“Then know that Daiaukka will expect you to
meet him on horseback, carrying only a spear and a short sword.
This is the way with all the tribes, the Cimmerian, the Scoloti,
even these dogs the Medes. It will not be understood if you decline
this way of fighting—everyone will believe you are a coward. I have
seen you on a horse and you are well enough for a man born inside
mud walls, but compared to a tribesman you are not much.”
“Thank you. You are my friend indeed to speak
so kindly of me.”
“Do not be insulted, for I say no more than
what you yourself know and all for your own good. Daiaukka is a
fine rider. As long as he has a horse between his knees he will
hold you to a disadvantage—remember that.”
I had drunk much by then, for I wished a
quiet heart, but I understood clearly enough that Tabiti spoke the
truth.
“The Medes hold horses in great
respect—remember that as well. Daiaukka will be at pains to do no
injury to your horse, for to cause its death would be a sacrilege
for which he would have to answer to his god. You, however, are
under no such prohibition.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Kill his horse. As soon as you can, kill his
horse. Make him fight you on the ground, where you will at least
stand an even chance. If you lose, would it comfort your ghost if I
killed this Daiaukka for you?”
“No.”
“I may kill him anyway, for my own comfort. I
have called you my brother, and the man who strips you of your life
has offended against me. Yes, I think I will kill him anyway, that
I be spared the reproaches of my conscience. But out of
consideration for your fine sense of propriety I will do it with
craft, after the custom of the Scoloti—I will invite him to dinner
and give him a slow poison that none may know he died at my
hand.”
“This you must not do, Tabiti my brother.
This is not an honorable end for such a man.”
“Then, if you have such concern for him, you
must kill him yourself, Lord Tiglath Ashur.” Tabiti smiled, the
cunning smile of a wily, dangerous animal. “I will go now—remember
what I said about killing his horse.”
Then he rose to depart, leaving the skin of
safid atesh with me.
I sat up the rest of that night, with only a
single oil lamp burning to frighten away ghosts. I drank only
enough to dull the edge of my fear and keep me from thinking. No
one else came near my tent that night—whether this was because
someone had issued orders or because men thought me unlucky and
avoided me on that account, I know not. In either case I was
content that it should be so, for I wanted no company.
At last, the morning came and Daiaukka with
it. He brought a force of his retainers, some three hundred armed
men, asking that they might be allowed to witness this duel between
us and satisfy themselves that, should he fall, their shah-ye-shah
had met with no treachery—he did not say so, since he could not
without discourtesy, but I think he also wanted to ensure that,
should he triumph over me, he would have some means of leaving my
camp alive. I did not object, since both were perfectly reasonable
precautions.
He also brought his son, Khshathrita. The boy
stood beside his father, for all his youth displaying the
unselfconscious carriage of a man as he continued to study my face
with his large, serious black eyes all the while Daiaukka and I
settled the final details.
It was agreed between us that we would fight
on the narrow plain beyond the earthworks of my encampment, and
that he would take his position at the north side and I at the
south side, so neither man would have the advantage of the sun at
his back. Daiaukka carried a lance, about five cubits long, and I
would have my javelin. Beyond this, we each allowed ourselves a
small round shield and a sword no more than a cubit in length, but
nothing more.
The horse Daiaukka rode was not the one I had
given him but the fine black stallion I had seen twice before, so I
can only assume that, for reasons best known to himself, he had not
ridden it the day of the battle. I was mounted upon Ghost, who
seemed to sense that this morning would see mortal combat and so
whinnied and dug at the ground with his hoofs as if consumed with
rage.
There might have been forty thousand men,
Medes, Scythians, and soldiers of Ashur, assembled there to view
the contest, but the only sound was the stirring of the wind over
our heads. No man spoke or laughed or even cleared his throat. I
could not help but think, it is as if I had already died.
I mounted my horse and rode to my starting
point—Daiaukka was already waiting across the field and raised his
lance in salute when I came to a halt and faced him. I raised my
javelin to signal that I was ready.
One of the Medes came into the center of the
field and displayed a white banner. He released it from his grasp,
letting it flutter to the earth—this was our signal to begin—and
then ran back to join his comrades. It was now solely a matter
between the shah-ye-shah and me.
For a moment neither of us moved—it was
almost possible to hope the thing would never happen—and then
Daiaukka urged his horse forward at a canter. I followed his
example, resigning myself to the gods. There could be no turning
back.
What would he do? How do men fight with
spears from the backs of horses? Certainly a throw, under such
circumstances, would have little chance of hitting its mark. I had
been trained to the useful arts of war, not to this. I would wait
upon events.
I did not have to wait long. Quickly Daiaukka
gathered speed as he bore down upon me. At the last, when we were
separated by perhaps no more than fifty paces, he lowered the point
of his spear and aimed it at my chest.
There was no time to dodge out of the way—I
had no defense but the shield on my left arm, and Daiaukka’s point
tore through the layers of its oxhide cover as if they were linen.
In a second, as Daiaukka thundered past me, my shield was tumbling
over the ground, rolling like a barrel hoop, and blood was
streaming from my shoulder, but by some miracle I had stayed on my
horse. I pulled myself up straight and turned to face him, the
laughter of the Medes ringing in my ears.
Daiaukka was in no hurry. He galloped well
past me and then slowed to a walk before he wheeled around. He was
calm, deliberate, perfectly well aware that he had drawn first
blood and now had the advantage. There was something almost of
contempt in the way he placed the palm of his hand on his thigh as
he watched me.
It made me angry—that was good, for I needed
anger.
The wound on my shoulder stung badly but
showed no signs of stiffening up. I decided it would not kill me
before Daiaukka did. I decided also that he would not be given the
chance.
This time it was my turn to charge. I
balanced my javelin and, when I was within range, threw, pulling
Ghost sharply to the right to avoid Daiaukka’s spear. It was a bad
throw and passed harmlessly over his shoulder to bury itself point
first in the dirt. I rode by and leaned over to pick it up.
But my adversary had no thought of permitting
me the chance to recover. Even as the javelin was in my hand I
could hear the pounding of hoofs behind me, and it was only by
throwing myself to the ground that I could retrieve my life. As
soon as he saw that he had missed me, Daiaukka pulled his horse to
a stop and reined it around—I had barely time to scramble onto
Ghost’s back and make good my retreat.
The Medes laughed again, louder this time,
and the silence of my own soldiers spoke of their shame in me.
I had torn my wound wider in my fall, and the
blood poured thickly over my dust-caked arm. There was no time to
bind it, for Daiaukka was already lining himself up, readying for
another charge. I felt a shock of pain when I tried to raise my
left hand above my shoulder, as if someone were grinding sand into
the raw flesh.
Ghost snorted loudly and reared up on his
hind legs—he, at least, was prepared to concede nothing.
I circled around, trying to put distance
between Daiaukka and me, and then, when I felt I would have room to
maneuver—let the clash come if it must—I let Ghost have his
head.
Once in range, I threw again, but my aim was
no truer and the javelin fell short. Perhaps it startled the black
stallion because Daiaukka also missed his mark, the point of his
lance swinging in too late to find me.
Yet it was not men who warred now, but
horses. The two great stallions collided almost shoulder to
shoulder and we all went down, men and horses both. I scrambled to
my feet, drawing my short sword, trying to see through the clouds
of dust to discover what had happened. At last I could see
Daiaukka, also with his sword drawn. The horses were between us and
they were rearing up and striking at each other with their hoofs,
seeming to make their masters’ fight their own. It was a wild
scene—for a moment we both simply watched, struck motionless by
awe.
It could not go on. I ran for my javelin and
managed to scoop it up before Daiaukka could catch me. When he saw
it in my hand he ran back behind the horses—his spear, it seemed,
was not for throwing and he would not put himself in my way.
I whistled for Ghost. He came, but not
willingly. There was blood on his chest where the black stallion’s
hoofs had cut him.
I had time now to remount, for Daiaukka had
not yet caught his horse, but I waited for a moment, thinking that
now it would be an easy thing to kill the great black stallion. A
horse is not a man and does not think to dodge out of the way—I had
only to raise my javelin and throw. . .
“Kill his horse,” Tabiti had said. “Make him
fight you on the ground, where at least you will stand an even
chance.”
It was good advice, except then what would I
fight with? I would have only my sword, and Daiaukka would have
both sword and spear. How was that better?
I scrambled onto Ghost’s back, wondering if I
was not making a mistake.
We faced each other again. I waited for
Daiaukka’s charge, wondering how I could hope to escape it this
time, but now he appeared to hesitate. Why? What was passing
through his mind? I could not begin to guess.
Then I understood—his horse, capering from
side to side in that impatient manner one sees in fine stallions,
seemed rusty in its movements. And its chest too was marked here
and there with crescents of blood, so Ghost, faring better than his
master, had at least kept his opponent to an even match.
Daiaukka, sensing his mount’s hurt and
perhaps its fear as well, hesitated, allowing the animal to
recapture its breath. And all the while his eyes never left the
point of my javelin.
He needn’t have worried—I was not throwing at
all well. I had not yet acquired the knack of it from horseback,
but at least I seemed to be improving. Yet if I found my mark
within the next two or three attempts, it would only be through
pure chance, and that seemed a weak hook upon which to hang one’s
life. This charge or the next, surely Daiaukka would kill me.
Yet what choice had I? To come down to the
ground was to abandon myself to a single throw. My javelin had
found the hearts of many horsemen, but always in battle, where many
darts may be aimed at a single target. Daiaukka had no opponent
save me, so his eyes were on my point alone. He could dodge and
weave and parry, and finally tempt me into making the fatal cast.
And when that was done, and I had no weapon except my short sword,
he would ride me down, trampling me into the dust to kill me at his
perfect convenience. No, I did not dare abandon my horse.
He was ready now—I could see it in the set of
his shoulders, in the way his hand slid up the shaft of his spear.
He would make his charge and I had no choice but to meet it, trying
yet once more to catch him on the run.
I let Ghost have his head—he was far more
eager than I—and tried to settle into the rhythm of his gallop,
that blur of sound, that jolt as his hoofs struck the earth,
seemingly altogether. I had to try to time my throw to the instants
between, while we seemed to fly together through the empty air.
Daiaukka stormed over the plain, like a blind
force of nature that would not be turned aside. His lance was
already turning in toward me as the javelin shot from my hand—it
was a good throw; dropping down on him like a bird of prey. He
saw—he knew. He raised his shield and the javelin caught it on the
edge, tearing at it with the bronze point.
But the throw was not good enough, and my
dart bounced away to skitter over the ground like a snake.
And I had waited too long. I could not evade
Daiaukka’s lance—it caught me in the side, and I could feel it
ripping me open, burning its way through. I twisted away, and the
shaft broke off. I fell to the ground, the impact a sickening
shudder, a huge tear in my belly and the point still buried under
my ribs.
“He has killed me,” I thought. For a moment I
could not get to my feet—my legs would not work. I could feel the
blood oozing out between my fingers as I tried to hold myself
together. “I am a dead man, even if he leaves the field without a
backward look.”
Somehow I made it to my knees. Then one foot,
then another. I would not die like a slave—where was my
javelin?
Twenty paces to my left. It might as well
have been in another country. How could I take half so many steps
before I bled to death, or Daiaukka trampled me down like a frog in
the road?
Daiaukka wheeled around and stopped. For a
moment he merely watched, perhaps waiting for me to collapse and
die on my own. He had triumphed—he knew it and I knew it. I would
die and he would live. I could not see his face at that distance,
but I knew what was in his heart.
And Ghost—what of Ghost? He cantered about
for a moment, seeming not to know what to do now. He snorted
loudly. I called, but he paid no heed. Even my horse knew I was a
dead man.