Wrapping this morning's mist around me like a shroud, an old story emerged. On a moonless night,
leaving his teacher, a monk was given a lantern. As he reached for it, his teacher blew out the flame
.... and the monk was enlightened. Not born again, not born at all! Not bound by birth, not bound by
death. And that was no path to follow home.

The Hippoeans, a warrior people of the High Steppes, worshiped Ares.
Especially
their horses were pious. March to October they would only
eat reddish foods, which made them invulnerable to enemy arrows.

From March through October they refused to obey human commands
as those months they were in spiritual retreat.

Thus it was the Hippoean's horses who served as priests of Ares, god
of fertility and of war's "delayed infanticide."