David Gemmell - Dark Prince

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 new-born 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 towards the mare. Larina, though exhausted, also rose, and after several unsuccessful attempts the new-born 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 thick-set 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 which infested the horses. While grazing, a horse would eat the worm larvae in the grass. These 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 deaths, 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 camp-fires 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.Heseeks 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.'