King of the Wind (6 page)

Agba listened so intently for the Sultan’s answer that he wished the honeybees and flies would go about their business more quietly.

“Stallions!” the Sultan commanded, “to sire many sons of the desert.

“And no two,” he added, as he curled his lips into a split smile, “shall be the same color. One shall be chestnut, deep toned. And one shall be yellow dun, with tail and mane of silver. And one shall be dark gray, like the gray of the wood dove. And one shall be the whiteness of the flag that flies over
the mosque at the hour of prayer. And one shall be black as a starless night. And one . . .”

The blood pounded in Agba’s ears. Did not Mulai Ismael know that a bay horse was, of all horses, the most spirited?

The Sultan closed the thick folds of his eyelids. He leaned back, resting the weight of his turban against the blue tiles of the wall behind him. A hush came over the garden.

The fly-flicker leaped to his feet just in time to swerve a fly that was headed for the Sultan’s uncovered feet.

“And one,” the Sultan spoke at last, his voice high and far away, “and one shall be the color favored by the Prophet.”

Agba’s heart was hammering now. He thought of the white spot on Sham’s heel. Only Sham was fit for a king. Only Sham . . .

Now the Sultan sat bolt upright. The folds of his eyes rolled back. “The sixth horse shall be a bay—not a dark bay, but a clear bay—whose coat is touched with gold. When he flees under the sun he is the wind.”

This time Agba’s sigh was so deep that the sword-carrier and all the watch-keepers turned to look at him.

The Sultan, too, looked sharply, then went on. “Color,” he said, “is but one qualification. Only the most perfect horses in the kingdom shall be chosen. Signor Achmet, you will measure each horse in the royal stables for proportion. You will begin at the withers and count the number of palms to the tail. Then do you measure from the withers along the neck up over the poll and down the face to the upper lip. If the distance of the fore part is greater than the hind part, the horse
will travel like the wind, climb like the cat, and strike afar.”

Agba’s mind took wings. He and Sham were already in France. But the boy King was not mounting Sham. He was mounting the yellow dun, because no one but Agba could mount Sham. And together, Agba on Sham and the King on the yellow dun were riding tandem, cantering through the green forests.

Agba’s daydreams ended in a start. The Sultan was clapping his spongy hands together. They sounded like hoofs in the mud. At once a white-robed scribe came hurrying out from behind the wall at the back of the throne. He was a shriveled, thin-faced creature, and in his arm he carried an ink horn, a quill pen, a sheaf of paper, and a white satin purse.

The Sultan waved him to a small mattress on his left. Quickly the scribe settled himself, dipped his pen in the ink, and with its point poised in mid-air waited for the Sultan’s words.

“To the Most Noble, the Most Majestic King, Louis XV,” the Sultan began. “That you may enjoy the years of Methuselah is the wish of my heart.”

The scratching sound of the pen sent chills up and down Agba’s spine. He had never before watched a man write.

Mulai Ismael mouthed each word slowly, as if it gave off a pleasant taste. “The bearer of this letter,” he went on, “is chief groom in the service of His Majesty, Mulai Ismael, Sultan of Morocco. He is come with six Arabian stallions as a gift to Your Majesty. These Sons of the Desert are strong and fleet, and of purest Eastern blood. They are descended from mares that once belonged to Mohammed. From henceforward they
are yours, that you may use them to sire a better race of horses among you. They will strengthen and improve your breed.”

The Sultan narrowed his eyes at the half circle of horseboys. “Six horseboys,” he said, letting each word fall sharply, “will accompany the six stallions. And each boy will care for the horse in his charge as long as that horse shall live. Upon the death of the horse, the boy shall return at once to Morocco.”

Agba did not hear the rest of the letter at all. Drums were beating inside him. “
As long as that horse shall live. As long as that horse shall live
.”

The secretary finished the letter and read it aloud.

“It wants a word,” the Sultan said. “Insert
my
before
respects.
I charge you then to stamp it with the seal of Mulai Ismael.”

With great exactness the scribe inserted the word
my
in its proper place. Then he opened his white satin purse and spilled the contents—a piece of red wax, a seal, and a silken cord—on the mattress. A slaveboy appeared from nowhere, almost as if he had come out of the purse, too. He held a candle for the scribe to melt the wax. Agba watched as the man dropped a stain of red on the paper and stamped it with the seal. Then he held the seal to his forehead, kissed it, rolled the letter into a scroll, and tied it with the silken cord.

Old Mulai Ismael beamed with satisfaction. A present of six Arabian stallions would make Monsieur le duc, the King’s adviser, rub his hands with pleasure. Each horse could win big stakes on the racecourse for him.

The Sultan’s little eyes gleamed in anticipation of all the
favors he would receive in return: the hogsheads of claret, the coffee and tea and brocades, a royal carriage, no doubt! But most important, Monsieur le duc would close his eyes to the Sultan’s bloody rule.

The Sultan felt good. He nodded to the tea-maker, and with that nod the garden burst into activity. Slaveboys came running from every direction. Some began washing the Sultan’s hands, sprinkling his turban, his beard, his shoulders, his feet, with perfumed water. Others came bearing a low, round eating table covered over with a hood made of palm leaves.

The tea-maker lifted the hood and there, glittering in the spring sunshine, was a gold teapot, sending forth a little jet of steam. He dropped a packet of tea into the pot and added ginger and cloves and mint and thyme and as many loaves of sugar as he could hold in the cup of his hand. Then he stepped over to the sundial and watched the time pass.

The fragrance of steaming tea and spices filled the garden. The narrow slits of the Sultan’s nose widened. The horseboys sniffed audibly.

At a nod from the tea-maker a guard sampled the tea. He took a second swallow, then wiped his beard on his mantle. The tea had not been poisoned.

Mulai Ismael reached for a cup. “Give it me!” he demanded. He drank three cupfuls in quick succession, then sipped a fourth with great deliberation. At last, he ordered that everyone in the garden be served.

Agba looked at the beautiful amber color of the tea. He took a sip. He savored it slowly. It was good.

Over the gold rim of his cup, the Sultan’s eyes wandered over the horseboys and stopped at Agba.

“Come near unto me,” he commanded.

Agba’s teacup dropped to the tile and shattered.

“Come near unto me!” repeated the Sultan, his shrill voice climbing to the breaking point.

Slowly, clutching his chameleon to his breast, the boy walked past Signor Achmet, past the squatting scribe and the officers and guards until he stood so close to the Sultan that he could smell the Oriental perfume with which his garments were scented. The cloying sweetness made him feel sick.

“The King of France is just about the age of this boy; perhaps a trifle older,” the Sultan remarked. He fixed the boy with his eyes. “How old are you?” he asked of Agba.

A heavy silence was the answer.

“Speak up! How old are you?” he repeated, his voice rasping in anger.

Again a heavy silence.

The Sultan’s hand fingered the stiletto that hung from his belt. It tightened until the leathery knuckles whitened.

A cold perspiration came out all over Agba’s body. He opened his mouth, but no sound came. No sound whatever.

Suddenly a soft rustling noise behind him broke the terrible silence. It was made by the garments of Signor Achmet.

“Your Majesty,” he began, hesitatingly. “May I speak?”

“Speak out quickly,” the Sultan said, drawing his stiletto.

Signor Achmet’s voice was hushed. “The horseboy, Agba, has no power of speech.”

“What!”

“Aye, sire.”

Now even the horseboys gasped. They did not know that Agba was a mute. They remembered, now that they thought about it, that Agba talked with his fiery black eyes, his thin hands, his shoulders, his eyebrows, and with his silences.

The Signor nodded his head. “The boy is a mute.”

“Can he manage a horse?”

“Aye, Your Majesty.”

“Then I charge you to take him with you to the court of Versailles. A boy who cannot talk can spill no tales.” With a gesture of impatience he returned his stiletto to its sheath. Then he peered at the position of the sun and nodded a curt dismissal to Signor Achmet.

Agba stood still. He felt he had no strength to move. But the audience was ended. Signor Achmet struck him lightly on the shoulder. With the groom and the horseboys he bowed low before the Sultan and walked backward out of the garden.

As soon as they reached the outer gate, Agba freed the chameleon in his bosom. Then he listened for the footfalls of his little company. No longer did they go
plop, plop, plop, plop.
They were so light and springy they made no sound at all.

The other horseboys broke into excited chatter as they started toward the stables. But Agba was thinking only of Sham.

I
T WAS almost sundown before Agba had a moment to measure Sham. With fast-beating heart he ran his hand along the horse’s back until he came to the tail. Then he stopped. One! he counted in his mind. He placed his left hand ahead alongside his right. Two! He crossed his right hand over his left. Three! He brought his left hand around to his right. Four! Each time he spread out his fingers to make his hand as broad as Signor Achmet’s.

The count at the withers was fifteen. He leaned his head against Sham’s neck, afraid to go on.

What if the count from withers to muzzle would be less than fifteen hands or only equal to fifteen? A thousand horrible
thoughts flew into his mind. Sham left behind, Sham mistreated by another horseboy, a whip lashed across his body, spurs kicked into his ribs, the sand in his stall unchanged.

Sham nudged Agba’s shoulder, scratching his nose on the boy’s coarse mantle. Agba straightened. He could put off the moment no longer. Signor Achmet would soon be here. “I will get to your corridor at sundown,” he had told Agba. “In all the royal stables there are but four bay stallions touched with gold. Already I have measured three. One qualifies. His hind part measures fifteen hands, his fore part eighteen.”

Agba resumed his measuring. Fingers trembling, he placed his right hand on Sham’s withers. One! Left hand came alongside. Two! Right over left. Three! Left alongside right. Four!

Right, left. Five, six.

Twelve at the crest.

Fifteen at the ears.

Now over the poll and down the face. Right, left. Sixteen. Seventeen.

Right, left. Eighteen. Nineteen.

Nineteen at the upper lip!

At that moment Agba felt the knotted stick on his shoulder. He wheeled around and faced the Signor.

The Signor’s head was nodding up and down. “Aye,” he was saying. “This one is chosen. He measures one hand more than the best. His neck is made long to stretch out in running.”

The Signor turned and was gone. Agba quickly closed the door of the stall behind him. Wild with excitement, he kissed the white spot on Sham’s heel. He sprang up on Sham’s back,
and with his hands for a neck rein, he rode him around and around the stall until they both were dizzy.

The seven days before their departure flew. Agba made a nosebag out of his turban to accustom Sham to the way he would have to eat on the overland journey to Tangier. He exercised him, increasing the distance each day. He took him to the farrier’s and watched, troubled, as the big-muscled man took a knife and a hammer and fitted Sham’s hooves to the shoes. Both he and Sham were covered with sweat when the shoeing was finally done.

On the last night in the Sultan’s stables Agba hardly slept at all. He kept jumping down from his hammock and feeling inside the two great pockets which fitted over the cantle of his saddle. He wanted to make sure that nothing was missing: the leathern vessel for water, the fine new nosebag the Signor had given him, the rub-rag made of camel’s hair, the little earthen jug of rancid butter, called
budra,
with which to rub Sham’s legs, the fly crop made from the hairs of Sham’s tail.