I Am No King

In the dim gray before dawn, I and mine are kept awake and restless by the bustle and hurry of workmen all around us. They shout to each other, grunting and groaning as they strain against ropes like horses. The skeleton of the great tent is rising at their hands. 

Small stars of lantern lights bob. Dogs run about barking, some stopping to bark directly at me and mine. I snarl and charge the bars, but the creatures know I am confined, and stand yapping just beyond my reach. Light is spreading in the sky. The sun will soon rise. As darkness disperses, the men work faster. They must drape the skeleton with its cloth before the light of day reveals it. 

I and mine have seen these routines countless times. We know well what will happen as the day passes, though we will have no part in the doings until later. While we wait, there is much activity to watch. 

The sun rises, eclipsing the weak light of the lanterns, scattering enough light for feeble human eyes to see by. I and mine can see well enough in darkness of night, but not so with men. They wait for the light of day to do their main work. 

Rays of the risen sun finger the red-and-white-striped tent, now erect and solid, as stages and smaller tents are set up all around it. The work moves away from us, and we finally sleep, my two mates resting against me. 

“Brutus!”

I wake to the smell of meat and the name I am called. Surging forward, I snatch the food before my mates can touch it. Other pieces of meat are tossed to them after I am occupied, and the bringer of meat walks away.

Outside the bars, a group of children is gathered, watching me and mine as we eat. I lift my head to growl at them. 

Something jabs me from behind, and I whirl to defend myself. Boys are poking sticks through the bars. I bite one stick, but another jabs me, and another. Furious, I attack the rods, but always another is threatening me. Again I am prodded from behind, and I spin to face the new tormentor. My meat is on the end of a stick beyond the bars, beyond my reach. The boy who holds it taunts me, waving it in front of my reaching claws. He laughs at my raging warnings, knowing I cannot reach him.

“Leave Brutus alone.” 

The voice is quiet, but carries authority. It belongs to a boy standing beside a wheelbarrow, older than any taunting me. He smells of sweat and hay and horse. 

“Give that to me.” 

The horse-smelling boy takes the stick with my meat from the boy who has it and thrusts it through the bars, shaking it until the meat comes loose. My food falls to the straw bedding on the floor. I crouch over it, guarding it between my paws, daring anyone to defy me for it. My mates make few attempts to take what is mine, and in my present mood, they will not try me. 

“Don’t bother the lions again, or I’ll tell their keeper.” 

The boy picks up his wheelbarrow full of horse droppings and goes on his way. The younger boys continue to watch me and mine, but do not poke sticks through the bars again. 

After we have eaten, my mates and I sleep again until we are woken by a heavy stick dragged along the bars with a clatter. 

“Wake up!”

The Man has his whip in one hand and his chair in the other. A larger unroofed cage is set up beside the one we are in, and he opens the door between them, calling to us. We rise and trot into the larger cage. 

“Brutus! Up!” 

The long, stiff part of his whip taps a pedestal, and I leap up onto it, all four feet close together, shifting to keep my balance. 

“Brutus, sit!” 

His whip taps more insistently, and I sit down. He directs my mates to sit on their own pedestals, then returns his attention to me. 

“Brutus, here!” 

He has moved across the cage. His whip taps a different pedestal, taller than the one I sit on, with a shorter one beside it. He holds a hoop now, though his chair is within his reach. Quickly, I must trot to the new pedestals, jump up, leap through the hoop across the gap, onto the second set of stepped pedestals, and go back around to my own place. 

I can guess now the things he wants of me, but the first times, I had no understanding. Whip lashing and cracking, legs of his chair jabbing in my face, he chased me. Now I can remember past training and avoid the stinging reproofs. 

After he is satisfied, the Man sends us back into our small cage. Outside, men and creatures are hurrying again, readying to go out and parade, and come back before the evening. All are decked in finery. 

The midday summer sun is hot. I and mine pant, trying to cool ourselves. The reek of our own urine and feces rises from the filthy straw beneath us. We doze.

The sun sinks down the sky. Noise is swelling from beyond the great striped tent. A crowd is gathering. 

Workmen come to move our cage. I snarl and growl, daring them to lay a hand where I can reach it. They warn each other away from my teeth and beat a mallet handle against the bars to warn me away. 

Closer to the tent, frantic music makes me pace. A voice is bellowing inside. Cackles like those of hyenas leak out. 

Our cage is pushed through a flap of the tent. The door opens, and I rush out. The Man snaps the whip in my face, and I recoil. 

Lights shine onto the sawdust-covered floor. The air is warm and stuffy. Many watchers sit along the walls. 

“Brutus! Up!” 

The whip taps the pedestal, and I leap, snarling. 

“BEHOLD, THE KING OF BEASTS!”