The Matador's Crown

“The crowd doesn’t attend to witness a grisly murder,” Garin continued, “but rather the art of man against beast as each offers his very life in a competition that pits grace and style against ferocity and danger.”

She could buy into that. To a point. “Except when the picador enters, then the grace and style fades and the cheating begins.”

Garin shook his head and popped open another beer that again seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. “Annja, I won’t even try. I had expected you, of all people, to have an open mind about this event.”

“I can look at it objectively.” There was a certain art to bullfighting. “Just call me a nonpartisan observer.”

She understood the first capework performed by the matador was designed to tire the bull, to seek out its weaknesses and exploit them. It was a mind game between man and beast. It was the moment when the bull showed its mettle, be it gentle and awkward when approaching the cape or determined and ferocious with each charge. It was also the first time the bull had ever seen a man on foot and not mounted on a horse.

But her carefully restrained judgment nudged loose as the picador rode in on his horse, wielding the long spear he would use to poke the bull in the shoulder muscle to further weaken it. Rumors held that often the horse was drugged to keep it docile and less skittish.

The horse the picador rode was shielded with a heavily padded mattresslike fabric and was turned to one side to give the bull a charging target, diverting its attention from the matador, who had successfully avoided all the bull’s charges, giving the beast nothing to connect with. The picador provided the bull something to charge after so many false charges against the matador, to give it encouragement as the beast’s instinct to charge the cape might fade.

With his eight-foot lance, the picador stabbed the bull in the morillo, the huge neck muscle, in an effort to make it swell and weaken the animal. Before the picador could maneuver the horse to move in for the second lance, the crowd hissed as the bull pinned the horse against the wood barrier surrounding the ring. The picador flew off over the side of the barrier and into the contrabarrera, leaving the horse alone with the bull. A horn penetrated the horse’s unprotected chest and the dying whinny forced Annja’s attention back to Garin.

The man wasn’t watching. His gaze followed the matador, who’d retreated behind the protective barrier. The matador was no fool. As much as Garin argued that bullfighting was an art, the horse was the most unsuspecting victim of it all.

“So what brings you to Cádiz?” she asked, unable to take in what was happening below. “You mentioned you were already here. What, were you following me?”

“I had no idea you were in the city until Roux’s call.” He nodded toward the ring. “Manuel is a good friend. He’s invited me for the week. I’ll introduce you to him following the match.”

It would intrigue her to meet the man who currently caped the bull away from the dying horse. A man who stood arrogantly bold and waited for the bull to charge before swishing the cape behind him and redirecting the bull’s aim.

To more rousing cheers of “Olé,” the matador worked a crowd-pleasing performance and even picced the bull himself, placing the bright blue-and-pink-ribboned barbed darts—which looked to Annja like big cocktail sticks—at the hump of the bull’s neck with a daring charge directly at the animal. The trick was to jump high and to the side to avoid the horns. Normally this act was performed by the banderilleros, but some matadors chose to do it themselves out of machismo and to further impress the crowd.