To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion

by Diane Lee Wilson

  But at some point, filtering through his unending pain, came an awareness of a subtle change inside the well: He could dimly make out his pale, cramped fingers. With his cheek still flush to the wall, Soulai thankfully welcomed the morning light. The slapping of sandaled feet in the courtyard above signaled the stableboys coming to their work. His heart beat a little faster as he waited, listening for the sound that might lead to his rescue. Finally there it was: the clopping of hooves. The first horses were being led to the trough, there’d be—

  “Hey! Where’s the rope? What’s happened?” Voices echoed down to him; he didn’t dare look up. A head must have been thrust into the well, for the next voice was clearer. “I think someone’s fallen in. Hey! Hurry along, there! Get another rope.” The commotion built. More heads must have surrounded the opening, for the voices mingled and reverberated louder. And then a heavy rope slapped atop his head, dangled down his back. Soulai knew he had to let go, though his hands were frozen in place and he was shivering such that real movement seemed impossible. The rope danced, banged his head, then flopped against his face. With a gasping lunge, he released his hold. He grabbed onto the rope, lost his balance, and went underwater. He came up spluttering, still holding onto the rope with all the strength he could muster, then grabbing it with the other hand. It tightened and Soulai could feel himself lifted from the water, his body hanging limp and dripping below his clenched fists.

  The height grew dizzying, but he closed his eyes and concentrated on hanging on. Then arms were reaching for him, under him, lifting him farther out of the well, up and over its sharp brick lip.

  “By the rivers of the underworld, how did you get down there?” It was Mousidnou, hands planted on his knees, bending over, frowning with genuine concern. “You and you,” he was ordering brusquely, “carry him into the stable. And you two, start fishing for that broken rope. There’s a thousand of the king’s horses waiting to drink.”

  More dizziness as he was carried through the air. The cushion of barley hay was soft against his back as he was plopped onto a pile and rubbed all over with cloths. His teeth chattered incessantly; he couldn’t stop them. The wet tunic was yanked over his head; a clean, dry one was somehow fitted back over it. He was powerless to help.

  When the stableboys were chased away to do their work, Mousidnou leaned over him. “What’s going on here?”

  “The ashipu—he tried to—make me tell him—where Ti is,” Soulai chattered. “I didn’t—get the food—to him. All night—he’s hungry.”

  “Well, where in the name of Ninurta is he?”

  Soulai rolled his eyes up at the man. His teeth moved but his lips didn’t.

  The stable master sat back with a grunt. “I know, I know. You can’t tell me either. Well, I’m through breaking my ass to help you and Habasle play your games. Get back to your work.” He got to his feet and walked off.

  Soulai watched him lumber down the aisle. He used the time to rub the warmth of life into his legs. When he felt able to walk, he quickly bundled some hay inside his discarded tunic and slipped out of the stable.

  With the sun yet hidden below the gray sky, only slaves and guards, cooks and washerwomen hurried around the palace. Few nobles would be awake, so Soulai ducked his head and boldly strode into the bustle.

  But leaving the commotion to strike out in the direction of the harem and its ever-vigilant guards was another matter. For a long time Soulai knelt over his hay-filled tunic, pretending to secure the load. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the guard closest to him march back and forth. When the man neared the far point of his circuit, Soulai dashed down the stairway to the tomb.

  The stone door was closed and he leaned against it, panting. Dare he enter? Keeping a watchful eye above, Soulai pushed his weight into the door. It didn’t budge. He groaned and sank his forehead against it. Then, taking a couple of deep breaths, he shoved his shoulder into the door again, willing it to move. And gradually, though it rasped a complaint, it opened. Soulai squeezed through the gap. There was no sound of footsteps, outside the tomb or within.

  Today the vault’s stifling heat felt good and his limbs began to unknot. The sliver of light showed the lantern sitting in its niche beside the door. He lit it, held it high, and walked into the darkness. He expected to hear something, a greeting or command from Habasle, but there was only silence. And when he reached the tomb’s end, he found it empty. They’d left without him! Did they think he’d betrayed them?

  Or…maybe the ashipu had found them and they’d been killed! Where was Ti? With a chill, he peered down the short arm of the vault to where the stallion had been hobbled. Panic shot through him as he made out the horse’s motionless form on the brick floor.

  Not wanting to believe his eyes, he moved closer. The horse had been blindfolded again and a short rope had been knotted through his halter and snugged around his nose. Soulai fell to his knees. He worked feverishly to pull off the blindfold and untie the muzzle. To his relief, Ti blinked; he was still alive. All the while talking to him, Soulai unfastened the hobbles and removed the cloths from Ti’s hooves. But the stallion didn’t try to get up. He just lay there, neck outstretched, barely breathing.

  “Ti,” Soulai whispered. “It’s me.” He caressed the horse’s cheek.

  The stallion blinked a few times, then rolled his gold eye toward Soulai. In one glance it seemed to say, It’s no use.

  “No,” Soulai found himself responding. “Look, I’ve brought food. And there must be some water left here.”

  The eye rolled back and closed. With a gasp, Soulai lifted the lantern higher. The way the light flickered across the white marking of Ninurta made it appear that the hawk’s wings fluttered and slowed. Fearfully, he touched Ti’s shoulder. The stallion was still warm. “No,” he commanded. He set down the lantern and began kneading the horse’s muscles, pushing and pulling at the skin. Imagining that the body beneath his hands was his clay, Soulai willed it to come to life. He stroked Ti’s neck, rubbed his forehead, tugged gently on his soft nostrils. And all the while he prayed.

  Ti lifted his head. Soulai found what was left of the water and shoved a bowl toward him. The horse drank.

  Before Ti could lower his head again, Soulai moved behind him and supported him with his own body. He cupped a handful of hay beneath the muzzle and while Ti ate he continued rubbing his hands over the horse.

  As he stroked the stallion, Soulai noticed a richly colored rug that hadn’t been in the tomb the evening before. The lantern showed that the weavers had outdone themselves. Wool as white as clouds alternated with bands of sky blue and a purple the color of amethyst. A deeper Tyrian purple dyed the fringe that hung more than a hand’s width on each side. Lying beside the rug was a beautifully tooled bridle decorated with white tassels. Its iron bit, unblemished, had yet to rest in a horse’s mouth. And springing up from the crown was a huge, regal white plume. These were the fittings of a royal horse charging off to war; Soulai remembered them from the carvings around the library. Habasle was preparing Ti for battle.

  The idea sat differently with him now. He’d found the bravery to challenge death—and that had freed him from his past. In his father’s eyes, and in his own, he knew he was a man. Naboushoumidin’s words came back to him: Each one of us has a destiny that must be pursued wholeheartedly, yea though it brings death early, for death will surely come eventually. Soulai fingered the gold-and-silver mane, and, though he couldn’t help wincing, he pictured Ti prancing across a battlefield outfitted in such regal tack. He could accept it now. It was the stallion’s true destiny.

  Bittersweet images kept crowding his mind until the tomb’s warmth and his own weariness lulled him to sleep. It was Ti’s explosive snort that awoke him. He came to groggily, but straightened to attention when he saw that the horse was staring with evident alarm into the darkness stretching between them and the stone door. He couldn’t see anything, but he could hear it: Someone was inside the tomb with them. And approaching.

>   Recalling the weapons stashed in the opposite arm of the tomb, Soulai retrieved a spear and a knife. Just as he was crouching beside Ti once more, a series of grunts sounded from the void.

  His hair stood on end. They hadn’t escaped death yet. The lion was in the tomb—the mad lion. Maybe the uridimmu! Ti was frantically trying to scramble to his feet and Soulai threw a leg across his back and rose with him. Ti pawed the ground, fretting at the unseen predator.

  And then it was seen. Padding out of the darkness came a black-maned lion, tail swishing, nonchalant and confident. It paused to sniff at some bones, batted at them with a huge paw, then continued along the brick path. The lantern’s small flame shone in the cat’s cold yellow eyes. It stared at its prey, coolly appraising them, then strolled into the passageway opposite. Dropping to the floor, it studied horse and boy.

  Ti pranced and spun and it was all Soulai could do to stay atop him, crouched as he was to avoid the low ceiling. But there would be no plunging to the exit, for the lion was sure to attack. Somehow, above Ti’s snorts, Soulai detected another presence in the tomb. Before he had time to even consider it, the ashipu, great robe flapping, leaped from the darkness at them. Shouting a curse, the ashipu grabbed for Ti’s halter. The stallion pinned back his ears, reared up, and struck out with his hooves. Soulai was fumbling with the spear as the man staggered backward, holding his shoulder.

  The lion, which had been watching the melee with keen interest, spotted a victim. In three lightning-quick bounds it was upon the fallen man. An agonized shriek was immediately drowned by snarling. Soulai’s heart banged wildly. Struggling to control Ti, he coaxed him past the attacking lion. They could escape!

  But in no more than two strides, Soulai found himself pulling on the lead rope and turning the horse back. He clenched his jaw. He had one more thing to prove, and so did Ti: They didn’t run from lions.

  The horse pricked his ears as Soulai urged him toward the fight. With a frightened snort, he spun away. Soulai wrestled him around to face the lion. Ti tossed his head and pawed the ground nervously, but held his place. Ever so surely, Soulai closed his legs around the horse. He sat deep and loosed the reins, letting Ti choose. A confidence seemed to settle over the stallion, Soulai felt the powerful haunches gather beneath him. With barely a nudge then, he positioned Ti sideways, and the horse boldly swung close to the lion. Soulai raised his spear, eyed the savage lion’s back and, with all his strength, drove the blade in. Another chilling scream filled the tomb. The creature stumbled away from the body of the ashipu and fell.

  Ti was suddenly beyond containment. He reared once, twice, his hooves narrowly missing the ashipu’s body each time they landed, though the man didn’t move. The horse shook his head furiously. Soulai needed a bridle. Cautiously, he slid from Ti’s back and, stretching at the very end of the lead rope, managed to grab the feathered headstall. He tucked it under his arm and, snapping the rope to try and quiet the stallion, led Ti past the rows of sarcophagi to the stone door.

  The stallion, brimming with triumph, stamped his feet. It was all Soulai could do to slip off the halter and quickly replace it with the bridle. A restless champing sounded in the vault as Ti mouthed the new bit. He arched his neck and the huge white feather stood erect from his proud crest. Soulai smiled. Leaning his shoulder into the heavy door, he pushed on it until it scraped open far enough to let Ti through.

  He was shocked to find that dusk had fallen. At least he thought it was dusk. But there was something different about this evening; an eerie coppery glow bathed the walls of Nineveh. He looked up at the sky. The moon, round and full, shone blood red.

  23

  Making His Mark

  A muted roar that surged and ebbed sounded in the distance. Soulai tipped his head and listened, then led Ti up the steps, hooves clattering loudly. The noise was coming from outside the palace, in the direction of the marketplace, and though he was near to collapsing, he marched the head-tossing Ti across the limestone courtyards now awash in the odd, coppery hue. As they neared the palace’s western gate, the one outside which Naboushoumidin often told his stories, Soulai heard someone making a speech.

  “As the sharqi drops from the sky and sweeps across the land, breaking into bits all that it encounters, so shall we gallop, scattering the Medes before us. As the lightning splits the tree, separating leaf from limb and limb from trunk, so shall the lightning of our swords separate hand from arm and head from body. As the scorpion stings the heel, inflicting great pain and suffering on its victim, so shall the army of Assyria sting the heels of the fleeing Medes, again and again and again!”

  It was Habasle, Soulai knew, even before he peeked through the parted gate. The prince stood wrapped in a regal new robe of white and purple and blue, and, though he supported his weight on the upright staff of his spear, he vigorously punched the air with a fist to the rhythm of his words. Naboushoumidin stood to the side, hands clasped to his chest. Ringed by flaming torches, the marketplace was filled with people who turned their awestruck faces alternately between the speaker and the reddened moon.

  “For eight months,” Habasle shouted, “since the days of winter, the gods have laid forth their plans for Nineveh’s victory. To those who were looking, they revealed themselves in the heavens. And to those who would learn, they unlocked the tablets’ secrets. And Ninurta himself, the great and glorious Ninurta, god of the hunt, god of war, god of victory, has sent to me as his own messenger a stallion that—”

  Succumbing to the spirit of the moment, Soulai impulsively trotted Ti through the gate. The crowd roared. The horse responded by arching his neck and rolling his deep gold and pale blue eyes. The white plume tossed gloriously upon his crest, the tassels danced madly. Held in check by the new bit, Ti pranced in place.

  Soulai handed the reins over to Habasle. Then, without speaking, Soulai turned and faced the crowd. He waited at Ti’s shoulder and, behind his back, locked his hands and offered them as support to a flawless mount.

  A whispered thank-you met his ears. Soulai felt the weight of a sandaled foot on his palms, steadied himself, and in the next instant, the weight was lifted and Habasle sat astride Ti. As the crowd cheered, Soulai stepped away.

  “On the wings of Ninurta, the Assyrian army will fly—”

  The gold-and-white stallion reared and pawed at the night sky, holding his huge body aloft for so long that he looked ready to soar into the blackness and challenge even the great horse made of stars.

  As the hooves scraped upon stone, the crowd fell suddenly silent. Thousands of eyes looked past Habasle and Ti, and Soulai turned as well. A retinue of noblemen came marching from the palace in solemn pairs, the ones at the front dispersing clouds of fragrant smoke from stone bowls, and the ones behind holding aloft their own flaming torches. The billowing smoke turned as orange as the moon. Its thick fingers curled around the feet of the lamassu, drifted down the steps, and threaded through the crowd, and the marketplace took on an otherworldly glow.

  Murmured awe announced the appearance of an unearthly god. If it was not Ashur himself, king of all the gods, it was his divine messenger and representative in human form. Firelight glistened off the gold adorning his neck, his ears, his arms. The body was old, but held rigidly erect in its heavy robe fringed with tinkling glass beads. The god-king walked straight toward the crowd, looking neither left nor right, one arm resting on the ivory hilt of a sword angling from the gilt sheath fastened at his hip.

  Soulai stepped back into the shadows as the figure strode forward. Like the crowd, Ti became silent as his rider slid from his back to bow with respect. Habasle straightened—Soulai knew it had to hurt—and summoned a regal bearing that matched that of the older man. Ashurbanipal laid a hand on Habasle’s shoulder, then turned and spoke to the crowd.

  “Ishtar,” he said loudly, “protectress of our city, has come to me in my fasting.” Not a breath sounded from the marketplace. “In my dream, from each of her shoulders hung a quiver full of arrows. She advance
d toward me and spoke to me like a mother. ‘Thou hast asked for victory,’ she said. ‘Let thou knowest that where thou art, I am also.’”

  An approving murmur rippled through the audience.

  “And I spoke to her as a worthy son. ‘Can I go with thee where thou goest, O sovereign of sovereigns?’ And she answered. ‘Stay thou in the temple consecrated to me; eat thy food, drink thy wine. For I will go out to the battle and I shall accomplish my work. Vengeance on thine enemies shall be mine!’”

  With these last words, Ashurbanipal pulled his sword free and thrust it high into the air. The ripple of applause exploded into a riotous cheer.

  Ti, who up until now had stood motionless, craned his neck around. Soulai had a distinct feeling that the horse was looking for him. Even from the short distance, he could read the uncertainty in Ti’s eyes. Did Soulai really want him to take part in this battle? they seemed to ask. Did Soulai really think he was brave enough to serve the gods?

  Soulai smiled. With pride filling his chest, he nodded, then flung his arms in the air, motioning Ti away. The gold-and-white stallion with the mark of Ninurta tossed his head and reared once more, and the crowd cheered wildly.

  The shadow was sliding from the moon now, returning it to its silvery state. Sensing that his part was played out, Soulai slipped back through the gate and into the palace. He didn’t know which way to turn. An odd feeling made him touch his chest, and he frowned at discovering that his clay tag was missing. But how and when? In the well? Battling the lion?

  Footsteps approached through the darkness. “Wait! Stop!” Soulai looked over his shoulder. It was Habasle, hobbling as fast as he could, holding his side.

  As ordered, Soulai waited. He watched his owner approach. There was a different look to him, a happy confidence that lessened his swagger.

  “Did you hear?” Habasle asked between gasps. “Did you see? I beat the ashipu to his own prediction.” He looked up at the full moon and grinned. “You know what I think happened? His own curse got him. Look,” he spread his arms to indicate the near empty courtyard, “he’s nowhere to be found. And do you know what else has happened? I’m leading my father’s entire army into battle. On Ti. He says Ishtar has spoken to him and assured Nineveh of victory.” He thrust his fist into the air again. “How is that for leaving your mark? We ride at dawn to slay every last one of those Medes and be home before the rains come.”