City of Stars

by Mary Hoffman

  In the Twelfth of the Twins, Riccardo the Horsemaster was expecting an illustrious guest: Niccolò, Duke of Giglia and head of the powerful di Chimici family. He was staying with his younger brother Ferdinando, who was Pope and also Prince of Remora. Although Remora was the official centre of the di Chimici’s growing Republic, it was to the north, in Giglia, that the real power lay, with the Duke and his heirs.

  Niccolò, great-grandson of the founder of the di Chimici dynasty, had five living children, four of them sons, and was the most ambitious man in all Talia. Under his direction the di Chimici family had spread their network through all the major cities in the north of the country and now held power in most of them. Only the tiresome city-state of Bellezza off the north-east coast had held out against any alliance with him or his family. And Niccolò had a plan about that too.

  But here in Remora, his position was secure. As he walked the few hundred yards from the Papal palace to the stables of the Twelfth of the Twins, he had to stop a dozen times to exchange pleasantries with wealthy merchants or accept the homage of poorer citizens who wanted to kiss his hand. Niccolò arrived at the stables in a very good mood.

  Riccardo, the Horsemaster of the Twins, was bursting with pride. The Pope had visited the day before and now here was the Duke of Giglia, reputed to be the richest man in Talia, coming to inspect the horses. He saved the best animal till last.

  ‘And this, your Grace, is the one we shall run in the Stellata.’

  Niccolò looked at the highly-strung bay, who flared his nostrils and bucked slightly in his stall. He stroked the horse’s nose with his gloved hand and spoke soothingly to him, then turned to the Horsemaster.

  ‘What’s the competition this year?’

  ‘Well, your Grace, you know how secretive everyone is about their horses in the city,’ Riccardo began a little nervously.

  Niccolò di Chimici fixed him with a cold stare. ‘But you are paid not just to tend horses but to find out such secrets, are you not?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, your Grace,’ muttered the Horsemaster. ‘And things will be easier now I have a new groom. He came specifically recommended by your Grace’s nephew, the ambassador to Bellezza. Signor Rinaldo tells me this man has done him some great service and is renowned for his ability to sniff out secrets.’

  Niccolò smiled. He had heard something of the service done by this man in Bellezza. If it was the same man, he had rid the city of its fiercest opponent to the di Chimici family. And though the Duke’s nephew Rinaldo had failed to replace her with a puppet Duchessa, surely the city’s new ruler – a mere chit of a girl – would be much easier to influence?

  ‘Does he know anything about horses?’ was all he said to the Horsemaster.

  *

  Gaetano di Chimici was restless. He was staying in his uncle’s Papal palace while his father visited the city and he didn’t know what he was doing here. He would have much rather been in Giglia continuing his studies at the University. And he had a growing feeling that his father had some plan he was not sharing with him.

  Gaetano sighed. It was hard being part of the most important family in Talia. His father was at the centre of so many plots, always scheming how to get richer and more powerful. But Gaetano wasn’t really interested in any of them. He wanted to be left to his books and to his friends who, like him, were interested in painting and sculpture and music; not caught up in schemes for financing petty wars between city factions or forging alliances with other mercantile and princely families.

  It might have been different if he had been one of the older sons, but there was no one younger than him, except Falco, and poor Falco didn’t really count, much as Gaetano and all the family loved him. Fabrizio the eldest brother would inherit the Dukedom of Giglia. Carlo would be Prince of Remora, since Uncle Ferdinando as Pope had no children. Beatrice would doubtless be married off to one of the cousins – Alfonso perhaps, so that she could be Duchessa of Volana now that Uncle Fabrizio had died.

  What did that leave for him? He thought at one time that his father’s plans might have him marrying one of his cousins – Alfonso’s sister Caterina, maybe. As a child, Gaetano had been very close to another cousin, Francesca, whose father was Prince of Bellona, but he had heard a rumour lately that she had been married off to some old man in Bellezza as part of one of the family’s dynastic schemes.

  Gaetano shook his head. What a family! And now he was anxious that his father’s new plan might involve the church. Uncle Ferdinando would not live for ever and Niccolò must have decided who would succeed Ferdinando as Pope. Carlo had made it clear that he had no intention of going into the church – and that left Gaetano.

  ‘Well, I won’t do it,’ he resolved. ‘The church should be a vocation, not a political appointment. Why can’t I just be left to my studies?’

  But he knew the answer to that. All the di Chimici had to work for the success of the dynasty; even the women had to be prepared to marry where the head of the family decided they would. Their opinions and preferences didn’t come into it. And it was no different for the sons. Receive this Princedom, marry this Princess, take an embassy to this city, be ordained – it was all the same.

  Gaetano wondered if he could be the first di Chimici in five generations to say no.

  ‘Families,’ thought Georgia. ‘Why isn’t there another way of living together?’ Dinner at their house was always fraught and Georgia couldn’t see why her mother bothered. But Maura, who was a social worker, was completely opposed to people snacking and grazing or eating on their laps in front of the TV.

  ‘It’s the one time of the day we can sit down together as a family,’ she insisted, ‘and catch up with one another’s lives.’

  There were two things wrong with that idea, thought Georgia. Firstly, they were not a family and never would be. Even if she ever came to see Ralph as a father, she would never accept Russell as her brother. And secondly Maura was a lousy cook. Ralph was no better, and often the all-important family meal was heated up supermarket pizza or fish and chips from down the road.

  None of that made any difference to Maura. Off went the TV and radio, Georgia and Russell had to set the table with knives and forks even for food intended to be eaten with fingers, and the four of them sat down for twenty minutes of excruciating politeness and indigestion.

  Conversation consisted of questions from the adults and replies from the teenagers. Georgia and Russell never spoke directly to one another at dinner. In fact, Georgia realised, they never spoke to one another when their parents were around at all.

  On their own – a situation which she avoided as much as she could – Russell was much more communicative. He was that kind of bully. Sometimes Georgia wished he were less clever and more of a thug. If he had ever hit her, it would have been in some ways easier. If she’d had bruises on her body to show her mother, he would never have got away with it.

  But his was the harassment of hate, which left no visible marks, but made her shrivel inside. He got hold of her deepest fears and insecurities and dragged them out into the light, turning the harsh spotlight of his sarcasm on them.

  ‘Dog’ was his mildest epithet for her. He analysed in detail her unattractiveness, her lack of femininity, her obsession with horses. ‘We all know what that’s about, don’t we? Absolutely classic – a substitute for sex – all that muscular power between your legs. All horsey women are spinsters and dogs – just like you.’

  On and on the poison would spew out of his mouth and Georgia had no defence. Of course she had told her mother, several times, and had even spoken to Ralph about it once. But they insisted that she was exaggerating, that she must expect some teasing from an older brother, that she was too sensitive. And afterwards Russell would be worse, taunting her with her weakness in running to her mother for protection.

  Georgia would withdraw further into herself, hiding her vulnerability, hunching her shoulders further and speaking only in monosyllables, unable to understand why she inspired so much ha
tred in someone she hadn’t chosen to share her life with. After all, she had just as much reason – or as little – to hate him.

  The day that the flying horse came into her life ended badly. Although she had escaped spending time with Russell after school, she was horrified to discover at dinner (Sainsbury’s shepherd’s pie with frozen peas) that Maura and Ralph were going out to the cinema. This happened about once a month and, since the sort of films they liked were art house movies, often shot in black and white, they had given up asking Georgia and Russell if they wanted to join them. And at fifteen and seventeen there was no question of a sitter to keep them company.

  Georgia made for her room before the adults were out of the front door. She was soon immersed in biology homework. But eventually her own biology betrayed her; she had to go to the loo.

  Russell was on the landing. He lounged casually in front of the bathroom door, large and menacing. It crossed Georgia’s mind that it wouldn’t be beyond him to bar her access till she wet herself. That would give him wonderful new ammunition to ridicule her with. She was already mentally calculating a dash into Maura and Ralph’s tiny en-suite, when he moved his bulk away from the door and she made it just in time.

  When she came out of the bathroom, he was still there and he followed her into her bedroom; she wasn’t quite quick enough to lock him out. Now she was stuck with him there in her room until he chose to leave – one of her worst nightmare scenarios. He said nothing for a while and suddenly she saw her room through Russell’s eyes. It wasn’t like the room of other fifteen-year-old girls. There were no posters of popstars or TV heroes or even a good-looking continental footballer.

  The only poster in fact was a tatty old one of Everest Milton at the Horse of the Year Show, which Maura had taken Georgia to when she was seven. There was a framed print of a black horse and a white one galloping beside a river in full flood. Georgia knew it wasn’t a very good painting but she loved it anyway. The flying horse stood on her chest of drawers.

  ‘You are seriously retarded, you know,’ said Russell conversationally, almost pleasantly. ‘Girls of your age grow out of the horse thing, you know. Except those saddoes at the stables. And they’re all dykes.’

  Georgia couldn’t help herself. ‘You’ve never been to the stables – you don’t know anything about the people there!’

  It was always a mistake to defy Russell. He laughed unpleasantly.

  ‘I bet I do. I bet that’s why you like going there. They’ve probably started hitting on you. And you’re probably glad. After all, no bloke would ever look at you. Unless he was drunk and on a bet.’

  He was wandering round her room, picking up her things and putting them down carelessly. Georgia inched round till she had her back to the chest of drawers, shielding the winged horse from his gaze. She was going to have to hide it; it was too precious to let Russell get hold of it.

  ‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea,’ he was carrying on. ‘Why don’t you put up the money to get one of my friends hammered? And for a bet, to give you one? It’d be better than riding.’

  Georgia clenched her hands. A wild rage was building inside her and she wanted to hurl herself at Russell and pound him with her fists, even though she knew she would just look ridiculous against his bulk.

  Just then, the phone rang and Russell went off to answer it. She heard the casual supercool tone he adopted when talking to his friends. Georgia leapt to her door to lock it. Her hands were shaking. There was no way she would go back out to clean her teeth tonight; she would just go to bed and risk the plaque.

  Cesare took his lunch out to the stable, relieving Paolo from guard duty. He stroked Merla’s nose and spoke soothingly to her mother. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll soon have you safe. No one will take your foal.’

  He propped his back against a post and stretched his legs out in the straw. The grey cat emerged from nowhere and pushed her way on to his lap, purring and thrusting her wedge-shaped head into the hand holding his bread and cheese.

  Georgia lay on her back in the dark, tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes and trickling down into her ears. She was clutching the flying horse. She had never been as unhappy as this. Even when her baby brother had died and her dad had disappeared and her mum had cried all the time, Georgia had not been miserable herself. She had been a kid then and more concerned about whether there would be cake at tea-time and what to call the new doll Mum had given her when Ben was born.

  But now her life was a nightmare. She had few friends at school; most of the girls she had known at primary school seemed to have moved on in their lives. There was only one new girl, Alice, who seemed as if she might turn into a real friend. Russell was right in a way – Georgia was retarded, socially. She didn’t get asked to parties and she knew that the in-crowd in her class went to pubs and clubs at the weekends – places she would never have got into. Even with make-up and a short skirt and heels and a top that showed her belly button. In the dark, Georgia managed a small smile at the thought.

  And life at home had turned into one stratagem after the other to avoid Russell. But now keeping out of his way wasn’t enough. He was actively seeking her out, never happy unless he was tormenting her. She simply couldn’t carry on like this. If Mum wouldn’t help her, she would have to run away.

  Georgia fell asleep with the model of the flying horse in her hand, wishing she could find a place where horses had wings and she could fly away from her troubles for ever.

  Cesare was dozing. It was the cat who woke him up. She suddenly tensed on his lap, sitting bolt upright, her fur sticking out in all directions and a growl rumbling in her throat.

  He saw straightaway what had alarmed her. A boy, cowering in the corner, his eyes wide and terrified. Cesare leapt to his feet, amazed. He hadn’t really believed that one of the Ram’s enemies would send someone to kidnap Merla – least of all a skinny boy like a scared rabbit. But maybe he was just a spy?

  Cesare stepped forwards and raised his fists.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked roughly. ‘You’ve got no business here – be off with you!’

  Georgia understood nothing, except that she was in a stable. It was only the warmth and the familiar comforting smell of horses that was stopping her from screaming. She had no idea how she had got there or who the angry brown-haired boy was. He seemed to be deliberately blocking her view of something behind him. Something in his stance reminded her of herself shielding her ornament from Russell. Slowly she unclenched her hand that was holding the winged horse.

  The boy gasped. And as he moved forward to get a better look, she saw behind him a miraculous creature that could have been the model for the horse in her hand. A beautiful coal-black foal with two small feathery wings folded at its shoulders.

  Chapter 2

  A New Stravagante

  The two figures in the stable were frozen in time, each staring wide-eyed at a flying horse. Cesare relaxed a little. This strange boy, who didn’t seem much of a threat, was obviously completely surprised by the sight of the black filly. But why then did he hold a model of her?

  ‘Where did you get that?’ he asked.

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Georgia at the same time.

  It was such an odd question that Cesare forgot his own. He took a closer look at the boy. He was very odd indeed. His clothes for a start were made of some fine material such as only a rich merchant would wear in Remora, but they were baggy and shapeless without any grace of design or ornament, like something stitched together by the humblest of peasants. Yet he wore precious silver in his ears, like a young prince, and on his brow – something Cesare had never seen in Talia. It was all a riddle. Especially his not knowing where he was.

  ‘How did you come here, if you don’t know where you are?’ asked Cesare.

  Georgia shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘One minute I was in my bed in London, the next I was here in this stable. But it’s not part of the stables I go to. I don’t know any of these
horses. Especially that one. But she’s a real wonder, isn’t she?’

  Cesare recognised a fellow-enthusiast. He let Georgia move closer to the little filly. Surely, this strange boy who loved horses wouldn’t harm her?

  ‘And yet you carry her image,’ he said. ‘It is surely too much of a coincidence that you should arrive in the Twelfth of the Ram within hours of her being born, if you didn’t know she was here.’

  ‘But I didn’t,’ said Georgia. ‘How could I? I mean, horses with wings aren’t real. They just don’t happen.’

  ‘They do in Remora,’ said Cesare proudly. He couldn’t help himself. ‘Only once a century or so – and this time the honour falls to the Ram.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Georgia. ‘I don’t know what you mean by the Ram.’

  ‘Aren’t you from Remora?’ asked Cesare.

  ‘No,’ said Georgia, ‘I told you. I live in London, in Islington.’

  Then, as the boy still looked blank, she added, ‘In England. You know – Europe, the earth, solar system, the universe,’ the way she used to write it in her schoolbooks.

  ‘Anglia?’ said the boy. ‘But you are in Talia now. In Remora, its most important city. How could you have come here without knowing it?’

  He looked closely at the boy to see if he was lying. Then he noticed his swollen eyes and the dirty tracks of tears down his face and felt ashamed. Something had made this lad desperately unhappy. He was only a year or so younger than Cesare but the Talian boy couldn’t ever remember being so unhappy that he had cried like that.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked awkwardly. ‘Has someone been hurting you?’

  And then it all came flooding back to Georgia. Russell’s bullying, her feeling of being trapped in her room, her longing to escape to a world where horses could fly. Maybe she was back in the time and place where the Etruscans lived? What was that called – Etruria? But the boy had said Remora, in Talia, and she hadn’t heard of either of those places. She closed her eyes wearily. Perhaps when she opened them again he would have disappeared, along with the miraculous filly and the whole stable?