One spring morning when Agba was watering the other horses in his charge, Signor Achmet tapped him on the shoulder. The Signor’s face was drawn, and beads of perspiration dotted his upper lip.
“Agba,” he said in a voice drained of all swagger, “Sultan Mulai Ismael commands me to appear before him this day, at the hour when the sun is in the center of the world. He commands six horseboys to accompany me.”
The Signor’s words quickened. “You, Agba, will be one of the six. When you have watered the horses you will have your head shaved. The barber already awaits you. Then do you cleanse your body thrice over, from head to toe. Make ready.”
Agba’s eyes widened in terror. Sultan Mulai Ismael had reigned for over fifty years, and it was common knowledge that during his reign no horseboy summoned to the royal presence had ever returned. The Sultan was a fierce and bloodthirsty ruler. He thought nothing of ordering a thousand heads cut off to test the edge of a new saber. He thought nothing of commanding his soldiers to wipe out a whole village to test the power of his muskets.
Although the morning was warm, a chill of fear shook Agba from head to foot. If he did not return, who would there be to take care of Sham? Yet there was nothing to do but obey. He led the horses back to their stalls and went to the barber’s courtyard behind the stables. The barber was already at work. Four of the boys were shaved clean, except for a small tuft of hair left growing from the very top of their heads. Agba’s eyes noted the bloody scratches on the shaven places. Once he had watched a shepherd shear some mountain goats. He seemed far gentler than the barber.
Suddenly it was Agba’s turn. The barber was sharpening his razor on a stone. Now he was skimming it over Agba’s head. It felt as if each hair were being pulled up by its root. The only comforting thought was the barber’s quickness. The ordeal would soon be over. Agba saw the other boys go to the well to draw water for their baths, and soon he was joining them.
Razor still in hand, the barber watched to see that the boys washed each finger and toe separately, and to make certain that they poured three vessels of water over themselves, each time washing their fingers and toes singly.
The sun was almost overhead when at last they stood ready, alike as six blades of grass. Red felt caps on each head. Long, coarse mantles with hoods. Bare, browned feet. And clutched in each bosom a chameleon for good luck.
In single file they joined Signor Achmet and marched down the long corridor between the stalls.
Plop, plop. Plop, plop. The soles of their feet made dull, thudding sounds on the earth. To Agba they echoed the noise of his heart. Plop, plop. Plop, plop. Brown legs moved forward, alongside a high outer wall, then up and up a steep ramp to the entrance of the Sultan’s sacred precincts.
Two rows of royal guards flanked the entrance. They stood so still they might have been a banding of sculptured figures. But Agba could feel their eyes upon him, stinging his flesh like sand particles driven by the wind. As the frightened company halted, six guards came to life. They opened wide the gate, made a sweeping bow to Signor Achmet, and waved him and his retinue inside.
It was a gallery they had entered, with gleaming white columns and arches fitted with glazed tiles bluer than the skies. Plop, plop. Plop, plop. The bare feet of the horseboys marched on, down the endless passageway where birds flew wildly as if seeking escape. On and on they went, through a second gate, through an inner court, through yet another gate. Agba shuddered as each gate closed behind him. It was like the sharp crackling sound that comes with lightning. But no rumble of thunder followed. Only a stillness. It weighed on Agba’s head, on his shoulders. It made breathing difficult.
Now, at a gate that was grander than the others, a fierce-looking guard barred their progress. He pointed in disdain at Signor Achmet’s head and his feet. Quickly the Signor threw back his hood and removed his slippers. The slaveboys had no slippers to take off, but they, too, dropped their hoods.
So, silently, the frightened company filed down the last gallery and came out upon the garden of Sultan Mulai Ismael, Emperor of all Morocco.
7. Six Steeds for a King
WILD AND discordant music met their ears. Bagpipes, lutes, and tom-toms fought for supremacy. Agba did not heed them. Nor did he notice when the music stopped altogether, and gave way to the tinkling notes made by fountains of water playing in marble basins.
All his senses were trained on a wide dais at the end of the garden. There, sitting cross-legged on an embroidered red carpet, was Sultan Mulai Ismael himself.
The Sultan held the boy transfixed. He wore a towering white turban and a dazzling white robe with a golden sash. But what struck Agba was that in spite of the fine mantle and a beard whiter than driven snow, the old man reminded him of a camel. His eyes were hidden by heavy folds of eyelids, like a camel’s, and his lips were thick and slit in two, and there was a big hump on his back. Even his feet were like those of a camel, spongy and broad and shapeless.
“Perhaps I am not going to be beheaded after all!” Agba thought. “The Sultan does not look like a man to be feared. He is nothing but a camel!”
Agba would not have been surprised in the least to see him rise up and swing along through the garden, stopping to feed on the leaves of the orange trees and the jasmine bushes.
Signor Achmet was kissing the Sultan’s shoulder now, and bowing to the ground. Meanwhile, a master of ceremonies placed each horseboy on one of the square tiles, like men on a chessboard. He arranged them behind the Signor, yet so placed that the Sultan could look full into the face of each boy.
Agba’s eyes swept the throne. Squatting on small mattresses to the right of the Sultan sat the royal fly-flicker, the sword-carrier, the slipper man, the tea-maker. To the left were officers, messengers, and watch-keepers.
“Signor Achmet!” The Sultan broke the silence.
Frightened as he was, Agba wanted to laugh out, for even the Sultan’s voice was high and shrill, like a camel that objects to being mounted.
“Signor Achmet!” he screaked. “I charge you, as head groom in the service of the Sultan of Morocco, to select six of the most perfect steeds in the royal stables. They will be a gift to His Majesty, Louis XV, the boy King of France.”
The Sultan paused to let his words sink in. A fly buzzed close to his nose, and the fly-flicker deftly waved it away with a silken handkerchief.
“With six of your best horseboys,” he went on, “you will accompany these steeds on their journey to the court of Versailles. And you will present them to the King in person.”
So soft a sigh escaped the horseboys that it was lost in the little wind that stroked the trees.
“Seven days from this day,” the Sultan was saying, “you will depart. At the exact moment, on the seventh day, when the sun strikes upon the tower of the mosque, you will come to the palace gate. It will be the hour of your going.”
The Sultan twitched his thick lips. “A galleon already awaits you at Tangier. I have had stalls builded into its hold, complete with mangers. I have ordered a store of corn and chopped barley to be laid in on the day of your arrival in Tangier. Am I, or am I not, great?”
Signor Achmet bowed low. The personal attendants, the officers and messengers, the six horseboys, bowed low.
Mulai Ismael rocked back on his haunches. He wriggled his great shapeless toes. It was plain to see that he was enamored of this idea that had come to him. For a long moment he sat thus. Then he leaned forward abruptly. “Do you, or do you not, have a question?”
“Sire,” asked the Signor, “shall the horses be mares or stallions?”
Agba listened so intently for the Sultan’s answer that he wished the honeybees and flies would go about their business more quietly.
“Stallions!” the Sultan commanded, “to sire many sons of the desert.
“And no two,” he added, as he curled his lips into a split smile, “shall be the same color. One shall be chestnut, deep toned. And one shall be yellow dun, with tail and mane of silver. And one
shall be dark gray, like the gray of the wood dove. And one shall be the whiteness of the flag that flies over the mosque at the hour of prayer. And one shall be black as a starless night. And one . . .”
The blood pounded in Agba’s ears. Did not Mulai Ismael know that a bay horse was, of all horses, the most spirited?
The Sultan closed the thick folds of his eyelids. He leaned back, resting the weight of his turban against the blue tiles of the wall behind him. A hush came over the garden.
The fly-flicker leaped to his feet just in time to swerve a fly that was headed for the Sultan’s uncovered feet.
“And one,” the Sultan spoke at last, his voice high and far away, “and one shall be the color favored by the Prophet.”
Agba’s heart was hammering now. He thought of the white spot on Sham’s heel. Only Sham was fit for a king. Only Sham . . .
Now the Sultan sat bolt upright. The folds of his eyes rolled back. “The sixth horse shall be a bay—not a dark bay, but a clear bay—whose coat is touched with gold. When he flees under the sun he is the wind.”
This time Agba’s sigh was so deep that the sword-carrier and all the watch-keepers turned to look at him.
The Sultan, too, looked sharply, then went on. “Color,” he said, “is but one qualification. Only the most perfect horses in the kingdom shall be chosen. Signor Achmet, you will measure each horse in the royal stables for proportion. You will begin at the withers and count the number of palms to the tail. Then do you measure from the withers along the neck up over the poll and down the face to the upper lip. If the distance of the fore part is greater than the hind part, the horse will travel like the wind, climb like the cat, and strike afar.”
Agba’s mind took wings. He and Sham were already in France. But the boy King was not mounting Sham. He was mounting the yellow dun, because no one but Agba could mount Sham. And together, Agba on Sham and the King on the yellow dun were riding tandem, cantering through the green forests.
Agba’s daydreams ended in a start. The Sultan was clapping his spongy hands together. They sounded like hoofs in the mud. At once a white-robed scribe came hurrying out from behind the wall at the back of the throne. He was a shriveled, thin-faced creature, and in his arm he carried an ink horn, a quill pen, a sheaf of paper, and a white satin purse.
The Sultan waved him to a small mattress on his left. Quickly the scribe settled himself, dipped his pen in the ink, and with its point poised in mid-air waited for the Sultan’s words.
“To the Most Noble, the Most Majestic King, Louis XV,” the Sultan began. “That you may enjoy the years of Methuselah is the wish of my heart.”
The scratching sound of the pen sent chills up and down Agba’s spine. He had never before watched a man write.
Mulai Ismael mouthed each word slowly, as if it gave off a pleasant taste. “The bearer of this letter,” he went on, “is chief groom in the service of His Majesty, Mulai Ismael, Sultan of Morocco. He is come with six Arabian stallions as a gift to Your Majesty. These Sons of the Desert are strong and fleet, and of purest Eastern blood. They are descended from mares that once belonged to Mohammed. From henceforward they are yours, that you may use them to sire a better race of horses among you. They will strengthen and improve your breed.”
The Sultan narrowed his eyes at the half circle of horseboys. “Six horseboys,” he said, letting each word fall sharply, “will accompany the six stallions. And each boy will care for the horse in his charge as long as that horse shall live. Upon the death of the horse, the boy shall return at once to Morocco.”
Agba did not hear the rest of the letter at all. Drums were beating inside him. “As long as that horse shall live. As long as that horse shall live.”
The secretary finished the letter and read it aloud.
“It wants a word,” the Sultan said. “Insert my before respects. I charge you then to stamp it with the seal of Mulai Ismael.”
With great exactness the scribe inserted the word my in its proper place. Then he opened his white satin purse and spilled the contents—a piece of red wax, a seal, and a silken cord—on the mattress. A slaveboy appeared from nowhere, almost as if he had come out of the purse, too. He held a candle for the scribe to melt the wax. Agba watched as the man dropped a stain of red on the paper and stamped it with the seal. Then he held the seal to his forehead, kissed it, rolled the letter into a scroll, and tied it with the silken cord.
Old Mulai Ismael beamed with satisfaction. A present of six Arabian stallions would make Monsieur le duc, the King’s adviser, rub his hands with pleasure. Each horse could win big stakes on the racecourse for him.
The Sultan’s little eyes gleamed in anticipation of all the favors he would receive in return: the hogsheads of claret, the coffee and tea and brocades, a royal carriage, no doubt! But most important, Monsieur le duc would close his eyes to the Sultan’s bloody rule.
The Sultan felt good. He nodded to the tea-maker, and with that nod the garden burst into activity. Slaveboys came running from every direction. Some began washing the Sultan’s hands, sprinkling his turban, his beard, his shoulders, his feet, with perfumed water. Others came bearing a low, round eating table covered over with a hood made of palm leaves.
The tea-maker lifted the hood and there, glittering in the spring sunshine, was a gold teapot, sending forth a little jet of steam. He dropped a packet of tea into the pot and added ginger and cloves and mint and thyme and as many loaves of sugar as he could hold in the cup of his hand. Then he stepped over to the sundial and watched the time pass.
The fragrance of steaming tea and spices filled the garden. The narrow slits of the Sultan’s nose widened. The horseboys sniffed audibly.
At a nod from the tea-maker a guard sampled the tea. He took a second swallow, then wiped his beard on his mantle. The tea had not been poisoned.
Mulai Ismael reached for a cup. “Give it me!” he demanded. He drank three cupfuls in quick succession, then sipped a fourth with great deliberation. At last, he ordered that everyone in the garden be served.
Agba looked at the beautiful amber color of the tea. He took a sip. He savored it slowly. It was good.
Over the gold rim of his cup, the Sultan’s eyes wandered over the horseboys and stopped at Agba.
“Come near unto me,” he commanded.
Agba’s teacup dropped to the tile and shattered.
“Come near unto me!” repeated the Sultan, his shrill voice climbing to the breaking point.
Slowly, clutching his chameleon to his breast, the boy walked past Signor Achmet, past the squatting scribe and the officers and guards until he stood so close to the Sultan that he could smell the Oriental perfume with which his garments were scented. The cloying sweetness made him feel sick.
“The King of France is just about the age of this boy; perhaps a trifle older,” the Sultan remarked. He fixed the boy with his eyes. “How old are you?” he asked of Agba.
A heavy silence was the answer.
“Speak up! How old are you?” he repeated, his voice rasping in anger.
Again a heavy silence.
The Sultan’s hand fingered the stiletto that hung from his belt. It tightened until the leathery knuckles whitened.
A cold perspiration came out all over Agba’s body. He opened his mouth, but no sound came. No sound whatever.
Suddenly a soft rustling noise behind him broke the terrible silence. It was made by the garments of Signor Achmet.
“Your Majesty,” he began, hesitatingly. “May I speak?”
“Speak out quickly,” the Sultan said, drawing his stiletto.
Signor Achmet’s voice was hushed. “The horseboy, Agba, has no power of speech.”
“What!”
“Aye, sire.”
Now even the horseboys gasped. They did not know that Agba was a mute. They remembered, now that they thought about it, that Agba talked with his fiery black eyes, his thin hands, his shoulders, his eyebrows, and with his silences.
The Signor nodded his
head. “The boy is a mute.”
“Can he manage a horse?”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
“Then I charge you to take him with you to the court of Versailles. A boy who cannot talk can spill no tales.” With a gesture of impatience he returned his stiletto to its sheath. Then he peered at the position of the sun and nodded a curt dismissal to Signor Achmet.
Agba stood still. He felt he had no strength to move. But the audience was ended. Signor Achmet struck him lightly on the shoulder. With the groom and the horseboys he bowed low before the Sultan and walked backward out of the garden.
As soon as they reached the outer gate, Agba freed the chameleon in his bosom. Then he listened for the footfalls of his little company. No longer did they go plop, plop, plop, plop. They were so light and springy they made no sound at all.
The other horseboys broke into excited chatter as they started toward the stables. But Agba was thinking only of Sham.
8. Agba Measures Sham
IT WAS almost sundown before Agba had a moment to measure Sham. With fast-beating heart he ran his hand along the horse’s back until he came to the tail. Then he stopped. One! he counted in his mind. He placed his left hand ahead alongside his right. Two! He crossed his right hand over his left. Three! He brought his left hand around to his right. Four! Each time he spread out his fingers to make his hand as broad as Signor Achmet’s.
The count at the withers was fifteen. He leaned his head against Sham’s neck, afraid to go on.
What if the count from withers to muzzle would be less than fifteen hands or only equal to fifteen? A thousand horrible thoughts flew into his mind. Sham left behind, Sham mistreated by another horseboy, a whip lashed across his body, spurs kicked into his ribs, the sand in his stall unchanged.
Sham nudged Agba’s shoulder, scratching his nose on the boy’s coarse mantle. Agba straightened. He could put off the moment no longer. Signor Achmet would soon be here. “I will get to your corridor at sundown,” he had told Agba. “In all the royal stables there are but four bay stallions touched with gold. Already I have measured three. One qualifies. His hind part measures fifteen hands, his fore part eighteen.”
King of the Wind Page 3
