Etruscan Blood by AM Kirkby
***
Strangely, it was Standfast - as he'd named the other horse - that spooked at the blanket, while Flighty simply twitched a fur-fringed ear a couple of times and snorted at his owner wetly. But they were soon happy to work on the reins with the folded blanket tied to their backs; within a few weeks they were ready to ride.
Then, of course, all hell broke loose; neighing, screaming, bucking, kicking, twisting round, showing their yellow teeth and flaring their blood red nostrils. He tried Standfast first, and was thrown off in seconds; then he realised he'd made a mistake, letting the other horse see what had happened, as Flighty reared as soon as he felt the boy's hand on his withers, and he found himself vaulting into air that was empty except for the flying dirt. Having managed to make a complete circuit of the yard hanging across Standfast's back, arms and one leg on one side and the other leg scrabbling on the other, he felt quite proud of himself until, having finally and clumsily slid off, he realised the lad was leaning against the wall watching him, one side of his mouth twisted up in amusement.
But when Flighty decided to make a dash for the gate to the fields, Rasce moved quickly enough to catch him; and back he came, whispering in the horse's ear and stroking its neck until it was reassured.
“I wouldn't work 'em together just yet.” He reached up to pull on the horse's ear; it snorted gently, but stood still. “But you're doing fine.” That was the first time he'd ever said a word of approval.
“How long till they get used to being ridden?”
“With me? A day. You'll be doing well to get them both working for you in a week.”
The boy groaned. Another week of riding and falling, scrambling to stay on a plunging horse; another week of holding his temper back, reassuring frightened horses although, in truth, he was more frightened of falling than they were of being ridden. Another week of bruises; another week of that dreadful feeling of being cut loose from his own weight as he fell, another week of that awful timelessness in which his heart lurched out of sync with his body and in which he seemed to have for ever to anticipate the jarring impact that would lay another set of black marks on his flesh. (He wondered, when he got up, if dying was like that, a single moment of dread that lasted forever.) The week stretched ahead interminable, dispiriting.
In the event it took him three days. And even then, he knew, there'd be the hard work of making them recognise his commands, the hard squeezing of his muscled thighs or the quick jab of a heel in the ribs. They'd need to be hardened to war - not to be afraid of shouts and screams, of fallen or riderless horses, not to fear the smell of blood or the sound of clashing swords. The harder he worked, the more work there seemed to be done; and even then, he'd not trained them to the chariot. Perhaps, if he made his way as a fighting man, and got his own command - if he survived his first few engagements, and gods knew, even in this more civilised Etruria where human sacrifices were outmoded, and politics a more usual way of solving disagreements than battle, that was never certain - perhaps, then, he might get enough wealth to afford a chariot, and a trained team, better horses than these.
The third day, Standfast was biddable; he stood still to be mounted, walked and trotted as he was asked, quickened and slowed, turned tightly. The boy felt, for once, proud of himself; he'd beaten Rasce's timetable by two days, and though Standfast looked no handsomer than when he'd first seen him, he knew the horse's discipline wouldn't disgrace him. Rasce had told him, once the horses were schooled, he should start riding out in the country, to build their stamina, and the thought of a gallop outside the city held strong appeal in these long days of summer, when the heat lay thick over the house and the dust disturbed by the horses' hooves had a way of getting in his throat.
He walked Standfast a little to cool him, and took him back to the stable. Rasce was leaning on the handle of a fork. From the drops of water still shining silver, not quite yet soaked into the dust, he could see Rasce had just filled the trough the horses shared. It was odd how you hardly ever saw Rasce working; he'd always just finished whatever he was doing, or was about to start, but he was never at work.
He tied Standfast to the rail, and looked over towards Flighty. But he remembered he'd been working a long time with his first horse; and that was after a long arms drill. Time would be getting on. Hoping he still had time, but knowing at the same time that he was deceiving himself, he looked back outside. The sun was nearly overhead; at midday, as always, he had his lesson with the general.
“I've not got much time, have I?”
“You'll want to work that one.” Rasce never used the names he'd given the horses, though he never said why.
“I've not got the time.”
“You work him. I'll cool him down for you after.”
“Would you?”
“Said I would.”
He could never remember if he'd said thanks to Rasce; his heart sang as he took his second horse out from the dim stable into the brutal glare of the yard. He could smell the heat; the air burned his nose as he breathed it. Turning the horse's head towards the sun (Rasce had told him about that trick, to stop it spooking at the shadow of its rider), he vaulted on to its back. He was tired; he nearly didn't get his leg high enough, but had to scramble a little to make it. He bit his lip; better wake up. The sun was burning his head, and he blinked a couple of times to clear his vision, then squeezed the horse's flanks gently to urge it forwards.
Walking a sunward circle. The horse's energy was tightly held under him; he could feel its power and discipline through the reins, a connection they'd forged together over these difficult days. Next walking counter-sunwise, turning tightly into the new path; giving the appearance of ease, despite his tiredness. The horse was fresh, ready to trot or rear, but he held it back, pacing it. Looking down, he saw his hands were turning red, raw with the sun.
Lifting his head again, he loosened the reins a little, and clicked his tongue to encourage Flighty into a trot. That was easy, but the horse wanted to go faster, and he tightened up the reins a little, feeling the horse pull against him and shake its head a couple of times before it settled again. Four circuits, and then he asked the horse to make the turn, and go sunward again. Flighty's ears went back; and suddenly the horse was sticking its head down, and kicking out, and since he was already sitting aslant, the horse's shoulders already turned into the corner, he had no way of stopping himself falling forwards, hitting the ground awkwardly and rolling over one shoulder.
At least he'd had the presence of mind not to let go of the reins; and Flighty, having made his feelings clear, was now standing placidly, his head down, relaxed. But the fall had winded him; he sat there a while, trying to get his breath back, and flexing his shoulders gingerly to see whether he'd broken a collarbone. Rasce had warned him this was the commonest injury; most riders suffered it once or twice in their careers. But although the shoulder he'd landed on ached, he couldn't feel any grating of bone, or any sharper pain.
“Boy!”
He would have jumped upright then if he could have, hearing the imperious voice; but as it was he had to put a palm on the ground in front of him and push himself up, turning painfully as he rose to see the general standing, looking down at him.
“You're late.”
The sun was, indeed, beginning to decline; it was past mid-day. He'd lost track of the time while he'd been walking Flighty. He couldn't think what to say; the general never accepted apologies, and no explanation could excuse him.
To his surprise, the general reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“You're not hurt?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. You'll do all right, I think.”
“Sir?”
“I have a mission for you.”
This was exciting. A raid? A skirmish? A message to be taken? The boy stood a little straighter, the adrenalin taking the edge off the pain he still felt from his fall.
“I have a dinner organised for this evening. You're to come. I'll nee
That was strange, but the boy's mind raced; was he needed to spy on the guests, perhaps? Or to be there as a guard for the general?
“I've invited a certain Ramtha. You'll look after her. She likes boys. Amuse, entertain, give her as much wine as she wants. And anything else.”
He wasn't sure what response the general wanted. Nothing came to mind. He stood, looking stupid and knowing it. So this was the mission, to let the general pimp him out to some middle-aged matron, part of his favour bank. His eyes smarted, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache.
“Any questions, boy?”
He hadn't.
“Better scrub up then. You look as if your horse dragged you across the yard.” The general stopped, looked him up and down. “Come to think of it, it did, didn't it?” He laughed briefly, squeezed the boy's shoulder with his hand.
“You'll do. You know I had a bet with Rasce you'd have them trained properly in four days. Reckon I'll win.”
With that, the general turned, and strode away, leaving the boy feeling the ache in his bruised shoulder where that powerful hand had clamped down.