Hard even to tell Xau apart

from his three guards,

all four men dressed alike

in plain black pants and tunics;

the fifth man,

Xau’s translator,

wearing flowing silk robes

finished with gold embroidery,

so that Cyrus had at first mistaken

the translator for the king.

It is a point of honor,

Cyrus’s brother, King Tahj, had said,

that your cavalry are seen to protect Xau.

I neither require nor desire

any more than that.

Do not be overzealous.

And so Cyrus had sixty of his cavalry

ride well in advance of Xau,

with sixty more, Cyrus among them,

forming a rearguard.

No flanking scouts,

no zealous overexertions.

Had an archer sought to target Xau,

they’d have had ample opportunity.

But nothing happened;

no one attacked;

the lone point of interest

was the matter of Xau’s extra horses.

Five spare mounts and three packhorses,

not one of them on a lead rope.

Yet the horses followed Xau

in perfect order,

as if invisible riders

sat astride them.

An oddity that struck Cyrus

more and more as they descended

from the chill of the high mountain

into the heat of the foothills.

An oddity that conjured

the myriad tall tales

of Xau the Horse King,

until Cyrus half-expected

his own horse to ride up to Xau,

whether he wished it or not,

and offer itself to the king.

THE DEAD

Before the eyes of men,

beneath the eye of the sun,

rode King Xau and his four men.

Ahead, resplendent, in the Lotus Crescent,

at the entrance to King Tahj’s palace,

a thousand of Tahj’s Royal Guard.

But Tahj’s soldiers outnumbered

by the mass of people who had waited,

barefoot, white-robed, since dawn.

In desert heat, King Xau dismounted:

too thin, too pale, thirsty, sandy,

his tunic travel-stained.

No one spoke in all the thousands

as Xau watered the horses,

as he pulled off his boots.

“Baraz,” said Xau, the single word

carrying in the stillness, as he took

from a saddlebag a white marble urn.

A man walked out of the crowd,

bearded, stooped, his white robes immaculate.

Behind him, a woman wailed.

Xau gave the urn to the man,

who set it down,

who pressed Xau’s hands in his,

who wept, tears drying to salt on his cheeks.

Xau stood, no more than that.

The man said, brokenly, “Baraz,”

lifted the urn and left.

“Jafir,” said Xau

as he took from a saddlebag

a second white urn.

A man walked toward him,

heavy, balding, his white robes immaculate.

From the crowd, manyfold, sobbing.

Xau gave the urn to the man,

who set it down,

who kissed Xau’s forehead, his cheeks.

Xau stood, no more than that.

He had watched this man’s son, Jafir,

kill one of his guards,

could not set that death down,

held it,

sharp,

with the others,

back and back and back

to his father,

whose death Xau had warded by anger

for so long.

Jafir’s father lifted the urn

with his son’s ashes.

“Nahr,” said Xau and took out a third urn.