The bozkashi master trotted over to Ross from his place on the sidelines to perform one last ritual. While the clamor made it impossible to hear his words, the master's beaming face was easy to read when, with a flourish, he pressed a small object into Ross's hand.
Ross had not realized that the winner would receive a prize. He glanced down to find that he was holding an ancient gold coin that an Oxford professor of antiquities would kill to possess. From the looks of the Grecian profile on the face, the coin might date back to the days of Alexander the Great.
His scholarly instincts were aroused, but now was not the time to examine his prize. He spoke flowery thanks and slipped the coin into pocket.
Now that the match was officially over, people began streaming onto the field to offer congratulations to the bozkashi players. Someone offered Ross a brass ewer of water, which he accepted gratefully. He tilted his head back and poured half the contents into his mouth, then splashed handfuls of water on his face and neck to rinse away the yellow dust.
It had been a hard-fought match and there was plenty of praise to go around, but Ross was the hero of the hour and everyone wanted to shake his hand and offer some comment.
Not quite everyone. As he shook still another hand, Ross realized that it wasn't just his sanity that had returned, but the British rules of sportsmanship that had been drilled into him when he was a child, rules that had found fertile ground in his natural temperament. He looked for his primary opponent.
Dil Assa was only a short distance away, surrounded by his own circle of admirers and commiserators. Moving Rabat slowly so that no one would be injured, Ross worked his way over to the Turkoman.
Dil Assa scowled at him with undiminished vigor. "You were lucky, ferengi."
"I was," Ross agreed promptly. "If it were not for this splendid horse"—he stroked Rabat's sweat-foamed neck—"or for the chance that made the front leg of the boz weaker than the rear, I would never have won."
"But still you have come to gloat."
"Not at all." Ross offered his hand. "In my country, it is traditional after a heated contest to shake hands with one's honored opponent."
Startled and uncertain, the Turkoman looked at the proffered hand. "Am I your honored opponent, ferengi?"
"Aye." His hand still extended, Ross added, "I have a name, you know. It's Khilburn. And you, Dil Assa, have the distinction of having made me lose my temper more completely than I have ever done in my life."
The Turkoman gave a sudden crack of laughter. "Then I have achieved a small victory today, though I would have been wiser to leave you to your lethargy."
He took Ross's hand and shook it hard. "You ride well for a ferengi, Khilburn."
Ross laughed, feeling as buoyant, in a different way, as when he had thrown the goat into the circle. "To say that a Turkoman rides well is as unnecessary as to say that the summer sun burns or that water is God's gift to his children."
He released his opponent's hand. "But I will say that it was by watching you that I learned how the game should be played—with fierceness and joy."
Dil Assa smiled and leaned over to pull off Ross's turban. Then he removed his own wolf-edged cap and plopped it down on his opponent's blond head. "If ever you return in the cool season, Khilburn, we will play again. And if, God willing, that happens, you will ride as a chopendoz, a bozkashi master."
As honors went, Ross decided as he returned the smile, the sweaty, bedraggled cap surpassed anything that Queen Victoria might bestow on him.
Chapter 13
For Juliet, watching the bozkashi match was a very mixed experience. Though she did not wholly share it, she was able to understand the enthusiasm of the other onlookers, for the game was intense and dramatic.
At the same time, she was glad that Ross did not throw himself wholeheartedly into the match. While bozkashi seemed more likely to produce injuries than fatalities, there was a very real chance that players might fall and break their necks or be trampled to death. There was also the possibility that Dil Assa would take advantage of the tumult to dispatch the hated ferengi.
Then Ross and Dil Assa clashed and her husband became a different man. She had always known that he was a superb horseman and had effortless physical mastery at everything he tried; even so, she had trouble believing what was happening before her very eyes.
Ross was like an ancient Norse berserker, glittering with danger as he stopped at nothing to achieve victory. When he jumped his horse into the middle of the pack, she forgot to breathe until she saw that he had come through safely. Later, when he and Dil Assa engaged in that insane struggle over the goat while galloping at lethal speed, her heart pounded so loudly that it drowned out the roar of the crowd.