To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion by Diane Lee Wilson Page A

slave who escaped long ago.
    â€œAnd, as this seems to be my evening for counseling asses,” the stable master continued, “I’ll tell you this. The palace runs thick with rumors—some true, most false—all stirred up to sweeten one’s position.” His fist found the hilt of his knife as his eyes narrowed. “It was never like this on the battlefield. There, wagging tongues were silenced. But here, the fact of the matter is that King Ashurbanipal has many sons, and only one will be king after him. A mother’s love for her own son can, shall we say, breed lies. Now,” Mousidnou said, smoothing his tunic over his protruding belly, “you can burn some of that misplaced anger of yours feeding and watering your horses. And no whimpering like some whipped puppy.” He jerked his head toward Ti. “He’s got it a lot tougher than you.”
    â€œI’m not complaining,” Soulai called out in the direction of Mousidnou’s retreating back. “And I’m not leaving. I’m sleeping here.”
    The lumbering man shrugged. “I’ll send my wife with something later,” he answered.
    The moment Mousidnou was out of sight, half a dozen stableboys left their tasks to flock around Soulai. Their questions sounded like the chatter of crows. On another day Soulai might have relished telling of the morning’s hunt, perhaps even exaggerating his bravery. But now, all Soulai could do was look past the boys to Ti, who lay miserable and unmoving, his massive haunches slack, his silken tail drooping. Only the tether’s length kept Ti’s head from resting full cheek in the manure. As it was, powdery dung cupped his muzzle. So Soulai said nothing. And one by one the stableboys fell silent and crept back to their duties.
    By the time Soulai had led the last horse from the water trough, the three brilliant stars of the summer triangle shone overhead, the great bird with the outstretched wings soaring through their midst. He reentered the stable, knotted the final tether, and, trembling with fatigue and a tremendous throbbing, lowered himself onto the aisle floor. A stab of pain made him dig his fingers into the crevice between the bricks and the wall. To his surprise, he found the familiar grittiness of clay. Scraping up a small amount with his index finger, he wadded it into a ball. Slowly he began coaxing a small horse from the lump, all the while staring at Ti’s silvery silhouette.
    â€œHow is it?” came an unfamiliar voice.
    Soulai started, for he hadn’t heard anyone approach. He looked up to find a pear-shaped woman with graying hair gathered at the nape of her neck standing beside him. She was holding a basket covered by a cloth.
    â€œYour leg, how is it?” she repeated. “Can you walk?”
    Soulai nodded, then looked back at Ti. The woman followed his gaze.
    â€œHe looks bad,” she said gently.
    â€œHe is bad,” Soulai whispered. “I think he’s leaving the light.”
    She folded her hands and waited in silence.
    Near to tears, Soulai found himself pouring out his thoughts. “He said Ti had value to him, but where is he now? He’s just left him here to die. He doesn’t see…” His voice cracked. “He only sees what he wants to see,” he finished.
    Refusing to cry, Soulai blinked hard and stared straight ahead. He wasn’t aware how much time had passed before it came to him that this woman must be Mousidnou’s wife and that she had already tiptoed away, leaving the basket of figs and flatbread at his side. The clay figurine remained unfinished in his lap. The hush of night fell over the palace and still he didn’t move. Only when the jackals gathered around Nineveh’s gates to yelp their eerie songs did a shiver run the length of his body.
    â€œPlease,” he whispered to the demons haunting the black air, “please don’t take him.”

7
    Cry and