CONSTANTINE

Useless human fillies. They had caused no end of trouble.

He could hear them talking now, talking and talking to his rider. They would take his rider away with them, on that inferior stallion, that one who dared to carry the Rider of the Herd Stallion. They would take his rider, and leave him behind. They would take other stallions, and mares, dividing the herd. That one, that Florian, that one who had dared to step into Constantine’s private field, that one who had dared to protect the girl when she needed punishment, he would get above his place.

There was only one herd stallion. Constantine.

It did not matter how far they traveled, how many days. The men thought they could say, You, horse, in this place, you are herd stallion. They said it to Florian. They said it to Marius, who dared to carry his rider. They said it to Brutus.

No.

There was only Constantine.

Now these weak and foolish girls were talking, talking, talking of kings of men who were not his rider. Useless. They would go away, Constantine wanted them to go away. But they would take his mares. They would make Florian a herd stallion, which they had no power to do.

Constantine rose to his hind legs. He screamed his rage. As his front hooves came down, he easily destroyed the fence on one side of his paddock. The men rushed to repair it and to soothe him. But he would not be soothed. They must listen to him: He was herd stallion. His rider was the one and only king.

They must listen.