as he passed.
âMay God be with you, Princeâmy money is.â
The Hippodrome was built on the edge of the same bulging rock that lodged the whole Palace, but the hillside there being insufficient to support the whole length of the circus, the southwestern end had been built up with a huge curving wall of brick. Inside this wall were the stables for the racehorses, as well as, in another section, the Imperial menagerie.
From the doorway off the track a ramp led down into the dark cavernous smelly barns. Only a few lanterns lit the place, because of the threat of fire, and by each one stood a boy whose sole duty was to tend the flame and keep it where it belonged. The air, heated by a hundred bodies, was sharp with ammonia and sweet from the cooked grains of wet mashes. The horses were eating now, and from every stall came the steady champ-champ of their jaws, their snorting and sighing, the clunk of hoofs on the wooden walls, and the whispering swish of their tails.
Michael went through the first of the five corridors, into the broad open area where all five met, and where the equipment rooms were, and there turned into the third corridor, where his horses were kept. The four animals he would drive today were eating the small measures of grain they were given on race mornings. They stood in their adjoining stalls, their heads deep in their feed buckets, and Michael could hear the sweep of their tongues on the wood, licking up the last grains of oats. He leaned over the door of Follyâs stall and the big bay gelding darted its head at him, its teeth snapping an inch from his hand. The horseâs sides already gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat.
âHe knows,â said the horseâs groom, Esad, who came by Michael with a bucket of water. Setting the bucket down, he unlatched the stall door and swung it open, murmuring in a soft voice to his charge.
Michael went on; Folly was less liable to strike out when Esad was alone with him.
The next horse was the mare, Rayda, a Persian-bred, as mild as milk. Even she was excited today, and rubbed her head against Michaelâs arm. Her eyes glowed. He pulled on her long forelock, which her groom kept braided.
Beyond her in the next stall the black horse Demon was banging on the wooden wall and nickering; when Michael put out his hand to him, the black horse whirled around in his stall, half rearing. His mane rippled like a sea wave.
âHappy, old boy? This is your day, isnât it?â Michael patted the thick black neck.
In the last stall, the fourth horse of his team stood hipshot, his head drooping, asleep. Nothing ever excited the Caliph. Michael looked in to be sure the big grey gelding had eaten all his grain and backed away to leave the horse to his own ways of making ready for the race.
Down the row of stalls, Demon reared up, braying a war cry that rang away down the corridor, and drew a rush of stablemen. Michael walked off. The grooms could manage these petty excitements better without him. He still had to inspect his harness and his car, which superstitiously he did with his own hands before every race.
The cars were housed in a room at the front of the stable, in the wide, dirt-floored area where the corridors met, which the racing people all called the Apron. The stablemaster, having heard that he was come, waited at the door to open it for him, and while he struggled with the lock, Michael glanced around him, casual as a falling leaf, toward the Apronâs far side.
Over there, in front of the second corridor, they were already drawing their car up and down the aisle. Four men pulled on the traces, while a fifth went along on hands and knees, packing grease around the axle turnings. Off to one side stood a man who stared frankly across the wide room at Michael.
When the Princeâs gaze fell on him, this man smiled, a broad toothy grin, and waved at him.
Michael glared coldly back at his rival. Mauros-Ishmael acted sometimes
âMay God be with you, Princeâmy money is.â
The Hippodrome was built on the edge of the same bulging rock that lodged the whole Palace, but the hillside there being insufficient to support the whole length of the circus, the southwestern end had been built up with a huge curving wall of brick. Inside this wall were the stables for the racehorses, as well as, in another section, the Imperial menagerie.
From the doorway off the track a ramp led down into the dark cavernous smelly barns. Only a few lanterns lit the place, because of the threat of fire, and by each one stood a boy whose sole duty was to tend the flame and keep it where it belonged. The air, heated by a hundred bodies, was sharp with ammonia and sweet from the cooked grains of wet mashes. The horses were eating now, and from every stall came the steady champ-champ of their jaws, their snorting and sighing, the clunk of hoofs on the wooden walls, and the whispering swish of their tails.
Michael went through the first of the five corridors, into the broad open area where all five met, and where the equipment rooms were, and there turned into the third corridor, where his horses were kept. The four animals he would drive today were eating the small measures of grain they were given on race mornings. They stood in their adjoining stalls, their heads deep in their feed buckets, and Michael could hear the sweep of their tongues on the wood, licking up the last grains of oats. He leaned over the door of Follyâs stall and the big bay gelding darted its head at him, its teeth snapping an inch from his hand. The horseâs sides already gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat.
âHe knows,â said the horseâs groom, Esad, who came by Michael with a bucket of water. Setting the bucket down, he unlatched the stall door and swung it open, murmuring in a soft voice to his charge.
Michael went on; Folly was less liable to strike out when Esad was alone with him.
The next horse was the mare, Rayda, a Persian-bred, as mild as milk. Even she was excited today, and rubbed her head against Michaelâs arm. Her eyes glowed. He pulled on her long forelock, which her groom kept braided.
Beyond her in the next stall the black horse Demon was banging on the wooden wall and nickering; when Michael put out his hand to him, the black horse whirled around in his stall, half rearing. His mane rippled like a sea wave.
âHappy, old boy? This is your day, isnât it?â Michael patted the thick black neck.
In the last stall, the fourth horse of his team stood hipshot, his head drooping, asleep. Nothing ever excited the Caliph. Michael looked in to be sure the big grey gelding had eaten all his grain and backed away to leave the horse to his own ways of making ready for the race.
Down the row of stalls, Demon reared up, braying a war cry that rang away down the corridor, and drew a rush of stablemen. Michael walked off. The grooms could manage these petty excitements better without him. He still had to inspect his harness and his car, which superstitiously he did with his own hands before every race.
The cars were housed in a room at the front of the stable, in the wide, dirt-floored area where the corridors met, which the racing people all called the Apron. The stablemaster, having heard that he was come, waited at the door to open it for him, and while he struggled with the lock, Michael glanced around him, casual as a falling leaf, toward the Apronâs far side.
Over there, in front of the second corridor, they were already drawing their car up and down the aisle. Four men pulled on the traces, while a fifth went along on hands and knees, packing grease around the axle turnings. Off to one side stood a man who stared frankly across the wide room at Michael.
When the Princeâs gaze fell on him, this man smiled, a broad toothy grin, and waved at him.
Michael glared coldly back at his rival. Mauros-Ishmael acted sometimes
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