The Hand of Fatima Page 34

  That March evening, eight horsemen were lined up to fight the bulls. The chief magistrate solemnly handed the bailiff the key to the square to signify that the fiesta could begin. Four of the horsemen left the arena while the remaining four took up position. The horses pawed the ground, snorting and sweating. Silence fell in the Corredera as the bailiff opened the barrier closing off Calle del Toril, and then all at once there was a loud cheer as a huge black bull, prodded by the assistants, ran bellowing into the square. The bull plunged round the square at full gallop, battering against the stockades whenever people shouted at it, slapped the planks or launched darts at it. After the initial rush, the bull slowed to a trot, and more than a hundred people leapt into the ring and goaded it with capes; the most daring went right up to it, swerving wildly to one side when it turned to face them. Some did not manage to get out of the way in time and were gored, trampled underfoot or hurled into the air. While the crowd enjoyed itself, the four noblemen stayed in position, reining in their horses, judging the beast’s mettle and whether it was worth doing battle with.

  At a set moment, Don Diego López de Haro, a gentleman of the house of Carpio, who was decked out in green livery, called to the bull to attract its attention. One of his footmen ran towards the people pestering the bull and forced them back. The space between the bull and the horseman was cleared and the nobleman shouted again: ‘Bull!’

  The enormous beast turned to face the horseman and they eyed each other from a distance. In almost complete silence, the entire square waited for the imminent charge. At that moment, the second footman rushed up to Don Diego with a lance hewn from ash. It was short and thick with a sharp iron point; about three handspans from the tip cuts had been made in the wood, which were covered in wax. This was so that it would snap easily when plunged into the bull. In case their help was needed, the three other horsemen edged closer, careful not to distract the bull. The nobleman’s horse bucked nervously until it was sideways on to the animal. The square was immediately filled with whistles and shouts of protest: the encounter had to be head-on, face to face, without any tricks contrary to the rules of horsemanship.

  But Don Diego did not need any censure. He was already spurring his horse to line it up facing the bull. The footman stayed beside his lord’s right stirrup with the lance held up so that all he had to do was grab it as soon as the bull charged.

  Don Diego taunted the bull again, while at the same time waving the green cape on his shoulder in the air. The glittering green fluttering in the rider’s hands caught the bull’s attention.

  ‘Bull! Come on, bull!’

  He did not have to wait long for the charge. A vast black blur hurled itself at horse and rider. Don Diego firmly gripped the lance his footman was holding up, pressing his elbow tight to his body. The footman escaped just as the animal met the horse. Don Diego struck the bull on its withers with the lance. It sank in a few inches before snapping, halting the beast’s vicious lunge. The crack of the splintering wood was the signal for the square to break out in cheers, but although it was fatally wounded, with blood gushing from its side, the bull made an effort to attack the horse again. By now, however, Don Diego had unsheathed his heavy two-handed sword and dealt the animal a well-aimed blow to the forehead, splitting its skull. The huge black beast keeled over dead.

  While the horseman galloped round the square, patting his horse’s neck, saluting the crowd and receiving their applause and the honours of his victory, people threw themselves on the animal’s corpse, fighting each other to grab the tail, testicles or whatever part they could cut off before the fiesta began again. These were the ‘offal sellers’ who afterwards sold the leftovers, especially the valuable bull’s tail, to the innkeepers of the Corredera.

  Hearing the shouts and sudden silences from Plaza de las Cañas, Hernando tried to imagine how the bullfight was progressing. He had never seen one before, and the closest he had been to a bull was when he had jumped on top of Fátima to save her from one. What would be happening in the square? As he wondered he fought for the manure with the others who were trying to collect it. ‘You mustn’t let us down this evening,’ the foreman had warned him. ‘At the very least you’ve got to fill the basket. It will do for the top layer of the pit.’

  Hernando had one advantage over the others who were after the manure: he was not frightened of horses and was able to take advantage of this. Collecting manure from a street once the horses had already gone by was different from collecting it just as the animal dropped it. The horses were nervous near the square; they knew what was happening. This was not the first time they had faced the bulls, in the city or the countryside, and they were rearing and whinnying with obvious anxiety. His rivals were not used to dealing with thoroughbreds belonging to noblemen, some of which were bad-tempered, and all of which were highly strung. As soon as Hernando saw that one of them was dropping dung and that someone was running to collect it, he would rush out and deliberately startle the horse. His rivals would usually back off in fear from the steed’s threatening legs, and Hernando would pounce on the manure. The noblemen’s servants who acted as grooms and who alternated between Plaza de las Cañas and the Corredera, depending on whether their lord was there or not, found this contest highly amusing, and would alert Hernando when one of the horses began dropping.

  By the time the square was cheering the arrival of the seventh bull, he had filled the large grass basket. He was not permitted to enter the tannery on a Sunday so he sent word to the foreman who came looking for the manure.

  ‘We’ll have time to fill another one,’ the man said as he took the basket.

  Hernando snorted angrily when the foreman turned his back and headed for the tannery. He took advantage of the moment to slip through the servants until he reached the entrance gate for the horsemen beside the white wall on the south side of the square. He found himself alongside a young groom with whom he had exchanged smiles during the tussles over the horse droppings. Until now, the fiesta had proceeded without incident: each nobleman displaying his bullfighting craft with more or less skill for the enjoyment of the people. Hernando managed to lean on the fence that served as a gate just as a large red bull launched itself at a horseman mounted on a chestnut horse similar to the one Aben Humeya had once presented to him. For a moment or two, Hernando felt that tough chestnut between his legs again, and imagined he was a Muslim nobleman high in the Alpujarra, free in the mountains, eager for victory . . . The din ringing throughout the square brought him back to reality. The horseman had made a mistake with the lance, which had slipped and pierced the bull’s rump, where the wound was not fatal. Instantly, another nobleman came to the rescue and pranced about on his horse to distract the bull and get it away from the first horseman so it didn’t attack him. Once the horseman had steadied himself, the second lance was enough to wound the bull fatally. The eighth bull, a nut-brown beast, did no more than trot round the square threatening to gore and then running away from the people who taunted it. One of the noblemen shouted at it and the bull raced four or five yards before stopping in front of the horseman and backing off. People began to whistle.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Hernando asked the young servant.

  ‘It’s too tame,’ he answered without taking his eyes off the bullring. ‘The horsemen won’t fight it,’ he added.

  And so it turned out. The four noblemen in the Corredera at that moment withdrew solemnly, making those at the gate clear a path. The gangway was shut again; and by the time Hernando had taken up his position once more, he saw that the square had filled with people and even dogs, who were chasing and taunting the animal. One of the many capes they threw at its head got snared in the bull’s horns, blinding it. This was the cue for several men to jump on its back and set about stabbing it. Others set about its legs to slit its tendons. One of the men succeeded in severing the main tendon of the animal’s left leg with a scythe and the bull fell. From there they went on stabbing until it was dead.

  They ha
d still not finished cutting off its tail when the next bull entered the square; a smaller one but very agile, full of movement, dark coloured with a white nose.

  ‘Out of the way, idiot!’

  Hernando was so absorbed by the bull that he did not realize the groom and the others had moved away from the fence. He obeyed the order and cleared a path for a fat nobleman whose tunic looked as if it was about to burst over his stomach. Two sullen footmen followed in his wake, while behind them rode three more nobles who joked as they pointed at the fat horseman ahead of them.

  ‘The Count of Espiel,’ the young servant whispered, as if, despite the racket and the distance separating them, the count could hear him. ‘He has no idea how to fight bulls but he insists time and again on coming out to the square.’

  ‘Why?’ Hernando asked in the same whisper.

  ‘Pride? Honour?’ was all the young man said by way of reply.

  No sooner had he set foot in the square than the footman who was not carrying the lances began to shout at the crowd to stop pestering the bull and let the confrontation with his lord take place. They grudgingly gave up on the entertainment the other nobles had let them enjoy, and even avoided whistling when the Count of Espiel called the bull and turned his horse quickly to the left to be better able to deal with the charge. Hernando saw that the other noblemen were no longer smiling. One of them, clad in purple, was shaking his head. Despite the fact the horse was in a good position for taking on the bull, the count missed and struck the animal on the snout with the point of the lance when it jumped up before reaching the horse. The lance was knocked from his hand. The count swore and, unable to stop the charge, missed a precious opportunity to get the horse out of the bull’s path.

  He sank his spurs in the horse’s flanks but the bull had already hurled itself at it and, in full flight, gored the horse’s stomach with its two impressive horns. The count was thrown and rolled on the ground while his horse remained hoisted on the spirited bull’s horns. After a few strides the bull raised its head, pitching the horse into the air and slitting its belly as if it were nothing more than an old piece of cloth. The horse’s dying neighs reached the furthest spectators in the Corredera. The bull lowered its head; the horse fell to the ground and the bull went on tormenting its victim, goring it time and again, dragging it round the square, determined to destroy it and oblivious to the riders trying to distract it. The beast pushed the horse over to the fence where Hernando was standing. Blood spattered him when the bull tossed the horse again; the animal’s intestines and organs flew through the air.

  Before Hernando realized it, the Count of Espiel had positioned himself in front of the bull and the dead horse, sword in hand.

  ‘Bull!’ he roared, grasping his weapon in both hands high above his head. The bull heard the call and raised its blood-soaked head to the nobleman, at which point he landed a tremendous blow on the nape of its neck. The fine Toledo steel sliced halfway through the mound of flesh and the bull toppled over beside the horse.

  This was a count, a Spanish grandee! To begin with, the cheering was restrained, and came only from the nobles, his equals, but when the Count of Espiel raised his blood-spattered sword as a sign of victory, cheers rang out all round the Corredera.

  ‘A horse!’ the count shouted to one of his footmen while he proudly received the people’s acclaim.

  Hernando and the others had to make way again as the footman ran towards Plaza de la Paja in search of another horse.

  ‘What for?’ Hernando asked the servant.

  ‘Noblemen have to leave the square on horseback,’ he answered, ‘They can’t do so on foot. If his horse dies, they fetch him another one. It’s not the first time it’s happened with the count,’ he went on to say just as the count’s footman was coming back, leading a tall chestnut stallion by the bridle.

  ‘My horse!’ the count demanded from the bullring.

  Hernando and the servant helped to open the gangway fully to let the new mount through but as soon as it set eyes on the first horse and the bull dead in front of it, and smelt the blood from the huge pool that encircled them, it reared up and broke free among the crowd. A servant tried to grab it again but the animal was in a frenzy. It whinnied frantically and reared again, its hooves flailing in the air close by the servants’ heads, and immediately afterwards kicked out wildly. Two men were knocked flying by kicks to the chest and stomach, while another suffered a similar fate when the horse butted him fiercely. The count kept shouting for his horse but there was little space in the gangway and the crowd of servants trying to deal with the stallion only enraged it still further. Some of the other horsemen fighting the bulls approached the entrance to the square but did not seem inclined to help; one of them even smiled when he heard the Count of Espiel’s exasperated shouts.

  At this point, the stallion rose up on its hind legs and pawed the air just where Hernando and his companion were standing. Hernando jerked out of the way, seeing in his mind’s eye the image of the horse’s bloodshot eyes popping out of their sockets, the same colour of blood that burst from his companion’s face when the stallion’s hoof struck him full on the forehead. It would smash them to pieces! The animal was pawing the ground ready to rear up again when Hernando jumped on its head. He covered its eyes with his body, then grabbed hold of one of its ears and bit it as hard as he could, while he wrenched at the other one. He felt the horse’s painful whinny in his stomach, and when the animal lowered its head under his weight, Hernando twisted its neck sharply and viciously until he’d hauled it to the ground.

  With Hernando lying on its head and still biting its ear, the horse tried to stagger to its feet, but failed because it could not bend its neck. It struggled as hard as it could for a few moments but gradually gave up.

  ‘Keep still!’ he heard someone shout at the servants who had come running.

  He stopped biting the animal’s ear but kept the other one twisted in his hand. All he could think to do was quietly recite some suras with his lips close to the horse’s ear in an effort to calm it down. He stayed that way for a few long moments, without looking at anything or anybody, reciting suras while the horse began to breathe normally again.

  ‘I’m going to cover its face with a cloak, lad.’ It was the same voice that had ordered the servants to stay still. Hernando could only see some silver spurs. ‘I’ll slip it between your body and the horse’s head. Don’t let it get up.’

  Hernando clung on, making room for the man with the silver spurs to spread the cloak. As he was doing so, Hernando also heard him complain quietly: ‘Pompous ass! He doesn’t deserve to own such horses.’ Hernando pulled his stomach in, watching the man slide the cloak between his belly and the horse’s head. ‘Idiot grandee!’ the man muttered as he finished the task. ‘Now,’ he told Hernando, ‘you must let him up bit by bit. First he’ll turn his neck to lift his head and then he’ll stretch his front legs to give him some purchase.’ Hernando already knew this. ‘That’s when you must finish wrapping the cloak under his jaw so that he can’t get free. Can you do it? Can you handle it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now,’ the man said.

  Exhausted, the stallion got to its feet much more slowly than Hernando had been anticipating, so he had no difficulty knotting the cloak under the jaw as the man with the spurs had said. Once on its feet, the horse stood quietly, its face hooded. Hernando stroked its neck and whispered to calm it. One of the count’s servants went to take the horse by the bridle but a hand stopped him.

  ‘Incompetent fools!’ Hernando turned towards that familiar voice. Don Diego López de Haro, a councillor of Córdoba, master of the King’s horse to Philip II, was standing next to him. ‘You’ll only enrage the poor horse again,’ he said to the servant. ‘You don’t even know how to recognize a good horse, like your—’ He fell silent and shook his head. ‘You’re only fit to deal with asses and donkeys! Lad, you lead it to the count.’ Hernando noticed how Don Diego spat out that last word.


  What he did not see was the way the nobleman half closed his eyes and rested his chin in his right hand, interested to see what Hernando would do when he entered the square: the stallion would smell the blood again. And it did. The horse tried to pull back, but Hernando tugged at the bridle and gave the animal a sharp kick in the stomach. The stallion quivered, but obeyed and stepped into the Corredera. Hernando had already gone past the corpses of the horse and the bull, with Don Diego nodding in satisfaction at his back, when the Count of Espiel shouted at him from where he was still waiting: ‘How dare you kick my horse? It is worth more than your life!’

  The two footmen attending the nobleman in the square ran towards Hernando. One snatched the bridle out of his hand, while the other tried to grab hold of his arm.

  ‘Seize him!’ the Count of Espiel ordered.

  After their long wait, the crowd began to shout again. No sooner had Hernando felt the footman touch his arm than he roused the stallion, which whirled round and sent the footmen flying with its rump. Hernando took advantage of the confusion to make his escape. He leapt over the carcass of the bull and started to run towards Plaza de la Paja. As he passed by Don Diego, the nobleman waved at the servants he had been talking to as he watched how Hernando got on in the square. The footmen ran after him. When he saw that two footmen were chasing the lad, one of the bailiffs who was keeping an eye on Plaza de la Paja threw himself on Hernando and managed to hold on to him. A little further back, several of the Count of Espiel’s servants were also trying to catch up with him.