Bystanders in a story of lots

A horse

Humans make such a deal about what fabric they fitted around their slender bodies. Do they not know that cloth could, and would, be replaced? Far better to take pride in something of one's self, like one's hooves or mane.

Those were but some of the thoughts prancing through my mind as the graybeard was so ceremonially placed on my back that morning, wrapped in more layers of cloth than most men I've seen seemed to wear in a month. My horse eyes could only differentiate a handful of the colors, but the Oo's and Ah's of the servants and peasants of Susa told me there were far more colors on this man than these human eyes were used to. I was more taken by the softness of the fabrics pressed upon my back or flowing down my side – softer than a clover patch, smoother than a mountain stream, light as a spring breeze. I whinnied at the sensation, and the man patted my neck pleasantly.

What surprised me more was the servant who led me from the stalls, as I was used to fancy riders in my time in the royal stables. This servant was himself drabbed in fancy silks and Tyre-dyed wool, far unlike the rough flax most men doing his job wore. He must have been an important servant, the one the guards called Haman and bowed to as if he were the king himself. He couldn't have been any such thing, I believed, as no royals have ever visited the stalls themselves. That was what servants were for! I nudged him with my muzzle to show my happiness and willingness to submit to his lead, playfully nipping at his ear like a foal. But he grew angry and jumped back like a frightened hen. He snapped then, hitting me on the neck, his temper triggered as suddenly as that of a stallion in heat. He then looked about as if afraid to be seen hitting the king's steed, but no one was around to see, as dawn had just breached the horizon and the morning guards had yet to arrive. But I knew, and vowed mischievously that I would not cooperate with this neck-hitter. There were few ways I could truly rebel, true, but there were many subtle ways to oppose his will within the confines of bit and girth.

It was then the old man in his many regal clothes was brought to sit upon me, and though he was dressed accordingly, I knew from his width alone that he was not my usual rider, the king-of-kings. Instead, he was a frail, old man, ridiculous looking in the royal garb several sizes too large, and clearly uncomfortable to be presented in them. I took to him immediately, this man named Mordecai, for his gentle pats were far more patient and respectful than those of Haman the neck-hitter.

When the latter brought stairs for the old man to mount, I crept a mere three steps back, forcing him to re-place the stair. Three steps to the right followed his second attempt, at which point the two guards snickered under a veiling hand. A third failed attempt earned open chuckling, which I proudly accepted as applause. Locked between wall and fence, as our saying went, and running out of time, Haman had no choice but to kneel as a human stair with perhaps a faster response time to uncooperative horses. I did not step away that time; Haman's bent back was a far better stool than the wooden one in my opinion.

That was my first rebellion.

The second occurred when Haman tried cutting short our walk by turning early off the King's Road. While calling out praise to Mordecai whom he led as a regal satrap, Haman spotted an alleyway unobstructed by the crowds and pulled my lead towards it. But I liked the people and the cheering they showered before me – sometimes literal showers of tasty flowers and an occasional apple. So, I kept my stride steady, even as my head was forced to the side by Haman's incessant pull. He was far outmatched by my strength, however, and the sight of his futile stubbornness made people laugh. Even Mordechai laughed, albeit shortly, and I enjoyed his giddy trembling like a shiver on my back.

Seeing that Haman insisted on entering an alley, I finally relented, but only into one of my own choice. A choice that, by coincidence of course, was in the direction opposite to where Haman wished to go. It was a smelly alley, narrow and overfilling with rancid water Haman was forced to tread through in those fancy shoes of his. But as I proved more steadfast than he, my attendee had no other choice save leave me behind and bolt – a choice I knew no servant of the king dared make. But that was not my third rebellion, only the prelude.

The third was when I stopped in the middle of that alley and waited. See, I noticed a laundress in one of the windows and wanted a shower. Not for myself, as even from the road I could smell the foul brine, but Haman did seem hot and flustered from the walk. He did not cool when the sewage-water hit him, which was all the better.

At that point, I was growing tired and led Haman back toward the palace. I did insist we pass by the market, where the influx of new, curious people forced Haman to return to his praising of the old Judean on my back, as prescribed by the king. Haman deeply resented this Mordecai, I noticed, but as the Judean was nice to me and Haman was not, this made my rebellions that much sweeter. The literal apple in the trough of my fourth rebellion was the crimson fruit I snatched off a stall while leaving the square. The furious owner pondered us until Haman paid for my snack with a face almost as foul as his sewer-soaked hair.

I would have made a smug smile was I human. Unfortunately, a laugh-like whinny had to suffice.

Guards were waiting at the palace gates as we arrived, scurrying this way and that like little mice. Apparently, Haman was late to a banquet with the king and queen, and Ahasuerus was waiting. I took the opportunity for one last rebellion and blocked Haman's path three times before letting him free to rush with the guards to the royal garden, his fancy clothing smelling like horse and sweat and his hair like a slum's outhouse.

Haman would think twice before ever hitting a horse!