Ivan Yefremov - Thais of Athens

Infantry detachments were formed from the best soldiers, who did not wish to part with the treasures they had gathered. They sent their possessions ahead to Tyre, using hundreds of carriages captured from the Persians, and were soon to follow in the same direction.

Alexander managed to beat Ptolemy with his usual speed, and was already in Tyre.

Thais told Ptolemy that she didn’t want to use a carriage. The tooth-shattering bumping of these vehicles along the rocky mountain roads would ruin the entire trip. The Macedonian agreed and ordered to bring Salmaakh, to have the mare examined by the connoisseurs before the long journey. Leontiscus showed up too, being the best horse expert in the entire army. Flax seed was added to Salmaakh’s feed for several days, including the time on the ship, in order to purge her digestive system. Her dark ash hide, brushed out by a Paphlagonian stableman, glistened like dark silk.

Leontiscus ran his fingernails along Salmaakh’s back, pressing hard. The horse shivered and stretched. The Thessalian hopped onto her back and sent her galloping across the valley. The even beat of her hooves made the connoisseurs nod approvingly, but the chief of Thessalian cavalry was displeased when he returned.

“Shaky trot. Look. Her front hooves are rounder than her rear ones, but not any bigger. Her pasterns are too arched. She’ll wear off her hooves on the rocky roads of Syria.”

Thais ran up to the mare and hugged her around the neck, ready to defend her favorite. “It’s not true. She is beautiful. You yourself admired her at the feast. Look how she stands. Her legs are perfectly in line.”

“Her legs are a bit long. It would be better if they were shorter.”

“But look how broad her chest is.”

“Yes, but her rear is too narrow. Also, look. Her groin is long and stretched out to an entire palm and two fingers. You might be light, but if we do twenty parsangs, she will run out of breath.”

“I will run out of breath before she does. Or do you think I am anywhere near you?”

The Thessalian burst out laughing. A vertical wrinkle at the bridge of his nose smoothed out, his frowning eyebrows rose, and the Athenian saw a young man in this stern warrior, almost a boy. Contrary to Spartans, who considered a man mature only from the age of thirty, Macedonians began their military service from the age of fourteen or fifteen. They became seasoned veterans by the time they were twenty-five. The chief of the Thessalian cavalry must have been just such a young veteran, like many of Alexander’s captains.

“Forgive me. You are attached to your horse, as a true rider should be. And Salmaakh is not at all a bad horse. Still, if you are to go to Asia with us, you ought to get another horse, and keep Salmaakh for dancing.”

“Where am I supposed to get another horse?” Thais asked, offended for her mare. “And one better than my beautiful girl?”

She patted Salmaakh’s curving neck as the latter threw a mean sideways glance at Leontiscus, as if she understood she was being criticized.

Leontiscus exchanged glances with Ptolemy, and the Macedonian waved at someone.

“Hey, bring a horse for mistress Thais.”

The hetaera didn’t get a chance to say anything before she heard clear, distinctive hoofbeats. A boy burst out of the stables atop a chestnut stallion, and barely managed to stop the spirited horse by leaning back and pulling hard on the reins.

The steed’s hide was a coppery chestnut without a single spot, shiny and shimmering. His long, neatly trimmed mane and full, tight at the base tail, were black as his eyes, which made the animal that much more beautiful. The Athenian has never seen a horse of that color.

Thais immediately noticed the longer torso with its curving flanks, and legs that were shorter than Salmaakh’s. His front hooves were larger than the rear ones. Long flat shoulder blades, long withers, broad croup, all these advantages were obvious. Even to a layman. The steed’s raised head and proudly carried tail gave the stallion a particularly majestic posture. The horse’s face seemed serious, almost mean, because of the fluttering nostrils.

But as soon as one looked into the animal’s large, kind eyes, any concern vanished. Thais walked boldly up to the steed, took the reins from the boy, and patted the animal’s neck. The chestnut stallion neighed briefly and quietly.

“He recognizes you!” Ptolemy exclaimed. “Very well, take ownership. I have long since been looking for an Enetian horse for you with qualities that distinguish one out of a hundred thoroughbreds.”

“What is his name?”

“Boanergos, Child of Thunder. He is six years old and has been well-trained. Have a seat and try him out.”

Thais tossed off the battle cape she used to protect herself against the wind, patted the chestnut stallion once more, then hopped onto his back. The steed seemed to have expected that and immediately launched into a broad trot, steadily increasing his pace.

It was odd. After Salmaakh’s trot, this horse made Thais feel as if she almost weren’t bouncing at all. The horse rocked from side to side, hitting with two hooves at the same time. Curious, the Athenian leaned over and noticed that the horse moved both legs on the same side simultaneously, front left with hind left, front right with hind right. He was a pacer, a kind of horse Thais has never ridden before.

Delighted by the pacer’s gait, Thais turned around to send a smile to the great horse connoisseurs, which caused her to accidentally squeeze her knees a little. The sensitive steed dashed forward so quickly that the Athenian arched backward and had to use one hand to lean against the horse’s croup. Her breast seemed to form one line with the pacer’s outstretched neck and the strands of his long mane. The wave of her loosely tied black hair streamed in the wind above the fanned out tail of the chestnut steed. This was the image of Thais that Leontiscus would remember forever.

As if wanting to show what he was capable of doing, the chestnut pacer flew forward faster than the wind, carrying his torso evenly and rocking from side to side. The hoofbeats increased in pace, but the breadth of his gait did not grow shorter. Thais felt as if earth itself rushed under the horse’s hooves. The sensitive dancer’s ear could not find a single error in the precise rhythm, akin to the tempo of the maenadae’s dance during the celebration of Dionysus: two strikes to one drip of a fast clepsydra, used for keeping time in dancing.

The chestnut pacer reached far with his front legs, as if trying to cover more space. Thais, filled with tenderness, patted his neck, then started gently slowing him down. Boanergos recognized the skill and strength of his rider and obeyed her without delay. When the pacer slowed to a walk, she found it less comfortable and let the pacer go back to full speed when returning to the camp. She flew up to the group of connoisseurs and stopped the horse just as they were getting ready to jump out of the way.

“How do you like Boanergos?” Ptolemy asked.

“Very much.”

“Now do you understand what a proper horse for distant trips is like? He’ll trot for thirty parsangs. Although,” he said, scratching his head, “the Syrians do have a saying that a mare is better than a stallion, for she is akin to a snake since she gets stronger in hot weather. Yours, however, just doesn’t have the right build.”

“Yes. Look at the breadth of his throat, and how proudly he carries his tail. He is filled to the brim with life force,” one of the connoisseurs said. “A horse like that cannot be found for an entire talant, because he is a rarity.”

“Thais is a rarity, too,” Leontiscus said. “By the way, did anyone notice …”

“I did,” a young lokhagos said, stepping forward. “The mistress and the horse are the same color. Only the eyes are different.”