The Horse Road

by Troon Harrison

  ‘But it is hard on Arash,’ Lila continued. ‘I have heard that he is very shamed by his father’s behaviour, and wishes to find favour at court himself so that his father’s disgrace will not affect him as well. Perhaps he will take on his father’s position – think how splendid that would be for you both! I have seen him riding to hunt, when the wild animals are let free from the paradise enclosure and the nobles go out with bows on their shoulders and falcons on their wrists. My mother has heard he has great skill with the falcons. And he looks so handsome riding out …’

  I listened to Lila with one part of my hearing only; with the other, I strained to hear if the caged birds, further down the hallway, were singing. But the house lay silent, and the roar of the city was a distant murmur, blocked out by the thick mud and stucco walls. My ribcage tightened and I struggled to breathe.

  ‘I must go and check on the horses!’ I said, jumping to my feet. In my haste, I banged my boot toe against the foot of a stool, carved in the shape of a lion’s paw.

  ‘I will come over and visit you later,’ Lila promised. ‘Maybe we can go to the bazaar.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Our friendship included the unspoken understanding that I would accompany Lila on her frequent trips to the markets. I kept her company while she lingered over earrings inset with emeralds from Egypt, over shawls and veils of finest Indian cotton, over sandals of turquoise leather stitched by hand with golden thread, over pots of cosmetics from Arabia. In return, she would help me to groom whichever horses we were keeping in our city stables. She had never complained about this, even when she stepped in dung or had a toe trodden upon. My loyal friend, she understood perfectly that without the horses I could not keep my spirit in my body, that it would fly over the city walls and lift off, like a hawk, into a high wind.

  Now she rose gracefully from her couch; when she moved around, she made me think of a willow tree. ‘If you don’t feel like shopping, we will do something else instead. We can play tabula,’ she said.

  I nodded, and bit my quivering lips, and fled down the pale steps into the courtyard to let myself into the garden that lay between our houses. I hurried between the green rows of onion shoots, the sprawl of cucumber vines, and almost fell through the narrow door into our own courtyard. The mares swung to face me, startled from their mid-morning doze, and I drew a ragged breath and leaned against the wall, waiting for the hammer of my heart to steady. At this moment, they are safe here, I reminded myself.

  I moved amongst the mares, running a hand over Tulip’s rosy coat, over Grasshopper’s long face, over Swan’s river of neck. Their coats burned with heat under my palm and I glanced upwards into the dazzle of the sun, rising towards the highest point of heaven. In the pastures, the mares would have drifted under the poplar trees and been standing head to tail, swishing flies from both themselves and each other. Here, they stood pressed together, ribs to ribs, without shade. It will be too much for them, I thought. I’ll go and talk to my mother about it.

  At that moment, I heard the voice of Lila’s mother, raised in shrill commands in our ground-floor kitchen. Our cook’s assistant scurried out looking harassed and headed through the gate on an errand. Fardad’s eyebrows, as he let her out, twitched up and down on his forehead in agitation. No, I could not go and talk to Mother; she was very ill, seized in the grip of fever and darkness, perhaps fighting with demons in her stupor. And Lila’s mother was making the most of the situation, trying to be helpful in her fussy, breathless manner. I realised then, in that moment, that all those mares and foals and yearlings were dependent upon me alone; if they suffered hunger or thirst, or from the heat, it would be my fault. Mother could not care for a single one of them. Our city groom, and our country horsemen and their wives, were all in the hippodrome where the army camp had been established. In our household there remained only servants without knowledge of horses, and my sick mother, and myself. I stared into the mares’ deep, still eyes and felt the weight of their dependency and trust settle on to my shoulders.

  Squatting on my heels, I watched for long minutes while the sun beat down. The foals were restless, trying to leap and buck in play. The mares grew annoyed, jostled from their hot daze. They stamped their hind hooves in irritation until the foals finally lay down in the shade beneath their mothers’ bellies, and closed their long lashes over their eyes. The yearlings were even more restless, their tails lashing in agitation at the droves of flies. They jumped when stung on the flank, barging into mares, earning themselves bites on the neck and rump, and giving voice to high squeals of pain and surprise. Sandy, our beautiful golden herd boss, shoved her way around the densely packed courtyard, trying to establish her place between the stable door, from whence the grain came, and the water trough.

  They are all miserable, I thought; they miss their cool rivers, their tall grasses. I must do something. When Mother awakes at last, she will be proud of how well I have cared for the horses on my own.

  Our stable had stalls for six animals. I brought Swan inside first and bedded her down in chopped barley straw. Then I led Sandy inside because she would think it her due, and because she was angry at continuously being jostled by mares of lower rank. Next I led in Peony, who had suffered when her foal was born, and needed rest and special care. Her colt, a shining sorrel with a sickle moon on his forehead, skittered in beside her and began to nurse with blond tail flapping greedily. Finally I led in Grasshopper, Tulip, and Swan’s yearling filly, Pearl. The courtyard was less crowded now but the heat was fiercer, beating up from the ground, pressing against the high walls. Not a breath of air stirred in that bowl of sunshine.

  I tiptoed into my mother’s dim room, the smell of incense and bitter herbs curling into my nostrils along with the sickly sweetness of her oozing wounds. She tossed and muttered in her tangled sheets, although I knew that Marjan had spread them tight that morning. ‘Mother,’ I whispered, but her eyelids didn’t flicker. She would have given her permission though, if she could. I crept to the chest at the foot of her bed and lifted the lid on its bronze hinges, slipping my hand down under the blankets until I found the leather pouch of silver Bactrian coins. After slipping a few into the carrying pouch at my belt, I returned the rest to the bottom of the chest, and smoothed Mother’s fair hair from her sweating forehead before running outside, happy now to breathe in the intense heat and the smell of horse dung.

  With two of our household servants following, I hurried downhill through the city, passing women at the water fountains filling blue-glazed jars. The market square was as crowded as usual, but people were agitated and noisy, and I had to push my way through them to reach the fabric stalls. Bartering was agony for me, although Lila could spend hours doing it, sweet and fierce by turns, reeling the seller in like a fish on a hook until she had won. Meanwhile, I would hover behind her, silent, fascinated, and envious of her slippery, persuasive tongue. Now, as I stepped up to a stallholder selling bolts of cheap local cotton, my knees quivered with shyness, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Then I thought about the heat beating upon the mares, and forced myself to speak. My voice, at first small, gradually took on strength as stubbornly I forced the price of cotton lower. Afterwards, the servants carried the rolls under their arms while I purchased long pieces of lightweight rope from another stall. I found two boys of about eight years old kicking a sheep’s bladder in an alley, and promised them coins if they would carry stones to my house.

  ‘This big,’ I said, gesturing with my hands.

  ‘We will hurry to do this!’ one cried, and they tore off, raising puffs of dust with their bare feet.

  My tunic was damp with sweat when I finally trudged home again. ‘Young ladies should remain inside, taking care of their households,’ Fardad muttered as I entered the gate.

  ‘Revered elder one, I am taking care of my household. These mares are the treasure of our valley,’ I said quietly but he shuffled off, muttering into his wispy beard. ‘And Fardad!’ I called more loudly. ‘I have a sp
ecial task for you to carry out. Please?’

  He turned back, his deep-set eyes impassive above the seams of his face.

  ‘We will need more grain,’ I said. ‘And any other food that the mares can eat. If I give you money, can you go and buy food and arrange to have it transported here?’

  ‘Do I look like an errand boy?’ he asked gruffly, but he held out his hand. ‘Give me the coins.’

  ‘Buy any hay you can find; I saw some being brought into the city last night. Any barley or wheat or millet. Mutton fat. Eggs. Dates and raisins. Peas.’ I searched my mind for any other food that our horses could survive on during this war. ‘Chicken,’ I said finally, and Fardad nodded, committing each item to memory, his bony old hand clasped about the coins.

  After Fardad had departed, riding on the household mule, the two small boys arrived with a donkey carrying woven grass hampers filled with stones.

  ‘Pile them here,’ I said, and the boys unloaded the hampers while Iris, one of our grey mares, came over to snuffle her lips against the donkey’s neck in curiosity. When the boys had left, I began cutting my rope into lengths with my dagger, and tying one end of each piece around a stone. I threw all these stones over the wall, into a grove of almond trees that stood in a strip of wasteground. Then I tied the other ends of the same ropes to the remaining stones, and threw them over into our garden. The ropes stretched tight above the courtyard, at the height of the walls, and formed a lattice. I called two servants from the house to help me, and together we cut up the cotton cloth into rectangles, and then we stood on overturned buckets and stretched the cloth rectangles over the rope lattice and began to fasten them in place with big stitches of thread.

  It seemed as though we worked for hours while the mares stamped at flies, breathing softly. The cotton cast blocks of shade over the mares’ backs, colouring their coats with mottled patterns of yellow and pink, green and blue.

  ‘Thanks be that my honoured master is not at home to see this mess,’ Fardad said when he returned.

  ‘What did you find to buy?’

  ‘One wagon of alfalfa mixed with fescue and feather grass, two sacks of peas, five sacks of grain, two sheep, and a crate of hens,’ Fardad said, counting the items off on his crooked fingers. ‘And dates and raisins.’

  There was chaos in the courtyard as the goods began to arrive. Fardad stood in the middle giving orders while boys dodged around the overturned buckets where we still balanced, sewing. They carried the sacks and bundles of hay into the storage rooms but let the chickens and sheep loose in the courtyard with the mares. Afterwards, when Fardad had gone to the kitchen for a drink of tea, I left the women servants still sewing, and went to survey the storeroom. How long would it be before the Middle Kingdom’s army was defeated, beaten back from the walls of our city? And for how many days could I feed all those hungry mares with the food that my mother’s silver had paid for? And how long would that remaining silver last when we also had to buy food for ourselves to cook and eat?

  It was impossible to know the answers; I sighed wearily and pressed my hand to my aching head. Sewing had given me a knot in my neck.

  I fetched a soft brush, made of boar bristles, and began to groom Swan. I wished that my father had come home before the enemy sealed off the city; that his booming laughter would fill the silence of the courtyard. I wished that my mother would rise from her bed and start striding around again. I even wished that my brothers were at home; I began to miss Jaison’s mischievous teasing and the practical jokes he played on me, and the solemn kindness of Petros.

  ‘But they’re not here,’ I said aloud, stroking Swan’s ears. ‘It’s just you and me, and we have to look after each other. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.’

  Then I said no more, because my throat was tight with fear, and because I had already failed her by letting her become trapped in this place that must have seemed so strange to her.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Kalli?’ called Lila’s voice, and she slipped into the storeroom beside me. ‘What have you done outside?’

  ‘It’s to shade the mares. Can you help with the sewing?’ I asked, and soon we were both balanced on buckets, needles and thread in hand, a thin coloured shade falling across our faces.

  ‘It will blow off on a windy day,’ I fretted.

  ‘It can be repaired. You had to do something. My mother says the Chinese sent a group to the gate today to propose a treaty, but the king rejected it. Our cavalry is riding out to attack at first light tomorrow.’

  ‘We should go down to the hippodrome and see them leave.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I’d be allowed to.’

  Lila’s parents were far stricter than mine; everything had to be done according to rules of social protocol. A young girl should be kept mainly at home, unless attended by senior servants or family relatives. Going down to the east gate to gawk at soldiers riding to war was probably not on the list of activities that Lila’s parents considered suitable for their unwed daughter. I, however, knew that Lila was much tougher than her delicate face and her antelope eyes made her appear.

  ‘Perhaps we could just go for a morning ride; the mares need some exercise,’ I suggested, and Lila’s winged brows swept upwards as she smiled.

  ‘Perhaps! I will come over early and –’

  A loud rapping at the closed front doors made us pause, turning our heads toward the sound. Fardad came from the kitchen, stroking the long fringe of his moustache, to peer out of the small flap in the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called, but my voice was lost in the rattle of bolts as Fardad swung both doors wide with great haste before backing away with his eyes lowered.

  My mouth gaped open. My knees turned to jelly and for an instant I wobbled on my bucket. Lila jumped nimbly down from hers and smoothed the folds of her gown, but I stood as though turned to a statuette. My voice lodged in my chest when I should have been uttering words of gracious greeting.

  The entourage entered, scattering mares, chickens, and sheep that bleated nervously, as though calling for their mothers although they themselves were matronly. The lone rooster, that had been amongst the crated hens, flew upwards, crowing and scrabbling at my roof of coloured cotton. Everyone ignored him.

  There followed a moment’s silence that seemed to stretch on endlessly, pulled taut as a piece of horsehair on a two-stringed guitar. And still my voice was lost, sinking deep into the depth of my being, into that dark pool of silence where I hid myself.

  ‘Arash?’ I whispered at last, a sound no bigger than the sigh a leaf makes when it lets go of a twig and falls through the air.

  High on his palomino horse, he surveyed the chaotic scene without a flicker of emotion in his angled dark eyes. Even a rectangle of blue cotton, casting a coloured shade over him, could not diminish his haughty, aristocratic appearance. His narrow face with its fine, high bones turned towards me and instantly my gaze flickered away.

  ‘Kallisto,’ he said formally, ‘is your honourable father at home?’

  I opened my mouth, closed it, and licked my lips. You look like a fool, warned a voice inside my head. Speak!

  ‘My f-father is away in the Levant, and m-my mother is wounded and in her bed,’ I stammered at last, my voice so low that Arash had to bend his long, supple back, clad in a tunic of red velvet, in an attempt to hear it.

  ‘She c-cannot see you,’ I said more loudly, staring at the ground, at my boot toe nudging a pile of horse droppings, at the smooth front hooves of Arash’s palomino, pale golden-white as seashells, and perfectly trimmed into curved crescents. I could not raise my head to look Arash in the face although my neck muscles seemed to strain in the effort.

  The rough bare feet of one of his slaves stepped forward; I saw a blackened nail, and the dust between each toe. I saw the slave’s bent back, and the moment when Arash stood on it to dismount from his horse. Then his boots, of leather so fine and supple that they seemed like living things, appeared in my line of vision as he came towar
ds me.

  ‘I am sorry to hear about your honourable mother,’ he said, and his voice was so smooth that the words seemed to drip from him, like honey falling in perfectly formed drops from the end of a knife. I understood why my father talked about how beautifully he could recite Persian poetry.

  ‘I shall send your mother a magus from the court later this evening,’ he continued. ‘Meanwhile, I have been given the honour of ensuring that the elite horses are indeed safe within the city. I am to carry a tally of them to the treasurer. The horses of our kingdom are its treasure, as even foreign rulers have made clear.’

  I watched the feet of a groom as he stepped forward to take the palomino’s reins. The slave stood upright again, and used one bare foot to shove aside a sheep that had come trotting past with a mild, inquisitive gaze.

  At last, my shoulder muscles burning as though I had been lifting sacks of grain instead of my own head, I raised my gaze higher and stared over Arash’s shoulder. The palomino was draped, from withers to croup, in a caparison of red velvet embroidered with gold thread in a pattern of roses, and perfectly matching Arash’s riding trousers. Its bridle was of red leather, gilt with silver and inlaid, in the centre of the brow band, with an emerald. The rings of the snaffle bit were silver gilt, and also shaped like roses. In our city, the social status of a person was revealed by the trappings of the horse, the spendidness of its felts and bridle. Anyone could see, at a glance, that Arash moved in aristocratic circles, but it was not this that was holding my attention. It was the mention of our elite horses that had snared my focus.

  ‘My mother is a free woman,’ I muttered, my voice finding strength. ‘All the horses here belong to her.’