Prologue

Vienna, Austria, the Spanish Riding School

Seated behind the balustrade, Dr. Werner Pohl, sixty-nine years old, director of the Spanish Riding School, tall and spare as a riding crop, fixes his penetrating gaze on the lead horse in the arena. It is dress rehearsal and he is watching the final movement of the haute école. Adolphus, one of the finest stallions ever bred at the Piber Stud, moves with quiet pride, neck arched, hooves spurning the raked sand. His rider, uniformed in the rust- colored livery of the bygone Hapsburgs, sits still as stone, back straight, hands firm, eyes intent on the fluid perfection of his performance. Seven horses follow. The violins of Bizet’s L’Arlésienne Suite play sweetly in the background.

Pohl watches the superb precision of the stallion’s movements and his heart thuds with relief. So far, everything has gone perfectly. Perhaps he is mistaken and the limp he noticed earlier never happened. More than likely it is a figment of his imagination, a result of too little sleep and the demands of an exhausting schedule. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

Pleased that he has nothing negative to report, he is about to turn away when something catches his eye, a movement, flawed, out of place, definitely unrehearsed, so quickly recovered that it seems as if it never happened. But it has. This time there is no doubt. Once again, his star stallion, Adolphus, shortens his stride, stumbles and is pulled back by his rider.

Leaning back against the red velvet balustrade, Werner Pohl closes his eyes. Pain, searing and complete, consumes him. Another one down. How many more to follow? It is a rhetorical question. He is a trainer, an instructor, not a veterinarian or a breeder. He will consult with Heinz Lundgren at the Piber Stud.

Piber, a nine-hundred-year-old village fifteen miles from the hub of Graz, has been home to the Stud since the end of World War I. Lundgren, a slight man in jodhpurs and wire-rimmed glasses, manages a staff who provides for approximately one hundred and fifty Lipizzaners.

Pohl finds him in the pasture surrounded by mares and their foals. They are nuzzling his pockets, hoping for carrots or lumps of sugar. He waves Lundgren to the road, waiting impatiently until he climbs through the fence and stands beside him. Pohl doesn’t mince words. “Adolphus has symptoms. This is disastrous. Something must be done.”

Lundgren leans against the fence and whistles through his teeth. “Are you sure?”

“If you mean has he been diagnosed, no. But he stumbles. His gait is unsure. He rests with his weight on the toe.”

“How many is that now?”

“All of them, Heinz, every stallion over twelve years.”

Lundgren looks at the ground. Werner Pohl is a legend when it comes to training and showing Lipizzaners. He can feel the older man’s pain. “What can I do to help you, Dr. Pohl?”

“We must make this stop. We must infuse new blood. We cannot train a stallion for eight years and have him ruined before his prime.”

“New blood is possible,” Lundgren says slowly, “but it will take time. We don’t know if the problem is inherited, or if it is due to conformation.”

“Both are the results of inbreeding.”

Lundgren frowns. “I wish I had an immediate solution. But these are Lipizzaners. Of course they are inbred.”

“We’ve eliminated the ram head. We can eliminate the caudal heel.”

“The ram head was eliminated by selection within the race,” Lundgren reminds him patiently. They have been down this road before. “It is a visible characteristic. Caudal heel doesn’t show up for years. Where will we find trained Lipizzaners, ten years and older, who haven’t been a part of our breeding program?”

Both men are silent. Each knows what the other is thinking.

Pohl breaks the silence. He speaks grimly. “We have been very patient with Franz’s son. I think it is time to remove the gloves.”

“We should leave politics to the diplomats,” suggests Lundgren. “Perhaps the ambassador can be enlisted.”

Pohl grins. “I’ve heard that California is lovely in the spring. Don’t you trust me, Heinz?”

Heinz Lundgren fights his rising panic. Before the First World War, every court in Europe had it’s classic riding school. Now there is only one. The reputation of the Spanish Riding School must be maintained. This is a matter of the utmost delicacy. Pohl can be arrogant and gruff. He is a horsemaster, not a politician. Deciding it is worth the risk to stick his neck out, he speaks. “The ambassador will serve us well, Dr. Pohl. You are needed in Vienna.”