Sangre De Toro (Old Draft - Now Published!)

Chapter 46 - Lex Talionis

AN: Please listen to the song while reading

'Now we're getting started!'

'Yep, here we go! 2 and a half hours of bullfighting - best thing is, there's none of that bloody hassle with passport control in Madrid!' As the spectators chatted, Chicero's feet skittered across the sand, running round and round. The metallic scent of the other bull's blood reached Pepelito's nostrils as he stood in his cell, unable to move. In the dark, cramped space, bombarded with awful sounds, he could smell his friend's fear and almost feel his pain.

Pepelito had expected to be first, tried to prepare as best he could.

This was much, much worse.

He had to stop them. But trapped here, what could he do?

'They've even managed to get horses down here - the horseback matadors are always my favourites!' The spectators' happy voices filled Pepelito with loathing. He shifted around desperately, scraped the floor with his feet. A slight depression lay in the ground in front of him, under the door; he could wedge the very tip of his right foot into the opening, when he pushed hard. When he rammed his foot in harder, it gave way a little.

He took a step backwards and slammed his hind leg against the back wall. He paced forwards and pressed his foot to the narrow gap. The rough metal scraped his hoof hard but he could jam the end in a bit further. He kicked the ground with his other foot, but it did nothing.

They were going to do to Chicero what they'd done to Ladron.

Rita was sobbing somewhere, almost inaudible above the baying audience. Pepelito had smelt her scent earlier; she was so sad and hungry. He'd heard her in a fight; a bad one. He kicked at the tiny depression until a speck of light appeared, jolted it until he could get his right foot all the way underneath, and part of his left. He shoved one hind foot, then the other, against the back wall, forcing the gap wider with his whole body.

'This bull's not charged once. I didn't pay £1500 to see it running away.'

'Bet he wishes he'd tried harder to stay inside,' one aficionado laughed above him. Some spectators were smoking cigars. Most were drinking heavily. Indoors, all these smells overpowered his nose, making him sneeze. A Highland bull, stolen from a farm in Scotland, gave a pitiful cry from a nearby cell.

'Now, what's the matter? This won't cause any harm,' Lord Owenstoft's soft voice mocked Chicero. Pepelito didn't like horses. But as he wiggled his foot around in the gap, he sensed this horse was ancient. He smelt its terror; like him, it didn't want to be there. The crowd booed timid, gentle Chicero as he bellowed for help, all alone.

Don't go near that horse, Pepelito told him.

'Too bad they can't use the old style fire banderillas on this coward. Doesn't anywhere still sell them?'

'Oh, Chicero, I know you're scared. But if you won't come to the horse,' Lord Owenstoft's voice was full of fake kindness. The crowd fell silent with expectation. Panting, Pepelito jammed both his feet the whole way into the gap between the door and the arena, the urge to stop them hurting his friend overriding his every instinct.

'Then, I'm afraid, we'll have to punish you.'

Pepelito pushed his hooves further forward. They now touched the sand. Don't be afraid, he told Chicero. His friend wasn't in any place to hear him. With a horrendous shriek, Chicero leapt high into the air, landing with a sickening thud. Pepelito's tail thrashed in rage. He kicked the back door hard, unable to bear the torture they inflicted.