I am silent.
“When did you begin actual casting?” the Queen asks. I try to disregard her obvious skepticism.
She is dressed in white and gold; he has on one of his dark cloaks lined with down; he has rings set with emeralds; she reeks of cologne and sweat. Her pinched face is regally ugly—somehow provincial.
“I began casting the horse in December...’93...casting it on its side. I placed the mould in a shallow cavity. I opened it on the left side. I could have completed the casting if there had been sufficient bronze. I am sure you know that cannons had priority at that time.”
They knew, too, about the Gascon bowmen.
I understand they had watched the archers, as they used my clay model for target. Watched my Cavallo disintegrate.
I watched, hating, hating those bowmen. How they cheered as arrows pierced the model.
Now I watched the King and Queen.
“In Milan, in those days, the Sforza stables were at my disposal. I chose a magnificent horse—Cermonino—as my model. Alone, or with a groom, I would ride into the country, where it was pleasant and we were free of gapers. I would dismount and sketch my horse. Or the groom would lead him back and forth, while I sketched, to record a sense of motion.
“Other times I would ride Cermonino, race him, sweat him; then I’d draw his distended mouth, his swollen nostrils, his wild mane...