Dark Prince (7 page)

“Be careful, master,” whispered the Thessalian. Mothac grunted and swore at the man, who chuckled and shook his head.

“Yes! It’s coming. I can feel the feet.”

“Front or back?” asked Croni nervously. A breech birth, both men knew, would probably see the foal born dead.

“I can’t tell. But it’s moving. Wait! I can feel the head. By Zeus, it’s big.” Easing his hand back, Mothac stood and stretched. For the last two years his spine had been steadily stiffening, his shoulders becoming arthritic and painful. “Fetch some grease, Croni. I fear the foal is tearing her apart.”

The Thessalian ran back to the main house, reappearing minutes later with a tub of animal fat, mostly used for the painting of hooves, to prevent sand cracks and splitting. Mothac took the tub and smelt it.

“This is no good,” he grunted. “It’s almost rancid. Get some olive oil—and be quick about it!”

“Yes, master.”

He returned with a large jug in which Mothac dipped his hands, smearing the oil inside the mare, around the head and hooves of the foal. The mare strained once more, and the fetal sac moved closer.

“That’s it, Larina, my pet,” said Mothac. “A little more now.”

The two men waited beside the mare for some time before the sac appeared, pale and semitranslucent. The foal’s front legs could just be seen within the membrane.

“Shall I help her, master?” Croni asked.

“Not yet. Give her time; she’s an old hand at this by now.”

The mare grunted, and the sac moved farther into view—then stopped. Bright blood spouted over the membrane, dripping to the hay. The mare was sweating freely now and was in some distress as Mothac moved to the rear and gently took hold of the foal’s front legs, easing them toward him. At any time now the membranes would burst, and it was vital the foal’s head be clear; otherwise it would suffocate. Mothac pulled gently while the Thessalian moved to the mare’s head, talking to her, his voice low, coaxing and soft.

With a convulsive surge the sac came clear, dropping to the hay. Mothac peeled away the membranes from around the foal’s mouth and nostrils, wiping the body with fresh hay. The newborn was a jet-black male, the image of its sire down to the white starburst on its brow. It lifted its head and shivered violently.

“Aya!” exulted Croni. “You have a son, Larina! A horse for a king! And such a size! Never have I seen a bigger foal.”

Within minutes the foal tried to stand, and Mothac helped it to its feet, guiding it toward the mare. Larina, though exhausted, also rose, and after several unsuccessful attempts the newborn found the teat and began to feed.

Mothac patted the mare and walked out into the sunshine, washing his hands and arms in a bucket of water. The sun was high, and he picked up his felt hat, covering the sensitive skin of his bald head.

He was tired, but he felt at peace with the world. Foaling always brought this feeling—the beauty of birth, the onward movement of life.

Croni moved alongside him. “There is great loss of blood, master. The mare may die.”

Mothac looked down at the little man, noting his concern. “Stay with her. If she is still bleeding in two hours, come and find me. I shall be in the western pasture.”

“Yes, master,” answered Croni. The Thessalian gazed up at the hills. “Look, master, the lord is home once more.”

Glancing up, Mothac saw the rider. He was still too far away to be recognized by the old Theban, but the horse was Parmenion’s
second mount, a spirited bay gelding with a white face.

Mothac sighed and shook his head. You should have gone home first, Parmenion, he thought sadly.

“Another victory for the Lion of Macedon,” said Mothac, pouring Parmenion a goblet of wine.

“Yes,” answered the general, stretching his lean frame out on the couch. “How goes it here?”

“With the horses? Twenty-six foals. The last is a beauty. Larina’s, the son of the Thracian stallion. Pure black he is, Parmenion, and what a size! Would you like to see him?”

“Not now, my friend. I am tired.”

The thickset Theban sat opposite his friend, filling his own goblet and sipping the contents. “Why did you not go home?”

“I shall. I wanted first to see how the farm fared.”

“I have to clear enough horse dung all day,” snapped Mothac. “Don’t bring it into my house.”

Parmenion loosened the thongs of his riding boots, pulling them clear. “So tetchy, my friend! Maybe it is for the joy of your company. What difference does it make, Mothac? These are my estates, and I go where I will. I am tired. Do you object, then, to my staying the night?”

“You know that I do not. But you have a wife and family waiting for you—and beds far more comfortable than any that I can offer.”

“Comfort, I find, is more to do with the spirit than the softness of beds,” said the Spartan. “I am comfortable here. You are getting more irritable these days, Mothac. What is wrong with you?”

“Age, my boy,” answered the Theban, controlling his temper. “But if you don’t want to talk to me, I won’t press you. I will see you this evening.”

Mothac found his anger growing as he walked from the house and up the long hill to the western pasture. For more than thirty years he had served Parmenion as both servant and friend, but these last five years had seen the Spartan become more distant, more secretive. He had warned him
against marrying Phaedra. At seventeen the child was too young even for the ever-youthful Spartan, and there was something about her … a coldness that radiated from her eyes. Mothac remembered, with an affection born of hindsight, Parmenion’s Theban lover—the former whore, Thetis. Now there was a woman! Strong, confident, loving! But, like his own beloved Elea, she was dead.

He paused at the brow of the hill, watching the workers clear the dung from the first pasture. It was not a task his Thessalians enjoyed, but it helped control the worms that infested the horses. While grazing, a horse would eat the worm larvae in the grass. They would breed in the stomach and develop into egg-laying worms, the new eggs being passed in the droppings. After a while all pastures would be contaminated, causing stunted growth or even death among the young foals. Mothac had learned this two years before from a Persian horse trader and ever since had ordered his men to clear the pastures daily.

At first the Thessalians had been hard to convince. Superb horsemen, they did not take well to such menial tasks. But when the worm infestations were seen to fade and the foals grew stronger, the tribesmen had taken to the work with a vengeance. Strangely, it also helped to make Mothac more popular among them. They had found it hard to work for a man who rarely rode and, when he did, displayed none of the talents for horsemanship so prized among their people. But Mothac’s skills lay in training and rearing, healing wounds and curing diseases. For these talents the riders grew to respect him, viewing even his irascible nature with fondness.

Mothac wandered on to the training field where young horses learned to follow the subtle signals of a rider, cutting left and right, darting into the charge, swerving and coming to a dead halt to allow the rider to release an arrow.

This was work the horsemen loved. In the evenings they would sit around communal campfires discussing the merits of each horse, arguing long into the night.

The training was being concluded when Mothac approached the field. The youngster, Orsin, was taking a two-year-old
black mare over the jumps. Mothac leaned on a fence post and watched. Orsin had rare talent, even among Thessalians, and he sailed the mare over each jump, turning her smoothly to face the next. Seeing Mothac, he waved and vaulted from the mare’s back.

“Ola
, master!” he called. “You wish to ride?”

“Not today, boy. How are they faring?”

The youngster ran to the fence and clambered over it. On the ground the boy was ungainly to the point of clumsiness. “There will be six of the stallions to geld, master. They are too high-spirited.”

“Give their names to Croni. When will the new pasture be ready?”

“Tomorrow. Croni says the lord is home. How did the stallion behave in battle?”

“I have not had time to ask him. But I will. There is a Persian trader due in the next few days. He seeks five stallions—the best we have. He is due to come to me at the house, but I don’t doubt he will ride out to check the horses before announcing himself. Watch out for him. I do not want him to see the new Thracian stock, so take them to the high fields.”

“Yes, master. But what of Titan? There is a horse even I would be glad to see the back of.”

“He stays,” said Mothac. “The lord Parmenion likes him.”

“He is evil, that one. He will see his rider dead, I think.”

“The lord Parmenion has a way with horses.”

“Aya! I would like to see him ride Titan. He will fall very hard.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Mothac, “but on the day you would be wise to consider placing a different bet. Now finish your grooming—and remember what I said about the Persian.”

Parmenion was mildly drunk and at ease for the first time in months. The wide doors of the
andron
were open to the north winds, and a gentle breeze filtered through the hangings, leaving the room pleasantly cool. It was not a large room, with only three couches, and the walls were bare of ornament or paintings. Mothac liked to live simply and never entertained,
yet there was a warmth about his home that Parmenion missed when away from the estate.

“Are you happy?” asked the Spartan suddenly.

“Are you talking to me or yourself?” Mothac countered.

“By the gods, you are sharp tonight. I was talking to you.”

“Happy enough. This is life, Parmenion. I watch things grow, the barley and the grain, the horses and the cattle. It makes me part of the land. Yes, I am content.”

Parmenion nodded, his expression grave. “That must be a good feeling.” He grinned and sat up. “Do you still miss Persia and the palace?”

“No. This is my home.” The Theban leaned forward, gripping the Spartan’s shoulder. “We have been friends for a lifetime, Parmenion. Can you not tell me what is troubling you?”

Parmenion’s hand came up to grip Mothac’s arm. “It is because we are friends that I do not. Five years ago I had a cancer in my brain. That was healed. But now there is a different kind of cancer in my heart—no, not a real one, my friend,” he said swiftly, seeing the concern in the old Theban’s eyes. “But I dare not talk of it—even to you—for it would put a heavy burden on you. Trust me in this, Mothac. You are my dearest friend, and I would die for you. But do not ask me to share my … my sorrow.”

Mothac said nothing for a moment, then he refilled their goblets. “Then let us get drunk and talk nonsense,” he said, forcing a smile.

“That would be good. What duties have you set yourself for tomorrow?”

“I have two lame horses I will be taking to the lake. Swimming helps strengthen their muscles. After that I shall be horse trading with a Persian named Parzalamis.”

“I will see you by the lake at noon,” said the Spartan.

The two men walked out into the night, and Mothac saw a lantern burning in the foaling stable. Cursing softly, he walked across to the building, Parmenion following. Inside Croni, Orsin, and three other Thessalians were sitting around the body of the mare Larina. The pure black foal was lying beside its dead mother.

“Why did you not call me?” thundered Mothac. Croni stood and bowed low.

“The bleeding stopped, master. She only collapsed a short while ago.”

“We must get the foal another milk mare.”

“Terias has gone to fetch one, master,” Orsin told him.

“Mothac moved past the dark-haired boy and knelt by the mare, laying his huge hand on her neck. “You were a fine dam, Larina. The best,” he said.

Croni sidled forward. “It is the curse of Titan,” he said. “He is a demon beast, and the son will be the same.”

“Nonsense!” said Parmenion, his voice harsh. “Have Titan in the riding circle tomorrow. I shall tame him.”

“Yes, lord,” answered Croni miserably. “It will be as you say.”

Turning on his heel Parmenion strode from the stable. Mothac caught up with him, grabbing his arm. “You should not have said that,” he whispered. “The Thessalians know their horseflesh. The beast is insane—and so are you if you attempt to ride him.”

“I have said what I will do,” Parmenion muttered. “I have not seen a horse I cannot ride.”

“I hope you can say that tomorrow,” grunted Mothac.

The great house was silent as Parmenion rode through the cypress grove toward the main doors. Not a light showed at any window, yet as he reached the front of the house, his manservant, Peris, ran forward to take the gelding’s reins.

Parmenion leapt to the ground. “Well met, Peris. Does nothing escape your attention?” he asked, smiling.

The servant bowed. “I saw you this afternoon, lord, on the hilltop. I have been waiting for you. There is cold meat and cheese in the
andron
, and some pomegranates. Eissa made cakes this afternoon. I will have some brought to you if you desire it.”

“Thank you. How is the arm?”

Peris lifted the leather-covered stump at the end of his right arm. “It is healing well, lord. There is little pain now, but what
there is seems to come from the fingers—as if they are still there. But as you said, I am becoming more skillful with my left.”

Parmenion patted the man’s shoulder. “I missed you at the Crocus Field. I felt almost unsafe.”

Peris nodded, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “I would like to have been there, lord.” Then he smiled and glanced down at his swelling belly. “But even had I the use of both hands, I fear no horse would carry me.”

“Too many of Eissa’s honey cakes,” said the general. “It was good of you to wait up for me.”

“It was less than nothing, lord,” replied Peris, bowing, his plump face reddening.

Parmenion walked on into the house. In the
andron
at the rear two lanterns were burning, casting a soft glow over the room. It was large, boasting twenty couches and thirty chairs, and L-shaped. When Parmenion entertained guests the full room was used, but now the lanterns glowed only in the alcove by the large doorway to the west-facing gardens. The general moved out onto the patio, breathing in the scent of the honeysuckle growing by the wall. The house was peaceful, and only at times like this did he enjoy being there. The thought was depressing.