Seize the Day, page 31
If there was any way of getting near these people, he ruminated, it had to be through the horses they worshipped. So he watched the herd, searching for some secret there. But he couldn’t find any enlightenment in the peaceful sight of the herd grazing. To his untrained eye, the animals looked more alike than different. Dumb animals! Just a step up from a cow! Not that he was all that familiar with cows either. His father’s place had been a lettuce farm with just a few chickens.
A bird rose among the herd and a few horses shied from its loud calls. Marcus’ eyes focused on the commotion and recognized White Lightning, Zsiga’s favorite horse. Instantly the blood rushed to his head . . . for his wife’s younger brother irritated him the most. That young man gave the Romans not an ounce of respect or recognition. Zsiga considered himself, as all Magori did, to be a kin-relative of the horse and looked down on the Romans as foot folks, pedestrian by nature and inclination. Moreover they crowded into cities like a pack of rats, like chickens scratching a living from the soil. Zsiga made no mystery of his aversion to all things Roman. How dared he? Marcus fumed, how dared these people look down on him?! Paradoxically, even though he was of common birth, he felt the slight to Rome all the more. To him the Empire was the greatest entity, a power just below the gods. But then he remembered his predicament and reminded himself that though he was unquestionably Roman, he was also an escaped galley slave, worthy of crucifixion by all the laws of that same Empire. No, for better or worse, this little clan had given him a good hiding place . . . a refuge even.
A group of horses came trotting around a clump of bushes and the lead horse, finding Marcus unexpectedly in his path, pulled up short, nostrils flaring with suspicion. Marcus again recognized the horse, one of Boyan’s older war horses, put out to pasture with three older mares and a couple of yearlings. The horses mixed uncertainly, trying to read him. The man smelled both odd yet familiar and the old stallion could not make up his mind.
Marcus whistled through his teeth like a Magori and the lead horse turned toward him, intrigued. Marcus did not move but whistled softly, inviting him. The horse edged closer, drawing the small herd along with him. Just three strides short the horse stopped, extended its neck and snuffed toward the man who was not making the proper body gestures expected of him. But he smelled right . . . mostly right. In the end, the part that trusted the familiar won over the part that distrusted the strange, and the horse came close enough for his breath to brush Marcus’s face. The man did not move. The horse felt compelled to investigate, the muzzle actually softly touching Marcus. Finally deciding, the horse accepted him as one of them and stepped off to graze on unconcerned. The rest, however, remained wary of him.
What did Gitta tell him about the origins of Magoris? All were born on horses or were part horse themselves. What rubbish! Certain was that they prized horses above all. Perhaps then a horse could lead him to understand the Magoris?
The insight emboldened him and he stood up, whistling the summons with more authority. This time the stallion came readily and behind him the rest. The horse nudged him with his forehead and allowed Marcus to pat him on the neck. It was an old horse that had learned to trust men. A surge of confidence flashed through Marcus. Perhaps he could do it after all and penetrate these mysteries. For the first time it seemed possible. Under his touch he felt the live skin shudder as it accepted the contact. The horse’s ears went back then fore, and Marcus had the sense that the horse was trying to understand him. “Good so,” he found himself talking softly, “you and I can be friends. You teach me about horses and I’ll teach you about men.” But then he thought the horse knew all about men already from the Magoris and corrected himself. “About elephants then. I bet you know very little about elephants.” He had to chuckle. Not too long ago he, too, had known next to nothing about elephants.
A young colt stung by a wasp suddenly jumped into the air. The disturbance startled the rest into nervous motion and the herd began moving off. The stallion wheeled and rounded up the group, gathering them in. If the herd was to move, it would move where he led them. An older mare nipped the offending colt to remind him of proper protocol.
With the stallion in the lead, the horses moved off briskly, scattering clumps of sod behind them. The vibration of their leaving pounded through the earth right into Marcus’ bones. He found himself breathing rapidly and his temple throbbed with excitement. For a very brief instant he experienced a sense of kinship with these horses and for the moment all things to do with them seemed possible.
Several days later, Marcus woke with thoughts of horses on his mind. It was not yet daylight, but he heard the herd stirring. Nearer he heard the elephants snuffing and snorting quietly as they stood on guard.
Quietly, so as not to disturb Gitta, Marcus rose and slipped outside. The elephants greeted him enthusiastically, blowing hot breath into his face. He walked, and they followed him over to the horse pasture where he stood and studied the herd in the half light. He could not find Thunderbolt in their midst.
A horseman drifted by, looking curiously at him and his elephants. Crenah snorted, and the horse skipped ahead, startled, but the rider had anticipated it; after all he was part of the horse, the thinking part. Yes, Marcus sighed a little heavily, he had a great deal yet to learn.
The sun rose, its light glowing on the drifting mist. He spotted Thunderbolt. The horse had been watching him all along, Marcus was sure of that. Their eyes met briefly, but the horse turned and pointedly trotted off. For a while Marcus watched a colt trying to get milk from its mother, but every time the colt would reach her, the mother turned away.
A dog came from the tents sniffing at the elephants. Tantor snorted, and the dog started barking at her. Crenah plucked a tuft of grass and chucked it at the annoying creature. The dog easily avoided the clod of dirt, but then sidled off, tail tucked between legs.
Marcus led the animals to the creek to drink and afterward attacked their hides with the brush, careful to give equal attention to each. The elephant sighed in great contentment at this ministration. Marcus was soon sweating from the effort, but kept at it, investing all his frustrations in the effort. Let Septimus enjoy his honeymoon, he thought; at least he was getting something out of it.
It was late morning when he returned to the horse herd and approached it carefully. The animals let him only so close before they moved off. All except Thunderbolt, who stood there, belligerently, his hooves pawing the soft dirt. Marcus approached. Thunderbolt reared, then charged him, veering off just short of a collision. He snorted in derision and shook his head, splattering Marcus with flecks of foam.
Marcus followed after him, but Thunderbolt allowed him just so near before moving off. Four more times Marcus closed, driving the horse off. The next time, Marcus stopped just short of that critical distance and started circling the horse. Warily the animal watched, turning with him. Patiently Marcus circled, then the other way and Thunderbolt followed his every move.
Patiently or stubbornly, Marcus kept at this, wearing a path into the grass. Thunderbolt for a time turned with him, keeping his head on the irritating man. Little by little, Marcus moved a little closer, a half step at a time, spiralling in slowly, imperceptibly closer. Eventually Thunderbolt moved off to escape this irritation. Doggedly Marcus followed, repeating the whole process, drawing ever nearer.
By late afternoon, the critical distance had been reduced by half, and Thunderbolt no longer even looked at him, but only raised his head occasionally from grazing to look briefly in his direction, then lowered his head, disinterested. Marcus had become a horsefly, an ever-present nuisance. It grew dark before Marcus stopped his circling.
Marcus was tired from all the walking, and as soon as he lay down, he was asleep. He did not see Gitta lie down on the other side. Still next morning he was up again before first light, studying the herd. When the day warmed he took care of the elephants then returned to the horses again. He started the circling and the herd moved off, sensing that this was between the man and Thunderbolt. The stallion again watched him warily, not letting him get quite as close as the night before, but the distance soon shrank again as the animal grew bored with this pointless game. Step by half step the distance diminished. At one point the horse and the man stood but two hands from each other, both surprised into the realisation of just how close they were. Marcus carefully kept his eyes away, and even turned his back to the horse, just looking to see if Thunderbolt’s ears were laid back in what he had been told was a danger sign. The ears flicked back and forth, but then when nothing else happened, they relaxed. When Thunderbolt lowered his head for a bite of grass, Marcus again moved slowly around, the horse barely regarding him. Marcus circled and circled, at times close enough to reach out to touch the animal’s sides. But Marcus did not hurry. He had learned a lot from his elephants about patience. With animals, trust came with good experience over time. But first a familiarity had to be established. Marcus had worn circles in the grass wherever Thunderbolt had stopped. It seemed that the first prerequisite had been achieved. The horsefly had become somewhat accepted.
The next day was the same. He was at times within easy reach of the horse. Thunderbolt would turn his neck to look back at him and sneer with bared teeth at the man. The back hooves would then dance, to remind the nuisance of their danger.
Midmorning, Marcus changed tactics a little. He would walk behind the horse and sit down on the ground in the animal’s blind spot. The horse would be startled into realising that the man was no longer visible and would look around to find him. Once located, the horse quickly lost interest, and Marcus circled to hide again. Time and time again this scene repeated itself, neither side tiring of the game. Their first meeting had been so traumatic for both that now neither could ignore the other entirely.
By the end of the day it was the horse that was looking for the man. Marcus hid, concealing himself among other horses, lying low in the grass, crouching among the bushes, and as soon as Thunderbolt noticed his absence, he would not rest until he found him. Once Marcus climbed a tree to hide in the foliage, but Thunderbolt tracked him down, whinnying his success.
After two days the horse learned that it became easier if he followed the man, step for step, never losing sight of him. They made a curious pair around camp; wherever Marcus went the horse trailed after. When Marcus ran, the horse ran; when he meandered the horse meandered along with him. In the evening Thunderbolt stayed by the yurt a good while, making sure Marcus was really down for the night.
Next morning Marcus tried something different. Instead of moving about he stayed still, just sitting with his back to the horse, chewing on some grain, waiting. Thunderbolt approached twice, stretched his neck to smell him then withdrew again. The next time the horse neared, Marcus reached his palm out, offering some grain. The horse snuffed at the handful but did not take it. Not until evening when delicately, the horse ate from the man’s hand. Marcus rejoiced at this success, but schooled himself to patience; he had better not push his luck, seeing that he had had so little of it as to land him here among these barbarians.
The next day early he was among the horses, mixing freely with them. Without hesitation, Thunderbolt followed him. By midday Marcus had touched the horse twice, and though each time the skin shuddered at the contact, the horse did not shy away. Marcus fed him grain, and Thunderbolt learned about a pocket where this grain was to be found. More times he sniffed toward the pocket but did not touch it until night. It seemed that the man and horse had grown so attached that when night came Thunderbolt would have likely entered into the yurt itself had not Marcus shooed him off.
The next morning Marcus did not rise early, but lolled around luxuriating in the softness of the bedding. Gitta had to stick her head in and call to him. “Marcus, you come out now. The elephants and your horse won’t leave me alone!” Marcus rose hastily, not even putting on his tunic, but went out half-naked to find Crenah and Tantor, now joined by Thunderbolt.
The stallion was tossing his head vigorously up and down in greeting. Well, who would have believed that? Certainly not Marcus and none of the bystanders who had come to watch this strange event. After all, a horse was not a dog that it should behave as one. But this Roman who could not ride, and knew even less about horses, had tamed a beast that had never been ridden before.
Marcus patted Crenah on her head, scratching her lips, speaking to her. “Good girl. If my wife had your loyalty then I would be a happy man indeed.” He walked to Tantor and repeated the greeting, “If my wife had your patience and meekness, I would be doubly blessed.” He walked over to the stallion, held out his hand with grain in it, and as the animal licked it up, he talked soothingly to the horse, “You are the passions of these people. Teach me their ways that I might make my wife happy and myself acceptable to her family.” Thunderbolt nudged him for more grain, and laughing he gave the animal all he had. For the first time the horse and the man looked eye to eye, and this time neither shied away. To Marcus’ astonishment there were flecks of gold in the horse’s eyes.
Marcus looked at the crowd that had collected, catching admiring glances aimed at him. They heard him talk to the animals, but had not understood. He quickly scanned the faces but did not find the ones who could. Gitta or Zsiga.
Later, Septimus joined him, watching as Marcus rubbed down the horse with a handful of grass. Thunderbolt stood there quietly as if they had always done this.
“Well done, brother-in-law. You’re showing them Roman resourcefulness and tenacity.”
Marcus frowned at his friend. “It’s only patience mixed with a little consistency.”
“Not just, my friend. You have a way with animals. Safarkan said so often enough.”
“But not with women apparently,” Marcus concluded moodily.
“Your time will come there too, my friend. Is Gitta worth less patience than a horse?”
Only Zsiga sounded deflating. “All well and good, but it’s still a long way from riding a horse.” And he galloped off full tilt to bend down to pluck a flower from the ground and throw it into the Roman’s face in a challenge. As Gitta’s brother, they were related to him, and he did not like it. But in this small clan everyone was related in some way.
“It’s only perseverance,” Marcus muttered to himself. With an elephant brush he curried Thunderbolt until his coat glistened. Marcus draped himself over his back to get the animal used to a rider’s weight. Once or twice Thunderbolt’s ears flicked nervously but the horse stood still for it. Zsiga was right; he had a long way to go to learn to ride half as masterfully as they.
That night in the big tent Septimus got involved in some discussion with the headman. He had mentioned Pax Romana, Roman Peace, as a great contribution to civilisation.
“Sure!” Boyan said through Zsiga, “You Romans conquer a land, make a wasteland of its fields, despoil its pastures and turn its towns and villages into cemeteries. You call that peace? Sure, the dead will not argue with you!” He spoke with growing vehemence, and Marcus flinched. Couldn’t these people ever speak normally? They were so easily excitable.
“But what about trade, commerce and citizenship?”
“What about it?” The whip snapped on the backstroke. “You strip the land and fleece the people. Others call that robbery, while you call it taxation for the common good. But who does it profit really? Somebody in Rome, already too rich and bloated with the spoils of other nations.”
“Well then civilisation, religion and learning?” Septimus tried to find a hole in the other’s torrent of accusations.
“Borrowed or stolen from others, like everything else Roman. Why, even your gods are Greek in Roman clothing!”
There was no way of winning an argument here.
“Maybe Rome is all of that,” Marcus said quietly, “But it holds the known world together, builds its roads and towns, bridges, baths and libraries. When all else is gone they’ll still be there.”
“Yes, husband,” Gitta spoke for the first time that evening, “Rome has made its mark in history and that can never be taken away.”
Zsiga jumped to his feet. “And I shall make my mark here tonight!” he yelled. “Bring on the music!” The stringed instrument called a komar suddenly cried into the night and shivers chased up and down Marcus’ back. Zsiga grabbed his wife, round little Zoka, and the two of them danced in wild abandonment.
Marcus drank from the horn cup Gitta passed him, marvelling how he had gotten used to the taste. Not too bad; with a little dill it would taste almost acceptable. The next thing he knew, he was being dragged into the dance, with Gitta twirling in front of him and around and around him. Awkwardly he followed her movements. It took him the rest of the night to realise that she was training him, just as he had Thunderbolt, to follow her slavishly wherever she went. Well she was his wife, and someday he would make love to her, as he would ride Thunderbolt; until then he was willing enough to be led.
Chapter 12
The pleasant days of autumn continued, but there was a hint of cold in the mornings. Marcus rose early and spent the days with his animals. He hardly saw Gitta, as she did not chase after him. They had not even spoken to each other for days. They met at mealtimes when she played a dutiful wife and he a dutiful husband for the benefit of the others. No one was fooled, but according to usage and custom, it was nobody’s business what went on between a husband and wife. Often people had no choice whom they married and there had to be a time of adjustment. Let the couple work it out for themselves.
Septimus, who was spending a little more time away from his tent, noted the driven quality of his friend, and was concerned enough to remark, “If you were to spend only half as much time with your wife as with your animals . . .” All he got was a withering look and a brush thrown at him. The two scrubbed the elephants. Davo came by, grabbed a brush, and she and Septimus made a play of it. The three of them groomed the beasts and afterward the horses. Thunderbolt came instantly to a whistle to get his rubdown and grain. By now the horse allowed Marcus to do anything, even to climb onto his back. But Marcus did not push it, doing a little more each day. He watched the riders around him and was confident that one day . . . well that one day was not going to be far off.
