Chapter 9

They sauntered across to the other side of the compound, where a sleek white stallion was placidly munching his forage. Voldi stood silently watching him for so long that Mencius was moved to inquire whether he should lead the horse about for inspection.

‘Not yet,’ said Voldi absently, studying the animal’s posture. Presently the stallion raised his right forefoot and set it down gingerly. Voldi immediately approached, patted the horse’s withers, ran his hand down the leg to the fetlock, and gently lifted the foot for inspection. Mencius hovered close.

‘Badly shod,’ said Voldi. ‘The left wall of the hoof has been pared deeper than the right, throwing the pastern-joint off balance.’ He called to one of the roustabouts and inquired whether there was a farrier in the neighbourhood. The oaf nodded.

‘I’m afraid no farrier we’re likely to find in this place will do us much good,’ observed Mencius.

‘That’s true—but his tools may,’ said Voldi. ‘If we can get into his shop, I’ll reset the shoe myself.’

‘Do you mean to say you know how to shoe a horse?’ Mencius’ astonishment was so sincere that Voldi laughed. On the way to the farrier’s shop he went on to explain how every Arabian boy was a horse-doctor by instinct. ‘I never let a farrier touch my Darik’s feet,’ he said, ‘and we have some skilful farriers, too.’ Again Voldi laughed boyishly as he noted the puzzled expression on the Roman’s face, and added, ‘Our farriers are much better paid than our scribes…Perhaps that’s why Arabia rides more gracefully than she reads.’

Mencius smiled a little at this drollery but apparently wasn’t quite sure whether he approved of the handsome young Arab’s careless lack of interest in education; he had taken an instant liking to Voldi and didn’t want to think of him as a shameless illiterate. Mencius—without meaning to be—was a bit of a snob when it came to the question of education.

Stripping off his tunic and handing it to Mencius—who couldn’t help noting the fineness of its texture and workmanship—Voldi, with the consent of the bewildered farrier, sorted out a few rusty tools, dexterously removed and readjusted the badly balanced shoe, gripping the stallion’s foreleg hard between his knees while driving the nails, to lessen the jar on the sensitive pastern-joint.

Hearing a subdued conversation—in Greek—he glanced up briefly to observe that Mencius had been joined by another urbane Roman, his junior and apparently his subordinate. Mencius was doing the talking, and it was obvious that Voldi was not expected to understand it.

‘See how cleverly he does that, Pincus,’ Mencius was saying. ‘Loves horses; wants to spare them any unnecessary discomfort. Horses! That’s all he lives for!…It’s an odd thing about these Arabs—they’re mentally keen, but they don’t know anything but horses!’