinkling. “I may have accidentally mistaken some of the dates and alliances on the tablet that I prepared for him. It wasn’t easy making it look aged, but I have some skills that I haven’t put to use in a long time.” He looked at Habasle. “But I’m afraid the moon is not the only actor who will fail to play his part for the ashipu.” He paused, scanning the expectant faces in front of him. “His sacrificial victim is no longer available. ”
Soulai gasped. “Is Ti dead?”
Naboushoumidin smiled mysteriously. “He walks with the dead.”
21
Walk with the Dead
Keeping to the shadows and out of the moon’s glare, four figures crept from the stable, passed through empty courtyards, and traveled up and down stairs. Naboushoumidin led the way, the spring in his step revealing his excitement. Soulai followed at a less even gait, for Habasle’s arm was flung heavily across his shoulders and the prince’s unsteady legs threatened to topple them both. The asu lagged in the rear. At the outset, the asu had voiced an unwillingness to take part in the plot, until Naboushoumidin had shaken a finger at him and admonished that “King Ashurbanipal himself has asked us to look after his son.” While those words had subdued the asu, they lit a proud smile across Habasle’s face that even now seemed to help carry him along their trek. Mousidnou had stayed behind. He had offered to do anything he could to help, but the chief scribe suggested that he return to his room, and to his work in the morning, and listen for palace rumors.
Out of the darkness, twin flights of stairs appeared before them. One led up to a courtyard that surrounded the harem; the other led down to a small landing that in turn opened onto another flight of narrow stairs. Naboushoumidin darted down the second flight.
Even before the heavy stone door at the bottom was eased open, Soulai suspected what it hid: a tomb. Dread stirred in his belly. More death. Naboushoumidin cautioned them to silence with a finger to his lips, then slipped through the gap. After a few breathless moments, a small flame illuminated the entry. Habasle, Soulai, and the asu crept into the tomb.
The dry air stung their nostrils. Faint odors arose, some pungent, some sweet and lingering. Still another smell, a sharp one, assaulted them as Naboushoumidin smeared a thumbprint of black grease across each of their foreheads. “To fend off the spirits,” he whispered.
The light from his lantern danced across a wide, vaulted passage. Stone sarcophagi, partially submerged in the hard earth, lay in orderly rows on either side of a brick walkway. Dust clouded the intricate inscriptions on their lids. As Soulai proceeded, large, shadowy shapes loomed out of the darkness. He recognized them as chariots resting on empty shafts. A few more steps and he discovered rotting harnesses surrounding crumbling bones—the skeletons of horses, he realized with a sudden queasiness.
A tremulous nicker from the darkness startled him. The spirit of a dead horse! But it couldn’t be. Its familiarity tugged at his senses. It had to be Ti!
The chamber ended with two short passageways extending left and right. Peering down one, Soulai saw stacks of lances, shields, bows, and quivers stuffed with arrows. At the entrance to the other, two carved ivory chairs waited like upright skeletons. Habasle collapsed into one, holding his side. Naboushoumidin shot a stern look at the asu, who immediately bent over Habasle and began probing his wound.
The nicker sounded again, and, as the scribe set about lighting lanterns, Soulai peered down the blackened passageway until he gradually made out the form of his beloved stallion. The horse had been hobbled and blindfolded, and thick cloths wrapped his hooves. The head, unseeing, was lifted in their direction.
Soulai walked straight to the bound horse, knelt, and removed the blindfold. Ti shook the forelock out of his eyes, then laid his head in Soulai’s lap, letting out a great sigh. Although there were no marks on him, he seemed near death. Trying to control his worry, Soulai stroked Ti’s brow while listening to the old scribe.
“I found him in the farthest reaches of my library last night,” Naboushoumidin was explaining, “hobbled and blinded like so. I suspect the ashipu hid him there. But you know how I feel about beasts in my library.”
Habasle responded with a brief, bitter smile. Soulai knew he was remembering Annakum.
“The hoof cloths were my own addition,” the scribe went on, “so that I could move him here without anyone hearing. It was before the moon rose; I don’t believe anyone saw.”
He fell silent. An invisible power had been growing, emanating from Habasle. The two men seemed to recognize it, and, in fact, seemed to wait for it to direct their lives. As ill as he was, or maybe because of it, Habasle’s eyes began to burn with a determined fire.
“What does my father want me to do?”
“Is the king still fasting?” Naboushoumidin asked the asu, and when the bald man nodded, he continued. “As he’s yet captive in his own darkness, I’m not sure he could tell you what to do.”
There was a pause before Habasle posed a second question. “What do you think I should do?”
Naboushoumidin laced his fingers and stretched his arms over his head. “The horse, Ninurta’s messenger, is rightfully back in your hands,” he said, “as well as a tablet—perhaps not so rightfully—endowing mastery over the skies. With the ashipu believing you are dead, you also possess an element of surprise—the hunter’s most valuable asset.” He spread his palms and bowed grandly. “Thus, I say it is up to you, Habasle, to write the next chapter.”
“To make my mark,” Habasle murmured thoughtfully. “The moon disappears tomorrow night. Do you think we can hide here for one more day?”
Naboushoumidin nodded. He pointed to a pouch resting beside a pitcher. “I’ve brought food and water for you, though I couldn’t provide anything for the horse without being found out.”
Soulai looked up. He saw that Habasle sat straighter, that he no longer clutched his side. Their eyes met. “Return to the stable,” Habasle commanded. “Seek out Mousidnou and only him, but tell him nothing. Just request as much hay and grain as you can carry in my pouch”—he dumped the remaining contents onto the floor and handed it to over—“and make certain that no one sees you or follows you—”
“Perhaps,” interrupted Naboushoumidin, “perhaps I should go. Should anyone find us out, we’ll pay with our lives.”
Habasle shook his head, his solemn gaze never leaving Soulai’s face. “I trust him,” he said. “No one
will find us. Now go.”
Caught up in the power of the moment, Soulai lifted Ti’s head from his lap and stood. “He needs water, too,” Soulai suggested as he fit the pouch over his shoulder. It occurred to him that he had said these same words on their first meeting. Habasle must have remembered, too, for a smile flickered across his lips. He spoke sternly, however, as a master must to his slave. “We’ll share the water that is already here for now. But you shall find a bucket and carry more from the trough.”
The asu turned from attending Habasle’s wound. “There’s a lion loose in the city, you know. A mad one, they say.”
“A mad lion?” Habasle repeated with interest. He reached for his other pouch, and the asu quickly handed it to him. Digging through it, he pulled out the blue amulet depicting the uridimmu. A shiver ran up Soulai’s spine. “And you wanted to throw it in the river,” Habasle said. With a free hand, he dismissed Soulai.
Soulai gave Ti one more caress and turned to go. Silence followed him as he tentatively made his way toward the tomb’s entrance, silence except for Habasle’s parting order: “Be careful.”
With no lantern to light his path, he had to shuffle, arms outstretched and toes feeling for the bricks. When his fingers finally touched the stone door, he let out a sigh of relief, then squeezed through the narrow opening. The chill night air prickled his skin—he hadn’t realized how warm it had been inside the tomb. Turning, he pushed against the heavy door, which made such a loud scraping sound as it was closing that he could only push a little at a time. At last he tiptoed up the steps and proceeded around the shadowy edges of the first courtyard’s barren expanse.
The escaped lion could be padding through this same courtyard, he thought, and at the same instant: for once in your life, don’t be a coward. Breaking out in a nervous sweat, he carefully measured the distance from one doorway to the next and crept through the darkness.
But the lion was not the night’s only predator. Soulai knew that palace eyes were always watching from somewhere and so he took a particularly circuitous route back to the stable. He walked past the kitchens and angled toward the room he had once shared with the other stableboys. Hugging the walls, he crossed another courtyard, headed for the library, then circled back toward the stable by another series of courtyards and steps.
Only when he descended into the warm, fragrant atmosphere of the stable did Soulai realize he had been holding his breath. A hand grazed his shoulder and he jumped, gasping. It was Mousidnou.
“I have the hay and grain,” he whispered. He tipped his head toward a sheaf of hay on which rested a pile of grain.
“How…how did you know?” Soulai stammered.
“The ashipu just left here. Woke me from a dead man’s sleep to ask about the parti-color stallion. I told him I hadn’t seen the damned horse in a week. After he left, I couldn’t find you, or Habasle, so I figured the two of you had something to do with it. Say, what’s that on your forehead?”
Soulai rubbed at the grease mark, trying to decide how much he should tell.
“I’ll help you carry the feed,” the stable master said. “Where are you keeping the stallion?”
Dropping his hand, Soulai studied the oiliness on his fingers while contemplating his answer. This was Mousidnou, who had ridden back to rescue Habasle; surely he could be trusted. But that brought back Habasle’s words: I trust him. No one will find us. Soulai shook his head. “I can’t say,” he said. “I have to take it alone.”
Mousidnou raised himself up and Soulai cringed, expecting a blow. But the man only shrugged, looking almost hurt. “Here you are, then,” he said gruffly, taking the pouch from Soulai’s shoulder and stuffing the grain and hay into it. “You’d better fetch him some water, too. I’ve hidden a bucket behind the large olive tree near the well. Now move your ass. I’m not staying awake all night for palace gossip.”
Soulai nodded respectfully, backed down the aisle and out of the stable. He paused in the doorway to scan the courtyard.
The air hung still. Muted voices from the palace kitchens drifted through the darkness. Soulai saw a bat skim the trough for a quick drink. Footsteps sounded and he spotted a guard patrolling the walled terrace, the butt of his spear thumping with each step. Soulai waited for him to pass, then slipped across the courtyard.
The skin bucket was nestled behind the potted olive tree as Mousidnou had said. Soulai dropped the bulging pouch and carried the container to the trough. He laid it in the water, but the water was too shallow; he’d have to pull more from the well. That wasn’t good. The ropes rubbing on the wheels would surely make noise. He looked around again, saw no one, and reached for the main rope. The first tug let out a loud squeak. He tried coaxing the rope along slowly, and though this softened the sound, it lasted much longer. After an eternity, he felt the weight of a full bucket rise. The rope squeaked louder. Nothing to do but keep pulling, steadily.
“What are you doing there?”
Heart leaping, Soulai looked up at the guard leaning over the wall.
“Getting some water for a horse,” he croaked.
“Why don’t you bring him out to the water?” The voice sounded suspicious.
“He’s been injured,” Soulai answered truthfully. “Mousidnou told me to fetch water with this bucket.”
The guard hesitated, then seemed satisfied, for he returned to his thumping strolling, though Soulai noted he adjusted his path closer to the wall and frequently glanced over it. In fact, when Soulai tipped one of the well’s buckets into his smaller one and turned to leave, the guard was leaning against the wall watching him. Feeling self-conscious, Soulai picked up the pouch and, rather than leaving the courtyard by the steps, turned and reentered the stable. He waited inside, nervous, biding his time like a mouse in its hole. He counted the guard’s thumping, peeking out often enough to see the stars shift in the skies. Time was passing. Surely Habasle and Naboushoumidin would be wondering where he was. Ti, poor Ti, who had passed more than two days with nothing to eat, would be growing hungrier and thirstier by the moment.
The thumping faded and disappeared. Soulai counted to a hundred and when the thumping still hadn’t returned, he cautiously stepped outside. He waited, listening. The courtyard and the walled terrace above it remained empty.
Still on the alert, he tiptoed toward the steps. He was on the third one when a hand brushed his back, startling him into a loud gasp. He turned to respond to Mousidnou but instead came face-to-face with the ashipu. A sinister smile twisted the man’s features. When he spoke, the deep voice could have been one of the tomb’s evil spirits.
“You have something I want.”
Illogically, the hay-and-grain-filled pouch came to Soulai’s mind and he involuntarily placed a hand over it.
“Not that, you fool. The stallion, the parti-color stallion. Where is he?”
Soulai shook his head. Despite his trembling, he had to feign ignorance.
The ashipu grabbed him and, with fingers as strong as iron, dragged him down the steps and back across the courtyard. The skin bucket slipped from Soulai’s hands, spilling its water across the tiles. The man strode straight for the well and shoved Soulai against it so hard that the brick edge cut him across the middle, doubling him over. A dank odor splashed across his face as his head dangled in the void. The point of a knife poked beneath his ribs.
“Where is the stallion?” the evil voice hissed again.
This was it, Soulai thought. The moment when he had to be brave enough to choose death rather than surrender to the enemy. He pictured the bas-relief carvings surrounding the library, the panels showing the citizens of the captured city boldly jumping into the river and drowning. He remembered the fishes nibbling at the bloated bodies. But Ti was worth it. Then he jammed an elbow backward into the ashipu, leaned farther into the well, and dove into the darkness.
22
Arighting
Water closed over his face and ran its fingers around his body, pulling him down. The sharp coldne
ss forced a gasp from his lungs and more water poured into his mouth, burning his nose and choking his throat. His legs flailed above his head, frantic but useless. Something solid grazed his shoulder, then it slid away as he tumbled. His fingers became tangled in the knotted rope, the hay-filled pouch; his toes found the well’s skin buckets. He searched for a hold and managed to break the surface. Coughing and gasping, he clung to the rope with both hands, trying to breathe in enough air. The rope began vibrating in his fists, and then he was falling down through the water again, the rope limp in his hands, more rope falling in coils around him.
The buckets weighed him down; the snaking ropes noosed his feet. Soulai kicked at them again and again. His head bobbed out of the water and his fingers found the well’s wall, slick with its bitumen coating. He clawed at it, trying to catch hold, but sank. Blindly he splashed, grasping for the slimy wall and feeling it slide past his fingers over and over—until the tip of one finger caught a shallow crevice and somehow he managed to pull himself out of the water just long enough to suck in a chestful of air. That unbalanced him, he lost his grip, and he found himself again submerged.
For a punishing eternity, until the tips of his fingers were torn raw, Soulai managed to stay alive one gulping breath at a time. Invariably he lost his grip and plunged into the water again, but slowly the panic ebbed and he began to remember where the saving crevice was and to hang there quietly when he found it, though the water lapped right at the level of his nose and the threat of suffocation stiffened his limbs. Gradually, too, he was able to work his free hand across the wall and, when he found another crevice, to mold his fingers into it.
He hung there, cheek pressed to the slick bitumen, arms spread like a bat’s wings, shivering. Numbed, he took only shallow breaths, fearful of losing his balance. He briefly thought about what had happened that night and what he needed to do, but the stupefying cold dulled his mind and the simplest of tasks—hanging on—became his sole focus.
To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion Page 16
