Calvino

by Whitney Sanderson

  The first cream-colored trotter had his turn. The bull’s opening charge made him senseless with fear, so that he bolted to the arena’s edge and leaped wildly into the crowd.

  Next came the Dutch ambassador’s Friesian. The black horse and the black bull made a striking pair in the ring. The stallion was agile for his size, and brave. His rider struck the bull with all the banderillas and rosettes. The crowd began to cheer.

  But the Friesian’s rider faltered in the final blow. His sword lodged in the thick muscle of the bull’s neck but did not pierce deep enough to kill. Like all the other contestants, his bull was slain by one of the toreros’ blades.

  Like all the others, he had failed.

  Campeón was next to enter the arena. De Haro’s training had made him quick and strong. His eyes were white-rimmed with anxiety, but he remained obedient to Gabino. The boy managed to stick both banderillas and one of the rosettes into the shoulder of his small but unusually vicious rust-colored bull.

  Then Campeón fell into an old error and left his flank unguarded. When Gabino drew alongside the bull to drive the sword into his heart, the animal gouged his horns deep into Campeón’s haunches. The toreros drew the bull’s attention, and Gabino rode Campeón, limping, from the ring.

  For the first time that day, I felt fear rising in my heart. I pawed nervously and pulled at the reins. Rico stroked my neck, but his hand felt clammy and cold. Neither of us was comforted when the second cream-colored trotter and then the first horse from Naples emerged from the corrida with deep wounds and battered riders.

  Last before me came the Barb, a chestnut with a white blaze running like a streak of lightning down his face. And he moved as if lightning had entered his body. The bull’s horns never grazed his sides, and the Moor was the first to slay his toro bravo. The crowd cheered long and loud for him.

  Rico and I were the last pair remaining. I entered the arena at my loftiest canter and halted in front of the Imperial balcony. Rico asked me to bow as I had done for Mariposa and Isabella.

  I knelt before the king, then reared up into a pesade. The crowd murmured with appreciation. I wondered if the Dutch ambassador was making another comment about Spain’s parade horses.

  A trumpet sounded. The toreros opened the gate beneath King Philip’s balcony and released my opponent into the arena.

  The bull was the largest of his kind I had seen. His muscles rippled beneath a coat like polished coal as he trotted into the arena on surprisingly delicate hooves.

  The blur of the crowd, the blare of trumpets, and the motion of the toreros and their capes fell away. There was only me, my rider, and the toro bravo.

  He grew still as a statue when he saw me. His glittering black eyes held a calculating look. I stepped forward in a lofty Spanish walk and halted about ten paces in front of him. The bull lowered his head and scraped the ground with one cloven hoof.

  I tossed my head, laid back my ears, and snapped my teeth in the air. The bull took a few threatening steps forward, shaking his horns. I backed up, maintaining the distance between us. The bull broke into a trot. I continued to face him, my legs trembling with the effort of traveling so quickly in reverse.

  The bull dug his hooves into the deep sand and charged. At the last possible moment, I arced my body sideways so that the horns struck only air.

  Three more times, Rico circled me back to approach the bull. Each time, he held me in check until the sharp horns nearly brushed my flanks. Then he released the reins and let me sprint away. My powerful hindquarters and fluttering tail served the same taunting purpose as the toreros’ capes.

  Finally, Rico drew up to the arena’s edge to collect the first of the sharpened banderillas. The contest was a deadly dance for both me and my opponent now.

  I cantered diagonally in front of the bull so our bodies formed a T. The move was identical to the half pass that Rico and I had practiced at Córdoba, but with far more at stake if I faltered.

  At last I truly understood the horse master’s endless drills on collection and impulsion—they were the means by which I was now evading death.

  Rico drew me in ever-tighter circles around my opponent. Then, quick as a snake strike, he reached his right arm across his body and stuck the banderilla into the bull’s neck.

  The animal snorted as if flames would shoot out of his nostrils instead of air, and he chased me at a blind gallop. Anger had made him lose caution, and Rico leaned down to place the second banderilla as I sidestepped the charge.

  The bull skidded to a stiff-legged halt. Blood flowed freely down his neck, and his head hung low. I sensed reluctance in my rider as he rode me over to collect the flower-shaped rosettes. Nonetheless, we gave the audience the death-defying spectacle they wished to see.

  I galloped with my body angled sideways, showing my belly, taunting the bull by staying just beyond the reach of those wickedly curving horns.

  Then Rico asked me to pirouette. Here, of all places?

  But I made one, two, three, fast circles in front of the bull, still cantering forward even as I spun. The audience roared with approval.

  Rico dropped the reins onto my neck and held up the rosettes, one in each hand. Using only his legs to guide me, Rico spun me back to face the bull. I curved my body around the animal’s horns as it charged again. At just the right moment, Rico leaned down and pinned both rosettes.

  By now, the bull was panting from the heat and his injuries. Rico rode me over to where the horse master stood at the arena’s edge, holding the sword for his student.

  “Must I kill him, Diego?” asked Rico urgently. “I have heard that in Portugal, they only thrust the sword into the air as a symbol of victory, and the animal’s life is spared.”

  “The bull is already gravely injured,” said de Haro. “But I believe your skill will let you succeed where others have failed, and make this animal’s death a quick and honorable one.”

  Rico took the sword and held it at arm’s length with the point facing the sky. The audience was silent now, for the hour of truth had arrived.

  It was over in only moments. The bull saw the glint of the sword, and we fell into our now familiar game of advance and retreat. Then Rico asked me to double back behind the bull so that I cantered beside him. Recalling Campeón’s mistake, I kept close to the animal’s side so that he had no room to turn and gore me.

  Rico raised the sword high and drove it deep between the bull’s shoulders. Then he drew me to a halt and dismounted to face the dying animal on foot, as courageous rejoneadors did.

  The bull had weakened fast, but he was not defeated yet. He lunged forward in a final attack. Rico leaped back, but he would not have been quick enough if I hadn’t sunk my teeth into the nape of the bull’s neck.

  The sharp horns raked my foreleg, but I held fast. Our blood mixed together on the ground. The crowd’s cheers thundered in my ears and became indistinguishable from the pounding of my heart.

  The bull’s knees buckled. Rico grabbed me by the reins and backed me out of the life-and-death embrace. Then he touched his hand to his lips and pressed his palm against the bull’s forehead in a final gesture of respect.

  The animal fell to his side and lay still. His eyes were closed; his battle was over.

  Applause crashed over us like breaking waves. Rico raised his arms high, then bowed low. His face was somber, mirroring none of the crowd’s glee.

  “Will you not take the ears as a trophy?” called one of the toreros as Rico mounted and rode me toward the arena gates.

  “My horse has been injured,” said Rico. “I must see to him.”

  I shied as we passed the bull’s body. It was the nature of the animal to fight, but in the wild a defeated rival could retreat. This creature’s fate had been sealed from the moment he entered the arena.

  But even though the contest was not a fair one, we had fought as equals in courage, and he had earned the name of toro bravo.

  De Haro found Rico in my stall. The gash on my leg had not
cut into the tendon or bone. It hardly hurt now that it was washed and bandaged and I had a pail of oats to occupy me.

  “Don’t you wish to feast at the palace?” de Haro asked Rico as the boy sat in the straw beside my manger. “Everyone has gathered in your honor. Even the Dutch ambassador wants to ride home on a Spanish horse.”

  “I fear my appetite is spoiled by my conscience,” murmured Rico. He watched me digging in to my supper. “I envy horses, who live in the moment and have no troubled dreams.”

  “You know I dislike the blood sport of the corrida,” said de Haro. “I like to believe it is not what I have trained my horses for. But the truth is that doma clásica developed to make Spain victorious in war. Today, you proved its value to those who dismissed it as frivolous. You have made me proud.”

  Rico looked up at de Haro. I knew the horse master was the one man whose approval could take the place of what Rico could never receive from his father.

  De Haro cleared his throat. “The king was so pleased with Calvino that he wishes to keep him as his royal mount,” he said gently. “He will ride him in the Corpus Christi parade before all the citizens of Madrid and keep him here at El Escorial.”

  A war of emotions played on Rico’s face, pride fighting with sorrow.

  Sensing his distress, I left my oats and went over to him. I pressed my head to his chest while he rubbed my neck under my heavy mane.

  “You have learned all that I can teach you of horsemanship,” de Haro said to Rico. “If you are willing, I would send you to the Neapolitan riding academy to study with Grisone and Pignatelli.”

  So little Rico—no longer very little, at fifteen—went to Italy to ride with the greatest horsemen in the world. And I remained in Madrid with the king.

  On the day of the Corpus Christi parade, plates of armor were placed on my head, neck, and back. Scarlet tapestries bearing the king’s crest hung from my saddle and reins. The king wore a suit of polished parade armor, so heavy that it took two men to help him into my saddle.

  We led the procession through the streets. Red-and-gold banners and wreaths of evergreen hung from balconies. The ground was scattered with fragrant rosemary and thyme, and people threw flowers in our path.

  Behind the king, four priests carried a golden chalice under a silk canopy. A choir of children dressed like angels followed, chanting hymns. The people of the city raised their voices with them.

  On this day they forgot whether they were rich or poor, merchant or peasant. They were all glad to be Spanish, joined in celebration of their Lord and their king. I stepped high and proud, with my tail flowing like a silver banner behind me.

  After the parade, the king lingered in the stable to speak with the horse master about his breeding project. He had replaced his armor with a simple woolen tunic and could have been mistaken for a scribe or a schoolteacher.

  “I believe I have shown once and for all the superiority of my ‘parade horses,’ ” the king said to de Haro, a smile flitting across his thin face.

  “Truly, the kindness of the breed is the greatest thing His Majesty possesses,” the horse master replied. “I believe it exceeds even their courage.”

  King Philip granted de Haro a generous measure of silver to expand the stables and buy enough land for 1,200 horses.

  Nearly every afternoon, the king took me hunting with his falcon in the primeval woods of El Escorial. We rode in parades throughout the cities of his empire, from the towering castles and cathedrals of Vienna to the whitewashed cottages and turquoise waters of Gibraltar.

  When three years had passed, the king grew anxious to see my foals and sent me back to Córdoba.

  Mariposa was there, as golden as my memories. Her filly was my first to be born, a dapple gray with fluttering nostrils that reminded me of Rasula.

  Rico had become a celebrated rider at the academy in Naples. He lived there with Isabella, whom he had married. When they visited Córdoba, the four of us always took an evening ride in the garden of the Alcázar.

  Another old friend was at the stables, too. His battle scar had made him something of a hero, and a limp kept him from rejoining the quadrille. So Campeón told the tale of his bravery in the corrida to anyone who would listen, had his hooves polished daily, and sired many plump foals with a talent for prancing.

  My own colts and fillies multiplied to fill the royal studbook. They were sent as wedding gifts to distant kings. They secured alliances and soothed hostilities between nations. They crossed the ocean in vast ships to a land that no horses had seen in my lifetime.

  Sculptors cast the image of my foals in marble and bronze. Painters captured their likenesses on canvas. Several of my grandfoals were sent to Austria, where a new academy for alta escuela was being formed.

  As for Spain, she flourished, too. Another king bearing Philip’s name succeeded him, and he also prized beautiful horses. The fields surrounding Córdoba were filled with mares and foals, many of them dapple-gray like the first mares brought from Andalusia.

  Visitors to Spain came to see the royal stables. They admired the decorative buildings and the regal stallions. They heard the music of the country. They drank her wine and ate her juicy oranges and fragrant olives. They watched her savage sports.

  And they wondered: How did this land between two continents, in love with tradition and divided by war, come to rule an empire so vast that the sun never set on its rule?

  I do not know for certain, but some have said it is because the Spanish horses are the finest in the world.

  ALL THE KING’S HORSES

  The name Philip means “lover of horses” in ancient Greek. It was a fitting choice for King Philip II, son of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V. Philip II inherited the rule of Spain and Portugal and was also the king of England and Ireland during his marriage to Queen Mary I.

  The king was a devout Catholic and often waged war against the English Protestants. His territory included colonies on every settled continent, as far away as the Philippine Islands in Southeast Asia.

  The king was also a skillful equestrian. In 1567, he ordered his horse master, a nobleman named Diego López de Haro, to buy 1,200 of the best horses in the provinces and create a new, highly refined breed. Many of these horses came from Andalusia.

  The royal horses of Córdoba became re-nowned across the world. They were impossible for ordinary people to buy at any price. Famous artists such as Diego Velázquez and El Greco painted portraits of royalty mounted on beautiful Spanish horses.

  By the late 1700s, leggy Thoroughbreds from England had become the fashionable mounts of the nobility. Many Spanish horses died of plague and famine in the eighteenth century, and the original stables at Córdoba were destroyed by a fire in 1734. Today, they have been rebuilt as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. People can tour the barns and see equestrian performances like those that once entertained kings and queens.

  DOMA VAQUERA AND DOMA CLÁSICA

  The doma vaquera style of riding was developed by Spanish ranchers whose survival depended on the agility and courage of their mounts. Like Western riders in the United States, Spanish vaqueros ride with one hand on the reins, keeping the other free to hold a garrocha pole.

  Doma vaquera is also a judged sport in which riders show off their horses’ paces in a series of figures at the walk and canter. The patterns also include pirouettes, rein backs, side passes, and other moves that horses might use to work with the unpredictable Andalusian cattle.

  While doma vaquera riding began on the Andalusian plains, doma clásica riding developed on Europe’s battlefields. The first riding school was opened in 1532 in Naples, which was then a part of the Spanish empire. Its founder, Federico Grisone, claimed to be inspired by the great general Xenophon of ancient Greece.

  But unlike Xenophon, who had emphasized gentleness and harmony, Grisone employed many harsh training methods. The goal of doma clásica training was to produce horses with strong forward movement, quick response to signals, and absolute obedience—
the ideal mount for war.

  In the eighteenth century, horses were replaced by heavy artillery in war. Doma clásica became a more stylized form of riding, the foundation of modern dressage. Today, the Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art in Jerez hosts doma clásica performances for the public.

  An Andalusian stallion named Pluto was one of six foundation sires for the Lippizaner breed, which developed at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna. By the late 1700s, these “dancing horses” had become famous around the world.

  THE CORRIDA

  The bullfight, or corrida, has been part of Spanish culture for more than a thousand years. The first official bullfight took place in 1133 to celebrate the crowning of King Alfonso VIII. However, bulls were used in battle and military training since the time of the Roman Empire.

  In the most common form of bullfighting, picadors mounted on armored horses enter the arena first and weaken the bull’s neck with sharp lances. A sword-wielding matador then moves in on foot to face the animal alone.

  In the older rejoneador style, the torero stays mounted for nearly the entire fight, although he may change horses at different phases. The most skilled rejoneadors appear to effortlessly outwit the bull while spending much of the fight within inches of its horns. Most bullfights are not officially judged, but the audience will cast a popular vote, cheering for their favorite toreros and heckling those who lack skill.

  Bullfighting was banned by Pope Pius V in 1567, but King Philip II reversed the decree. The king was known to dislike bullfighting, but he also acknowledged its importance to the Spanish people.

  Today, animal rights groups argue that bullfighting is cruel to the animals, which do not have a choice about whether to participate. Defenders argue that the deaths of fighting bulls are more humane than those of cattle raised for meat. Some people believe the corrida is an essential part of Spanish culture, or even a form of art.