A racehorse came pounding by, ridden by a little Nubian boy in a striped tunic. Word had gone round that this year the King was only in the market for a battle-charger; but he had paid the sum, already a legend, of thirteen talents for the racer that had won for him at Olympia; and the dealer had thought it worth a try. Philip smiled and shook his head; the Nubian boy, who had hoped to be bought with the horse, to wear gold earrings and eat meat on feast-days, cantered back, his face a landscape of grief.
The chargers were led up, in precedence fiercely fought over by the dealers all the forenoon, and settled in the end by substantial bribes. The King came down to peer into mouths and at upturned hooves, to feel shanks and listen to chests. The horses were led away, or kept by in case nothing better turned up. There was a lag. Phili looked impatiently about. The big Thessalian dealer, Philonikos who had been fuming for some time, said to his runner, “Tell then I’ll have their guts for picket ropes, if they don’t bring the beas now.”
“Kittos says, sir, they can bring him, but…”
“I had to break the brute myself, must I show him too? Tell Kittos from me, if I miss this sale, they won’t have hide enough left between them for a pair of sandal soles.” With a sincere, respectful smile, he approached the King. “Sir, he’s on his way You’ll see he’s all I wrote you from Larissa, and more. Forgive the delay; they’ve just now told me, some fool let him slip his tether In prime fettle as he is, he was hard to catch. Ah! Here he comes now.”
They led up, at a careful walk, a black with a white blaze. The other horses had been ridden, to show their paces. Though he was certainly in a sweat, he did not breathe like a horse that had been running. When they pulled him up before the King and his horse trainer, his nostrils flared and his black eye rolled sidelong; he tried to rear his head, but the groom dragged it down. His bridle was costly, red leather trimmed with silver; but he had no saddlecloth The dealer’s lips moved viciously in his beard.
A hushed voice beside the dais said, “Look, Ptolemy. Look at that.”
“There, sir!” said Philonikos, forcing rapture into his voice “There’s Thunder. If there ever stepped a mount fit for a King”
He was indeed, at all points, the ideal horse of Xenophon. Starting, as he advises, with the feet, one saw that the horns of the hooves were deep before and behind; when he stamped, as he was doing now (just missing the groom’s foot) they made a ringing sound like a cymbal. His leg-bones were strong but flexible; his chest was broad, his neck arched, as the writer puts it, like a game-cock’s; the mane was long, strong, silky and badly combed. His back was firm and wide, the spine well padded, his loins were short and broad. His black coat shone; on one flank was branded the horned triangle, the Oxhead, which was the mark of his famous breed. Strikingly, his forehead had a white blaze which almost copied its shape.
“That,” said Alexander with awe, “is a perfect horse. Perfect everywhere.”
“He’s vicious,” Ptolemy said.
Over at the horse-lines, the chief groom Kittos said to a fellow slave who had watched their struggles, “Days like this, I wish they’d cut my throat along with my father’s, when they took our town. My back’s not healed from last time, and he’ll be at me again before sundown.”
“That horse is a murderer. What does he want, does he want to kill the King?”
“There was nothing wrong with that horse, I tell you nothing, nothing beyond high spirits, till he lost his temper when it took against him. He’s like a wild beast in his drink; mostly it’s us men he takes it out of, we come cheaper than horses. Now it’s anyone’s fault but his; he’d kill me if I told him its temper’s spoiled for good. He only bought it from Kroisos a month ago, just for this deal. Two talents he paid.” His hearer whistled. “He reckoned to get three, and he well might if he’d not set out to break its heart. It’s held out well, I’ll say that for it. He broke mine long ago.”
Philip, seeing the horse was restive, walked round it a few paces away. “Yes, I like his looks. Well, let’s see him move.”
Philonikos took a few steps towards the horse. It gave a squeal like a battle-trumpet, forced up its head against the hanging weight of the groom, and pawed the air. The dealer swore and kept his distance; the groom got the horse in hand. As if dye were running from the red bridle, a few drops of blood fell from its mouth.
Alexander said, “Look at that bit they’ve put on him. Look at those barbs.”
“It seems even that can’t hold him,” said big Philotas easily. “Beauty’s not everything.”
“And still he got his head up.” Alexander had moved forward. The men strolled after, looking out over him; he barely reached Philotas’ shoulder.
“You can see his spirit, sir,” Philonikos told the King eagerly. “A horse like this, one could train to rear up and strike the enemy.”
“The quickest way to have your mount killed under you,” said Philip brusquely, “making it show its belly.” He beckoned the leathery bow-legged man attending him. “Will you try him, Jason?”
The royal trainer walked round to the front of the horse, making cheerful soothing sounds. It backed, stamped and rolled its eyes. He clicked his tongue, saying firmly, “Thunder, boy, hey, Thunder.” At the sound of its name it seemed to quiver all over with suspicion and rage. Jason returned to noises. “Keep his head till I’m up,” he told the groom, “that looks like one man’s work.” He approached the horse’s side, ready to reach for the roots of the mane; the only means, unless a man had a spear to vault on, of getting up. The saddlecloth, had it been on, would have offered comfort and show, but no kind of foothold. A hoist was for the elderly, and Persians, who were notoriously soft.
At the last moment, his shadow passed before the horse’s eyes. It gave a violent start, swerved, and lashed out, missing Jason by inches. He stepped back and squinted at it sideways, screwing up one eye and the side of his mouth. The King met his look and raised his eyebrows.
Alexander, who had been holding his breath, looked round at Ptolemy and said in a voice of anguish, “He won’t buy him.”
“Who would?” said Ptolemy, surprised. “Can’t think why he was shown. Xenophon wouldn’t have bought him. You were quoting him only just now, how the nervous horse won’t let you harm the enemy, but he’ll do plenty of harm to you.”
“Nervous? He? He’s the bravest horse I ever saw. He’s a fighter. Look where he’s been beaten, under the belly too, you can see the weals. If Father doesn’t buy him, that man will flay him alive. I can see it in his face.”
Jason tried again. Before he got anywhere near the horse it started kicking. He looked at the King, who shrugged his shoulders.
“It was his shadow,” said Alexander urgently to Ptolemy. “He’s shy of his own, even. Jason should have seen.”
“He’s seen enough; he’s got the King’s life to think of. Would you ride a horse like that to war?”
“Yes, I would. To war most of all.”
Philotas raised his brows, but failed to catch Ptolemy’s eye.
“Well, Philonikos,” said Philip, “if that’s the pick of your stable, let’s waste no more time. I’ve work to do.”
“Sir, give us a moment. He’s frisky for want of exercise; too full of corn. With his strength, he—”
“I can buy something better for three talents than a broken neck.”