“Giorgio—” His voice sounds winded, like a run-out dog. He tries again. “Giorgio, I have made her coat damp. It will help you stick on. Now, run the best race of your life.” He unties her from the iron ring. “Here, she is yours. I have done all I can. Now rules Fate, the Queen of the Palio.”
Giorgio takes the reins and studies the mare from pricked ears to tail. Her neck is frosted with foam, her nostrils distended, her eyes darkly intent. He does not answer the groom. He has just himself to answer. “No! No! Not Fate!”
Only a few seconds to go.
A squad of guards marches in, surrounds the starter to escort him to his box beneath the judges’ scaffold. The man walks out slowly, his face showing worry; he knows full well that if he releases the starting rope an instant too late, ten horses may fall, and his own life be threatened by angry throngs.
The Chief-of-the-Town-Guards takes his post at the entrance of the Palazzo. In one hand he holds a white flag, in the other, ten nerbos. He looks out into the square, watches the starter mount his box, watches the ragno, the little spider-man, climb up to his cage, ready to touch off the gunpowder. He turns his head back to the courtyard. The horses and fantinos are ready.
Now! He lifts the white flag, waving it on high to alert the ragno. Bang! The air quivers as the bomb bursts in a deafening percussion. It is the signal for the fantinos to ride out. The roaring in the amphitheater stops as if cut off by a sharp knife. The silence is full of mystery, almost of pain. Then sixty thousand throats cry out:
“A cavallo! A cavallo! To horse! To horse!”
As each jockey in turn rides out, the Chief presents him with the nerbo. Instinctively, the horses who have been in a Palio before shy in fright.
Giorgio’s breath catches in his throat. His right hand, still tingling from gripping the lance, now accepts the nerbo from the firm hands of the Chief. “Will I have to use it?” he asks himself.
Out from the maw of the courtyard the cavalcade moves forward toward the starting rope. Through his legs and thighs he can feel the mare’s heart pounding against him. He hears the starter call out the horses in order. He prays for first position—or last.
“Number one, Lupa, the Wolf!” A thunder of applause goes up, boos and cheers mingling.
“Number two, the Tower!
“Aquila, the Eagle, number three!
“Tartuca, the Turtle, four!”
As they are called, the horses prance up, take their positions between the ropes. Eagle and Wolf are jumpy, move about, change positions. The starter sternly sends all four horses back, recalls them again one by one, then goes on:
“Number five, Drago, the Dragon!
“Number six, Civetta, the Owl!
“Montone, the Ram, seven!”
The whistles and the shouts are strong. “Up with Montone! Up with Montone! Up with Ivan!”
“Istrice, the Porcupine, eight!
“Giraffa, nine!”
The nine wait tensely for the final call. Giorgio tries to conceal his joy. He will be number ten! He knows the rules, revels in them. The number ten horse starts behind the others. With a rush she will come up to the rope and trigger the race.
The starter raises his megaphone. His voice shrills: “Number ten, Onda! Come on!”
Giorgio’s heart beats with a wild gladness. Now it is! The time for action! He lifts Gaudenzia’s head; she leaps forward. The rope drops at the split instant she touches it. It rolls free, coiling up on itself, almost onto her pasterns. As it falls to the track, ten horses are off like gunshot, Gaudenzia in the lead!
With Montone hot on her heels, she travels fast in spite of the sticky track. Landmarks spin by—the Fonte Gaia, the casino of the nobles, the palaces of Saracini and Sansedoni. Giorgio sucks in all the air his lungs can hold. Ahead lies the sharp right-angle turn of San Martino, the waiting ambulance in plain sight.
From bleachers, from balconies, from all over the Piazza Gaudenzia’s enemies are shrieking for blood. In full stride she goes up the incline. A moment of terror! She stumbles, breaks gait. Ivan, for Montone, tries to crowd her into the posts. But Giorgio grasps her mane, squeezes his right leg into her flanks. Squeezes tighter. It works! She recovers; she’s safe!
“Bravo . . . Bravissimo!” The crowd is crazed with emotion.
Only the red jacket of Montone is anywhere near as Gaudenzia flies along the straightaway to the narrows of the Casato, and uphill for the strangles of that curve. Using her tail as a rudder, she veers around the curve, gallops down the stretch to pass the starter’s box, still holding the lead.
The blood sings in Giorgio’s ears. He clucks to Gaudenzia for the second lap, forgets he has a nerbo. The piston legs of Montone pound on relentlessly, press forward, gain on her at the fountain, gain going around San Martino. Almost to the Casato again, Giorgio tenses, deliberately cuts in front of Ivan. He has to, to get to the rail, to shorten the distance! This is battle! All in a split second Ivan’s horse is forced to prop, to brake. In turn Lupa is blocked; she swerves, careens, hurtles to the ground, dragging the oncoming Giraffa and Tartuca with her. The track is a mad scramble of horses and riders! Gaudenzia for Onda is still streaking on.
“Forza! Forza!” the voices shriek. “Give it to us, Giorgio! Give us the Palio!”
And around for the third time she battles Montone, who is making one last desperate effort to catch up. But he is no match for Gaudenzia. Not weaving, not wobbling, moving at a terrific pace, she goes the whole lap. As she flashes by the flag of arrival, Giorgio wildly waves his nerbo in victory. He has not used it before!
With roars of triumph, the Onda victors spill out upon the track, hug their hero, lift him up, carry him on their shoulders. Angry losers close in, to pinch and pull and buffet him. A corps of howling, happy men of Onda try to force them back, but it is the Chief-of-the-Guards who succeeds. He makes himself a one-man shield and his voice bellows like a bull. “Lift him high! Higher!” he commands. “Before they murder him!” Then, eyes brimming in pride, he salutes Giorgio on both cheeks, and kisses his white mare full on the mouth.
The cart horse of Casalino has won the 536th running of the Palio.
Chapter XXVI
VICTOR OF THE PIAZZA
It was a moment that moved the Sienese to weeping. Giorgio had never been so confused in his life; nor so happy. Here were life and glory, past and present, all in one! Up in the judges’ box Captain Tortorelli was lifting the golden Palio from its socket, reaching over the railing, placing the staff in the outstretched hands of a knight from the Onda. The crowd surged toward the victory banner, then back to Giorgio as the living symbol of it. They smothered him with embraces—young men, old men, young girls, old women—frenziedly showering him with their joy. Around the square they carried him aloft on strong shoulders, first to the church to show the Palio to the image of the Virgin, then on through the streets of Siena, cheering, shouting, laughing, singing.
The little narrow alleys were packed so tight they could scarce contain the winding human river. From balconies women and children tossed red carnations to Giorgio. Catching them he thought, “These would be nice to decorate Gaudenzia’s bridle. I hope she is safe from the crowd.” He tried to get a glimpse of her, but she was lost in the maelstrom.
Up and down the wavy streets of Onda the growing throng marched, four abreast, six abreast, eight abreast. Young people from friendly contradas joined them. Together they invaded enemy quarters, singing their victory song, drums throbbing, hearts throbbing, flags fluttering. In enemy territory the shouts of joy were speared by catcalls. Street fighting flared up in dark doorways; old people wept tears of bitterness. But the drums never ceased, nor the singing.
A wave of pleasant tiredness washed over Giorgio. He was a piece of drift, tossed hither and yon by the seething mob as it spilled out from the canyon of walls, and overflowed into the tiny green of Lizza Park. Then all the way back down into the city again, and into the streets of the Onda.
The contrada had be
come a whirlpool, drawing into it friends and strangers alike. Candles twinkled like a constellation of stars. Meat, bread, watermelons, and wine appeared by magic. Bands played in the streets. Dancers swooped Giorgio into their arms. Men and women both twirled him about like a pinwheel. He ate. He drank the ceremonial wine. All night long the celebration went on, with Gaudenzia making grand appearances, her plumes nodding, her hoofs painted with gold.
At last, when the candles were guttering and the morning stars beginning to wink out, Giorgio’s bodyguards rescued him and took him to his room to sleep.
Safe in his cool bed, Giorgio wanted nothing but to lie quiet in the gray darkness and live it all over again. With his eyes closed, he saw the figure of Gaudenzia rise up before him. “Look at you!” he spoke to her. “In your yesterdays you were just a poor work horse, pulling the rickety cart. Today you are . . . you are . . .” He tried to fight off sleep, to savor the deliciousness of victory, but his very bones seemed to melt into the mattress, and the shutters of his mind closed.
At eight o’clock on the morning of July third, General Barbarulli was already in the heart of the city, waiting for the newsstand to open up for business. The morning papers had just arrived, and the ancient vendor, an Ondaese, was flinging the rope-bound stacks up on the counter as if he were still giving vent to his joy. When the ropes were cut and everything was in order, he leaned toward the General, honored to have him as the first customer. “Which paper is it you would like?”
“Three of each,” was the smiling reply. “One set is for the museum of Onda, one is for myself, and one for our fantino.”
The transaction completed, the General stepped around the corner and went inside the post office to be less conspicuous in his enjoyment of the accounts of yesterday’s victory. He stood in the light of the stained glass window and opened up the first paper. As he read, he had to hold it quite high to let his tears of happy pride fall unseen. He read all three journals, then left hurriedly to share the glowing reports with his fantino.
Giorgio was so deep in sleep that it took insistent knocking on his door to arouse him. The bodyguards, exhausted from the celebration, still lay bundled in their sheets, snoring softly. Giorgio quickly pulled on his shirt and trousers and stepped out into the hallway.
“My boy,” the General smiled broadly, “you have a new name!” Tapping Giorgio lightly on the shoulder with the newspapers, he spoke in staccato excitement. “Read! Read, now! These stories you will want to send home to Monticello.” He spread out the front pages of each paper on the hall table and stood waiting to see the effect they would have.
Giorgio read slowly, struggling over some of the longer words. “The fantino of the Onda,” the first article said, “who last year found difficulty in securing a mount, this year has won everlasting recognition from the people of the Onda, who carried him aloft in triumph. The Palio, in the midst of a sea of flags, has already made its entrance into the museum of the contrada. The little hero of the Piazza . . .” He blushed, embarrassed to go on.
“Read more—read more,” the General urged. “The Palio has christened you! You have a new name. Look! See for yourself.”
Giorgio read faster now, skimming as best he could. What was wrong with the name he had? What was wrong with Giorgio Terni? The second paper said nothing about a name. He turned to the third and read, “Young Giorgio Terni, peasant boy from the Maremma, is now crowned with a new name. Sienese everywhere speak of him as Vittorino, the little victor of the Piazza.”
Giorgio’s heart quickened. Maybe some people would call “Vittorino” a nickname, he thought, but to me it seems a very nice title.
“The battle was not as fierce as expected,” the article went on. “The fantinos did not use their nerbos, for Gaudenzia was first from beginning to end. The masterful performance of horse and rider together has given the youngest fantino in the Palio his new name. Henceforth he will be known as Vittorino.”
“Vit-to-ri-no!” the boy tasted it on his tongue.
General Barbarulli beamed. “It pleases you? No?”
“Si, si! It is better than Professore or Dottore or even . . .” the boy reddened.
“Better even than Generale?” the General’s eyes twinkled. “I agree! It is a beautiful laurel, invisible, to wear with honor and pride. And now we have many weeks for rejoicing.” He sighed happily as he folded his own newspapers. “Then in September, when nights are cool, we will hold our Victory Dinner right in the middle of Via Giovanni Du Pré. A thousand places will be set under the stars, and Gaudenzia will be the guest of honor. At the head table she will be served! And you, Vittorino, can feast your eyes and your stomach without even making a speech. It will be your and Gaudenzia’s grand triumph. Now, then, I have much to see about and must be on my way.”
He shook hands briskly, turned on his heel, and went lightly down the stairs.
Chapter XXVII
A TIME TO SEEK
The next weeks that should have been all gay and rejoicing for a hero of the Piazza turned dark with worry. It concerned Gaudenzia, and yet it didn’t concern her. The August Palio was less than six weeks away, but already Giorgio felt troubled by a thing he did not understand. Suppose another fantino should ride her then, and he would have to fight against her!
He tried to argue with himself. “Look here, Giorgio, in your pocket you have some money. In the streets children salute you with flags. In the Palazzo Pubblico men treat you man-sized. And every day you receive poems, presents, and pictures. Yet you are not happy.”
Deliberately he turned all his attention on the mare. He would keep her stall cleaner than a kitchen, and her mantle spotless. And if he worked on a new training program for her, he might be too busy to worry.
This time he did not bother with a calendar. He had only to ease her off from the pinnacle of July second, then build her right back up again.
The Chief-of-the-Guards was too happy to notice how silent Giorgio had grown. He lived in a state of blissful pride, for Gaudenzia seemed in no way weakened by racing on the treacherous course.
“If anything, she is now more strong,” he said time and again. “Legs firm and trim. No puffy swellings around the joints. No cuts from overreaching or crossfiring. And no bruising or splitting of her hoofs. As for the corners of her mouth, they are soft like a young filly’s. Who could recognize her as the sad bag-of-bones we rescued from the sausage maker. Eh, son?”
The Chief was aware that other contradas would now want the famous Vittorino to ride for them, but his contrada, Nicchio, had asked first. He refused to think that in the next battle the boy might have to ride another horse and so fight against Gaudenzia. Surely, whoever drew Gaudenzia would buy Giorgio from the Nicchio.
Giorgio, however, did not have this assurance. And whenever he tried to voice his fears, the Chief seemed so happy that the words died unspoken.
But if the boy had grown broody and silent, Gaudenzia was just the opposite. She felt intensely alive. Let out of her stable, she tried to rake the sky for sheer joy in living. She felt good! Never was she alone, not even on rainy days; her fantino was groom and companion, too, steadfast as the earth. And so she thrived.
From fast work she went to slower and longer work. She walked and trotted one week, two weeks. Then gradually Giorgio intensified her training. More trotting and galloping, less walking. More grain, less hay.
“For you, your life will always be mountains and valleys,” he told her one morning as they jogged along a country byway. “Always between Palios comes the easing off, the nice rest. Then you must start all over again and make the steep climb to new peaks.”
A fluffy seed blew into her nose. She blew it out again with a loud snort.
“Yes, you can snort away your little troubles. But me?” Sighing, he ran his eye along the distance, along the tufted terraces of olive gardens, and he followed the aerial maneuvers of a pair of swallows snapping insects on the wing. By keeping his mind busy he hoped to wear blinders to what was bo
thering him. But it was no use. The worry kept eating at his heart. Maybe he would feel better if he put it into words, instead of letting it run around in his head like a mouse in a mill.
“Listen, Gaudenzia,” he spoke into the fine pricked ears, “for one little month you are Queen of the Palio. But you won your crown without . . .”
His talk sounded silly against the shimmer of distance. He clucked to the mare. A faster pace might make the words come faster, easier.
He tried again to make his voice strong, to empty his thoughts. “Gaudenzia! You won the July Palio without real battle, without the nerbo, without the secret arrangements.” The words flowed faster. “Now you are marked. You are the one to beat. You and I—in the next Palio we could be separated. The contrada which draws you could already have engaged some other fantino.” He burst out shouting: “What if you have to be beaten and slashed back? By me!”
The sweat broke cold on his face. He pulled the mare to a halt, and she stood trembling at his tone as if already she were beaten over the head with his nerbo. Thinking of her nervous tic, he quickly dismounted and quieted her.
• • •
July passed. Giorgio had no peace. His dream of the Palio had become sullied. He called on the Chief-of-the-Guards in his own home. He called on General Barbarulli. He sought out Signor Ramalli. With each he tried to unburden his worry, but the talk was roundabout and never came near the sore spot.
In desperation, one day, he put Gaudenzia in the care of a barbaresco and went home to Monticello. He planned to arrive in the late afternoon, when he knew his mother would be cooking supper. She would be standing in the pool of light from the single bulb over the stove, and her back would be toward him, and the room would be steamy warm, and in the semi-darkness it would be easy to speak right out.
It happened exactly like that. Giorgio was there in the kitchen, leaning against the wall where the patched green umbrella hung, and both cats were sidling up against his legs as if they remembered him from yesterday, and he was saying, “Mamma, now that I am grown, the Palio is a thing I do not understand.”
Gaudenzia, Pride of the Palio Page 14