The Star of Kazan

‘I found this last night. Read it, Zed, quickly.’ And to the two men, ‘Please let him read it. Please?’

Zed took the sheet of paper she held out to him.

‘Go on then,’ said the tall man, and took the halter rope from Zed. ‘But remember, we are busy people.’

Zed opened the letter. He recognized the handwriting at once and his heart beat faster. It was from the Freiherr von Tannenburg to the head of the stud at Zverno, asking him to find a horse suitable for his grandson, Hermann. ‘Something very steady and quiet,’ he wrote, ‘as the boy is not a natural horseman. I’m giving Rocco to Zed; I think together they will go far.’

The rest of the letter was about the price he was willing to pay for Hermann’s horse and the details of how he wanted it to be sent.

The letter was dated the sixteenth of March 1906 and had never been posted because the following day the old man had his stroke and neither wrote nor spoke again.

For a moment Zed could not speak. It was as though the man he had loved so much was there beside him. Then he felt an incredible relief and joy. He was not a thief. Rocco was his.

‘He’s my horse,’ he said in a dazed voice, looking up at the two men. ‘I haven’t stolen him. He belongs to me.’

‘Well, of course he belongs to you,’ said the tall man. ‘Anyone can see that. Now please don’t keep us waiting any longer.’

‘Why?’ Zed was suddenly very angry. ‘Why should I come along? I haven’t done anything. I suppose it’s because my mother was a gypsy. You’re going to find something you can use against me and arrest me – my people have always been persecuted.’

The tall man sighed. ‘What’s the matter with you, boy? We’re not from the police.’

‘Well, where are you from then?’

The tall man was displeased. He had thought that everyone in Vienna knew who he was; certainly everyone who owned a horse.

‘Here is my card,’ he said.

Zed looked at it and read: ‘Herr Kapitan Muller, Deputy Director, Imperial Spanish Riding School’.

At the gates of the Stallburg a groom came and led Rocco away into the stables he had passed so often. He went reluctantly, looking back at Zed again and again, but the groom who led him soothed his fears and took him forward.

Zed followed Captain Muller into his office, on the other side of the street. It was a big room, filled with pictures and statuettes of horses and silver cups. On the walls was a tapestry of trophies and rosettes, citations from the emperor and signed portraits.

The captain sat down behind his desk and the man with the ginger moustache got out his pen, ready to take notes.

‘I want to ask you a few questions about your stallion. What is his name?’

My stallion, thought Zed dazedly. Mine!

‘Rocco. His full name is Rococo Florian Devanya.’

The captain exchanged glances with his assistant.

‘Do you know anything about his pedigree? Where was he foaled?’

‘He comes from the stud at Zverno, in Hungary. My father was the manager there till . . . he was killed.’

‘What was your father’s name?’

‘Tibor Malakov.’

The two men exchanged glances. ‘It begins to become clear,’ the captain said. ‘I met your father once or twice. A man who knew his job. He died trying to stop a fight, I believe?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Rocco was foaled there. Do you know his dam?’

‘She was a mare we got from a man called Count Halvan. He used to get horses from the stud at Lipizza and cross them with Arabs he bought from a breeder at Cadiz. They’ll have the papers at Zverno.’

‘So one could be certain of some Lipizzaner blood. A quarter.’ The captain was speaking in a low voice to his assistant. ‘That might be enough to get it past the committee.’ He turned back to Zed. ‘Now tell us how you came by him. Tell us everything you know about the horse.’

So Zed told them about the visit of the Freiherr to the stud and the finding of the foal. Now that he was no longer afraid of being branded a thief, he told them everything: about his efforts to stop Hermann riding him, about the Freiherr’s death.

‘But you yourself have been riding him? And training him?’

‘I had to ride him up to a point. I rode him to Vienna. But he’s very young – just four – and I didn’t want him to do unnecessary tricks. The things he does were mostly the things he wanted to do. He likes learning things.’

Captain Muller nodded.

‘And the levade he performed in the Prater? The one that saved the life of that little boy? Did you teach him that?’

Zed flushed. ‘Not really. He likes to rear up and . . . well, I suppose I moved my weight a bit and showed him how to hold it . . . but I know horses have to be trained very carefully and that’s a movement that needs their muscles to be mature. With the boy in the Prater it was mostly his instinct.’

‘Hmm. It’s true horses don’t trample people if they can possibly avoid it, but I think there was rather more than instinct at work there.’

There was a knock at the door and a messenger in a brown uniform with brass buttons put his head round the door. ‘Here’s the report from the stable, sir.’