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

slapped his chest. “This old body wants to see a few more days.” He shrugged. “Many suns have set; the bones of Esarhaddon, and Sennacherib before him, and Sargon the Second before him, are dust. And King Ashurbanipal’s library bursts with 268,492 tablets—now being patiently copied by my assistants. These tablets will outlive us all. So how does a man measure his worth?”
    â€œBy his scars, according to my father,” Soulai grumbled.
    Naboushoumidin cocked his head. “That is the view of a blind man. Was your city captured as well?”
    â€œNo. He…sold me.”
    â€œAh.” The scribe paused and asked gently, “Some misfortune…?”
    Soulai described the fire and the debt owed Jahdunlim. The scribe listened intently, then asked, “And your name?”
    â€œSoulai.”
    â€œWell, Soulai, what is your position here that you wear the face of an old man?”
    â€œStableboy. I take care of ten horses.”
    â€œAnd you do not like these horses?”
    â€œOh, no! I do! I love everything about them: the way their breath smells like honey after they’ve had their grain, and the way their forelocks fall in fringes across their eyes—I used to put that into my sculptures. And then there’s this one stallion—” Soulai cut himself short, blushing.
    â€œHmmm. You speak as an artist. Perhaps you are misplaced.” Naboushoumidin looked thoughtful. “So it’s not the horses. Must be Habasle then.”
    Soulai’s head jerked up. “How did you know?”
    The scribe chuckled. “‘Fierce heart against fierce heart,’ ” he quoted. “ The Epic of Gilgamesh ?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Soulai’s blank expression showed no recognition. “No matter. There are, perhaps, more persons in this palace who dislike Habasle than I have tablets in my library. But I do not find him so intolerable—his dogs, maybe”—he wrinkled his nose in the direction of the mastiff—“but Habasle—he’s just another prince in a long line of princes.” The man snaked his hand through the air in the manner of endless waves upon the ocean.
    Soulai frowned. “Habasle says he’ll be king.”
    His statement was met with a snort. “If I could fasten a harness around the might that Habasle puts into his dreaming,” the scribe said, “I could pull the moon from the night sky. He is much like the king in the story, no?”
    Again Soulai wore a blank face.
    â€œAagh! So much lacking in your education. Come over here. Sit a moment in the shade of this tree.”
    â€œBut Mousidnou will—”
    â€œWork can always wait, for there is always more work. I am chief scribe to King Ashurbanipal; I will speak on your behalf. Let’s see now…” Lifting a foot precariously high in the air, he cautiously placed it on the mastiff’s haunches. The huge animal looked around and, with noticeable disdain, sat. Naboushoumidin settled himself on the low wall surrounding the tree and, resting his sandaled feet lightly atop the mastiff’s back, allowed himself a small grin of triumph.
    Soulai, respectful of the man’s years, sat cross-legged on the tiles, though a wary distance from the dog.
    â€œNow listen to my words,” Naboushoumidin began. “Long ago, in a land not far from here, there lived a young king who wanted more than anything to throw a rope around the great horse of stars in the night sky that he might have it for his own. So he called in his advisers and demanded that they come up with a way for him to reach the sky.
    â€œâ€˜You could build a giant ladder,’ said one.
    â€œâ€˜In all of my land there isn’t enough wood for that,’ argued the king.
    â€œâ€˜You could climb our highest tower and shoot arrows at it,’ said another.
    â€œâ€˜I want to capture the horse, not kill it,’