The Star of Kazan

The captain took it, and read it in silence. Then he said, ‘This is only the result of the first quick examination. But it confirms what you said – the horse is just four years old, and in good shape physically. And they’ve found the Zverno brand on his withers.’ The captain leaned back in his chair. ‘I wonder,’ he said slowly, ‘if you know the story of the Emperor’s Horse?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I don’t know if it’s a true story. Nothing is written down about it, but it’s part of the heritage of the Imperial Spanish Riding School.’ He folded his hands. ‘A s you’re aware, it is only the white stallions that are trained to become performers and to learn the “airs above the ground”. And even then, of all the stallions bred at Lipizza, only a very few are suitable for the training. The work is incredibly hard, for both the horse and the rider, and it takes years of patience. A horse who doesn’t enjoy the work is not suitable. Such horses are sent back to Lipizza or to our farm near Piber, and either sold as riding horses or kept for stud.

‘So you will see then that the horses we have here are all greys . . . the “white horses of Vienna”, that is our trademark, you might say.

‘But in every performance now there is just one horse that is not white. A horse that performs along with the rest: a bay horse. And it is known as the Emperor’s Horse because having it in the troupe is supposed to bring luck to the Imperial House of Hapsburg and to the city.

‘Apparently many, many years ago there was an epidemic at Lipizza and a great many of the horses died. It was impossible to send all the greys they needed in Vienna, so the manager sent along one bay. He was called Siglovy Rondina. He was a Lipizzaner all right, but he didn’t turn white. As you know, Lipizzaners start dark and turn light gradually – but not all of them do. Some stay dark and sometimes among them you get a bay. This particular bay turned out to be a wonderful horse to train and they put him into a performance just once, with apologies to the audience. That’s him over there.’ He pointed to a picture on the wall behind him. ‘But he was a great success, and that year none of the horses at Lipizza died; the epidemic was over. And the stable men said the bay had brought luck to the Imperial Spanish Riding School and it came to be called the Emperor’s Horse. One year they couldn’t find a bay, all the horses they used were white, and that was the year that the empress was assassinated . . . And another year when they didn’t use a bay the crown prince died. Since then we’ve always tried to find a bay to work along with the rest – and that horse, whatever his real name, is known as the Emperor’s Horse. So that’s how the story came into being. We don’t advertise it because everyone knows the Lipizzaners are white, but for the people who work with the horses it’s important.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Now do you see what I’m trying to tell you?’

Zed shook his head.

‘Come, boy . . . We have a bay now, but he’s old and the bay we tried out as a replacement has not proved suitable. We think . . . it is possible . . . only possible, not even probable, let alone certain . . . that your horse . . . that Rocco could be trained to become part of our team. That he could become the Emperor’s Horse. There are many difficulties. We only use horses that have Lipizzaner blood, usually pure, so that is one hurdle. There are always sticklers for the letter of the law. And he might prove to be quite unsuitable after further training. But the question I brought you here to answer is this. Would you be prepared to give Rocco to the Imperial Spanish Riding School? You know how we work – it would take several years to train him, and he would have only one rider always, so it is a decision for life.’

Zed was silent. He imagined Rocco disappearing through the great gates of the Stallburg forever. Imagined him turning his head reproachfully as Zed allowed him to go to strangers, heard his whicker of reproach. Tears stung his eyes, and he bent his head. But he knew what he had to say. He had owned Rocco knowingly only for a few hours, and now he must let him go. ‘Rocco is a person who happens to be a horse,’ he had said to Pauline. How could he deny him his chance?

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

‘Would I be able to see him sometimes . . . to talk to his rider . . . or is it not allowed?’

The captain looked at him impatiently. ‘Don’t be silly, boy. His rider of course would be – you.’

C

HAPTER

F

ORTY

P

AULINE

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S

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CRAPBOOK

After she had stormed out of Annika’s farewell supper, Pauline shut herself up in the bookshop.

Her grandfather was away at a book sale; Zed had dismantled his camp bed and taken his things next door to pack.

‘I am alone,’ said Pauline to herself in a hollow voice. ‘I shall always be alone. My friend is going back to her man-eating mother because she’s a snob and doesn’t like me enough to stay in Vienna. Very well. I shall manage. I have my books. I have my dreams.’