Stremaçone and Molinero

1587-12-27
Sala d’Armi, Bonona

Maros set a sidesword in my hand and traced a diagonal on the chalk star. The stremaçone began high and fell through a circle that landed me in guard on the opposite low. Hips turned. Shoulders followed. The blade drew its own path if I let the wrist stay quiet. On the star I stepped from point to point, breath steady, recover clean.

Then he taught the molinero. The blade milled around the hand in smooth rotation. Not hacking. Not carving. A wheel that kept my edge awake while my intent stayed hidden. I felt the weight pass like water from finger to finger. The curtain formed without stiffness. When I tested distance the circle stole space, then gave it back on my terms.

Sweat gathered. Shoulders burned. The rhythm settled. Downbeat for the stremaçone, upbeat for the recover, the molinero turning between like a drumroll. Maros touched my elbow and the angle sharpened. He moved my foot a finger’s width and the line appeared. “Let the circle lie,” he said. “When they reach for it, show the straight.”

I left the hall with a wheel still spinning in my hands and the sense that circles are honest only until you need them to lie.