Calvino

by Whitney Sanderson

  “Yes, my name is Enrico Moreno.” Rico kept his eyes shyly on the toes of his boots as he spoke.

  “Do you ride this stallion?” asked Isabella, touching my nose with her gloved hand.

  Rico nodded. “He was bred on my family’s hacienda. Your father bought him at the Seville horse fair this April.”

  “He’s like a unicorn from a fairy tale,” said Isabella. “And look—he and Mariposa make a perfect pair. He is silver and she is gold.”

  Rico and Isabella smiled at each other.

  “Speaking of my father, I must tell him I have arrived safely,” she said. “Perhaps later we can take our horses for a ride in the garden of the Alcázar of Córdoba, just on the other side of these walls. Have you been there?”

  “No,” said Rico. “Señor de Haro has kept me busy with my training and lessons.”

  “My father is a stern taskmaster,” said Isabella with a laugh. “You must not take him too seriously if you ever want to have any fun.” Then she sighed, the smile fading from her face. “But I envy you,” she said.

  “Why?” asked Rico in surprise.

  “My father will not let me train with his students because I am a girl. And I have to wear layers of petticoats and ride in this stupid sidesaddle.”

  “Is it difficult?” asked Rico, looking curiously at Mariposa’s saddle with the jutting leg rest in the middle of the seat.

  “Just try training your horse with only one leg to signal him!” Isabella retorted. “How I wish I could sit astride like a boy and not have to go to foolish balls and banquets all the time.”

  Several days passed before de Haro permitted Rico a free hour to visit the gardens. In that time, I discovered that Mariposa and Isabella shared a terrible flaw.

  They were both smitten with Campeón, champion of trotting between two posts without ever going anywhere. Isabella fussed over “Campie” as if he were a stuffed toy. She plied him with sugar and braided matching flowers into his and Mariposa’s manes. Worst of all, Mariposa didn’t even seem to mind. Her teardrop nostrils quivered with affection whenever she saw the fat prancer.

  Otherwise, Mariposa was perfect in every way. Rico seemed surprised by my unusual gentle-ness and obedience as the four of us strolled through the garden that lay like a hidden jewel in the center of Córdoba, with a great stone castle at its heart.

  “The Alcázar is where the king stays when he visits the city,” Isabella explained to Rico. “It was built by the Moors when they ruled over Spain—my father says they were the greatest architects in the world, and even their fortresses were built with magnificent gardens surrounding them. Unless the king is here, they are open to the public so that all can appreciate their beauty.”

  The paths were paved with glittering chips of white quartz, and they surrounded beds of exotic flowers, blossoming mulberry trees, and rectangular pools with fountains that sent many crossing jets of water into the air.

  I have never seen a horse of your exquisite coloring before, I remarked to Mariposa as she reached down to snuffle the iridescent feathers of a peacock that had wandered onto the path.

  Mares of my pale shade were favored by Queen Isabella of Castile, she replied. Thus, horses like me came to be known as Golden Isabellas. The horse master gave me as a gift to his own Isabella for that reason.

  We passed through a grove of orange trees. I lifted my head to sniff their sweet, familiar scent. I told Mariposa of my life on the hacienda, from my foalhood encounter with the lynx to my work with the cattle on the range.

  Our riders drew us to a halt to allow a cart filled with elegantly dressed ladies to pass. Suddenly, I realized that I was outside the locked stable gates for the first time since I had come to Córdoba.

  If I were to bolt and lose my rider, I might reach the bridge leading out of the city. From there, instinct would lead me back to the Moreno estate. Or perhaps I could go straight to the mountains and form my own band of wild mares.

  In any case, would it not be better to chase freedom than stay trapped in my golden cage? Mariposa seemed to sense my thoughts. She looked steadily at me with her dark almond eye.

  Campeón has told me that the horse master may sell you to the general of the cavalry if you continue to resist his training, she said. But you are far too fine to end up in a muddy battlefield, and I would be sorry to lose your company.

  In that moment, I resolved to do nothing that might cause us to be parted. And if Campeón set the bar for her affections, I would master any form of prancing necessary to leave him in my dust.

  For the next two years, that is exactly what I did. I learned how to move correctly in each gait and how to shorten and lengthen my stride at the walk, trot, and canter. Next came lateral work, in which I learned to change the bend of my neck and body. Many of the movements were familiar because I had performed them naturally while working with the cattle. But now they had become an art form in themselves.

  Rico was no longer the shy, uncertain boy who had turned the other cheek to his brother’s mocking. Now it seemed he spoke little because he could say much with few words. His signals to me were slight because they were perfectly clear. He held up his head in a way that seemed to say he had finally found his place in the world.

  I suppose that I had found my place as well. I had been as docile as a child’s hobbyhorse for months—for Mariposa’s sake—and de Haro had allowed me to join the quadrille. There was something satisfying in working so closely with the other stallions, learning to sense their most subtle moods and movements. But it seemed a cruel twist of fate that I was partnered with Campeón and forced to mirror his dainty strides.

  Isabella and Mariposa spent about half their time in Córdoba and half visiting relatives in Spain and France. Our many rides in the garden of the Alcázar were a welcome break from de Haro’s rigid schedule.

  But my life was not all work—there were games as well. Sometimes the students played sortija, trying to spear a lance through a ring suspended by a cord while the horses galloped at full speed. Other times we played carosello, our riders tossing a clay ball between them. I discovered the consequences of losing when Rico dropped the ball and it smashed at my feet. My legs and belly were doused with rose-scented perfume.

  “You and Calvino will smell as pretty as a princess for days!” gloated Gabino, who had thrown the ball. I noticed that Campeón often appeared to shy when Gabino was in midcatch—I think he enjoyed smelling like a rose.

  Of all de Haro’s students, Rico seemed to take his training the most seriously. One evening, he spent what seemed like hours schooling me on a single movement, the cantering half pass. If done correctly, I would move smoothly along a diagonal line, my legs crossing each other while my head and body stayed facing to the front.

  It was a difficult movement even in the trot. It was exhausting in the canter. Repeated endlessly, it was torturous. I ground my teeth on the bit as Rico turned me down the quarter line for the thousandth time.

  Just then, Mariposa and Isabella entered the arena. Mariposa whinnied to me, and I took the opportunity to divert my course and greet her properly.

  “There is flamenco music in the garden this evening,” said Isabella, watching while Rico made me back half the length of the arena in reprimand. “Won’t you come see it with me? I do so love to dance.”

  I could hear strains of music muffled by the thick stable walls. How I wished I were there instead of here!

  Rico sighed. “I cannot. I promised your father I would work with Calvino until our half pass was perfection itself. But it is not even halfway to perfection.”

  “Well, if you will not dance with me, perhaps Calvino will dance with Mariposa.”

  They trotted in a collected circle around us. Although Isabella complained about having to ride sidesaddle, she was nearly as skilled as Rico. Mariposa fairly floated across the ground.

  Without waiting for my rider’s permission, I sprang forward and fell into step beside Mariposa. Rico held his arms stiffly for a m
oment, then relented. Mariposa and I trotted around the ring with perfectly matched strides. How much nicer it was than being paired with Campeón!

  Then Mariposa and Isabella broke away and halted, facing us from across the arena. Rico rode me forward at the Spanish walk, my legs raised high and extended straight in front of me. Isabella backed Mariposa away while I moved toward her.

  At the edge of the arena, we reversed. Now Mariposa stepped forward with flashing legs while I backed up, my hind legs tucked under me and my neck curved like a tightly drawn bow. Then we did a half turn on the haunches together and sprang forward into a canter.

  I was farther from Mariposa than I wanted to be, so I stepped over in a perfect half pass. When I had reached Mariposa’s side, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Rico to reach out and take Isabella’s hand. They pirouetted around each other as if they were twirling in a waltz.

  I heard a cough from the doorway. The horse master was standing there with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

  “So this is what you call training?” he asked dryly.

  “Don’t be angry, Father,” said Isabella as Rico quickly let go of her hand and returned to his schooling exercises. “Rico was practicing your silly drills like a perfect tin soldier until Mariposa and I distracted him.”

  “I am not angry, for you have given me an idea,” said de Haro, pacing thoughtfully. Even the dust from the sandy arena dared not cling to his perfectly polished boots.

  “King Philip will be arriving to tour the royal stables next month,” de Haro continued. “His Majesty has requested me to create a demonstration to impress the diplomats who are traveling with him.”

  “The king himself at the stables, how exciting!” cried Isabella.

  “Indeed,” said de Haro with less enthusiasm. “I believe the quadrille shows the precision of my training methods. But the nobles today are spoiled by culture. They expect poetry as well as perfection. The two of you—and I will speak with you later, Rico—have given me an idea. I will offer the king a ballet on horseback, set to music.”

  De Haro’s hands moved as he spoke, painting in the air a picture of his imagined performance. I would never have guessed the horse master to have such a romantic nature.

  Soon he was directing Isabella as if she were one of the riders in his academy, and she couldn’t have looked more pleased. At last she was a student in the royal stables, even if she still had to ride sidesaddle.

  —

  Our exhibit was held in the spacious outdoor arena. A silk tent shielded the king and his party from the sun, and a violin player entertained them while they waited. The noblemen and their wives reminded me of the peacocks in the garden of the Alcázar.

  However, King Philip wore a simple black tunic with a white ruffled collar. His pale gray eyes held the intensity of a wolf observing a herd of fallow deer.

  He sat in silence while we performed the quadrille with clockwork perfection. I set aside my dislike of Campeón for the occasion and did not even lay back my ears when we passed on the diagonal. Finally, the eight horses came to a square halt and our riders removed their hats in salute.

  The king and his company clapped politely, but they did not seem moved. I noticed de Haro frowning at the cool reception.

  I remained in the ring while the other horses filed out, and de Haro announced a special performance, el baile de corazones—the dance of hearts.

  Mariposa and Isabella entered the arena. Isabella wore a scarlet dress and carried an embroidered fan. Mariposa wore matching scarlet ribbons in her mane and tail.

  The violinist began to play again. I danced for Mariposa with all the expressiveness I could muster, and she for me. Isabella fluttered her fan and Rico held his arm outstretched until at last they joined hands in a cantering pirouette.

  At the end of our performance, I halted before Mariposa and lowered myself onto one knee with the other leg stretched out before me. Rico and I had been practicing our final bow in secret for weeks.

  The applause was louder and longer this time. I saw de Haro speaking with the king as Rico led me past the silk tent for a well-earned rest.

  The next day, Isabella ran into the stable while Rico was grooming me. “I have just returned from a masquerade ball for the royal diplomats,” she said in a rush. “There was so much gossip, my ears were burning. Everyone loved our performance except the Dutch ambassador. He called the king’s stallions ‘parade horses.’ He said they would look more at home in the ballet than on the battlefield.”

  Rico laughed, and Isabella made a wry face. “You have seen the king—he is cold as marble,” she said. “But the color rose in his pale cheeks and he stood up from his seat at the table. He said he would test the Spanish horse in games of war against the mounts of any other nation. By the time dinner was over, it had been settled. There is going to be a bullfight!”

  Rico gasped. “But the corrida was banned by the pope,” he said. “My family’s cattle were only ever tested as yearlings, never as grown bulls, as they were in my grandfather’s time.”

  “The king was so angered by the Dutch ambassador that he called for the pope to reverse the decree,” said Isabella. “The fight will take place at El Escorial, the king’s palace in Madrid.”

  Isabella paused, and her face grew somber. “The king has already chosen which of his horses will represent the Crown,” she said. “One will be my father’s beloved Campeón—and the other will be Calvino.”

  The king was not a man of wasted words. Within a fortnight, Campeón and I had been moved to the stables at Madrid. The palace of El Escorial, set apart from the city, was stark and a bit gloomy compared to lively, decorative Córdoba.

  But we were not here for the scenery. From dawn until dusk, the horse master drilled Rico and Gabino in mounted combat. For the first time, Campeón and I faced off as if in battle instead of working together in harmony.

  My life as a ranch horse had made me fast and strong, but all that prancing between the pillars had taught me to keep my balance centered, ready for sudden movement in any direction. The slightest shift in Rico’s weight could signal his strategy while revealing nothing to the enemy.

  In Córdoba, I would have relished these games of war. But now I felt that Campeón and I were united against an uncertain fate. When he continued to leave his flank unguarded, I attacked it mercilessly—not to best him, but to prepare us for a more fearsome enemy.

  Between Campeón’s disdain of the “inferior” oats and our relentless training, the bay stallion’s plumpness melted away. I hoped the perfection of his form would be enough to save him. The horse master’s pet had never faced another creature with a killing gleam in its eye. His snorting and stamping had an element of show, as if we were practicing for another piece of royal theater.

  On the day of the corrida, Rico dressed in a traditional vaquero outfit like the one his brother had worn to the horse fair. For his shirtwaist, Rico wore the silk handkerchief Isabella had given him during our last ride through the garden of the Alcázar.

  The horse master’s daughter had begged to come with us, but her father would not allow it. I had savored my last moments with Mariposa, trying to remember the curve of her neck and her exact shade of gold, in case I never saw her again.

  Rico and Gabino rode us through the crowd that had gathered on the palace grounds. The high walls of the arena the king had built were draped with multicolored banners. Musicians and clowns entertained the spectators.

  The royal balcony was set high above the arena. King Philip was dressed in black again, although he had added a scarlet cape to his outfit, and he wore the royal crown upon his head. Queen Anna sat beside him, engulfed in a vast purple gown of many layers, and the young prince sat on her lap.

  Beside me, Campeón was fretting because Gabino had forgotten to shine his hooves. I just don’t feel right without it, he complained, prancing in an anxious piaffe. We reached a corded-off area near the arena gates, and I had my first glimpse o
f the other horses who had been caught up in this contest of pride.

  The Dutch ambassador had sent a single, gleaming black Friesian, claiming the horse was unequaled in all the world. England had chosen a destrier of even greater size and a sleek bay courser. France sent a pair of cream-colored trotters from the royal stables of the House of Valois, and Naples picked two sturdy horses from its cavalry. A lone Barb, as delicate as a yearling and with a dished face, represented Spain’s former rulers, the Moors.

  Each horse and rider wore the tack and clothing of his own country. But we would all enter the corrida with the same weapons, bound by the same rules.

  We would all be matched against a toro bravo, a “brave bull” bred especially for his fierceness. The winners would be the horse and rider who preserved themselves from injury, made a clean kill, and entertained the audience with the most daring show.

  Our first weapon would be the banderillas, two poles with sharp spikes at the end. These would be stuck into the bull’s neck to weaken his muscles. Second was a pair of flower-shaped rosettes with spiky points to be pinned into the bull’s neck from close range. Finally, each rider would attempt to kill the bull with a single sword strike to the heart.

  The riders drew lots to determine our order. Rico and I would fight last.

  First to enter the arena was the destrier from England. The slow-moving warhorse, decorated with colorful textiles and glinting armored plates, was like a painted target for the toro bravo. The bull mauled him badly and dragged his rider from the saddle. Only his knight’s steel armor saved him from being crushed to death. A pair of toreros jumped into the arena, waving scarlet capes to distract the bull.

  The bay courser was quicker but possessed too little courage—or too much wisdom—to let his rider get close enough to place the banderillas.