The Daughter of Siena: A Novel

by Marina Fiorato

‘He will.’

  Riccardo Bruni forced himself to stay where he was for another quarter of the bells, his head spinning. So – Nello was to win the Palio dell’Assunta in August. He and the other eight of the Nine were to lose it. This much he knew, but there were many unanswered questions. Who else had been in the room? Who had carried the forbidden sword and pierced the tapestries? What did the Unicorn contrada have to do with this? Where was the church of the Once and Future King? How could the Giraffa fix the draw of the horses? And who or what was Romulus?

  As the bells rang again he crept from his hiding place. The door opened under his hand and he raced down the dark nave and into the night. As soon as he reached the safety of the campo his legs buckled under him. His knees hit the still-warm stones and for a few moments he could not rise again.

  This time, he did pray.

  9

  The Unicorn

  Violante’s father had had a cabinet of curiosities in his palace in Bavaria. On rainy afternoons when she was freed from the schoolroom, Violante used to wander into the small panelled chamber and look at her father’s collection of wonders. The item that drew her again and again was a single spike of horn, suspended in a glass case, bone white and turned like a chair leg, sharpened to a wicked point. This, said the tiny card leaning against it, was a unicorn’s horn. Violante pressed the pads of her little fingers to the glass, leaving a collection of smoky prints, which she knew would anger her father. But she wanted to get close to it, to touch it.

  She learned, as she grew, that only a virgin could capture these fabled creatures; and although she would never tell, she used to look for them on her daily walks in the forest, turning quickly in the hope of catching the creatures unawares, convinced she could see a flash of white disappearing between the trees. She continued in this secret quest even when she was old enough to understand what a virgin was. She never saw a unicorn but used to seek them out in art, and dream that she could catch one and have it lay its heavy head in her lap, in the attitudes she saw in tapestries and Books of Hours.

  As a newly married woman, delighted by the library in Ferdinando’s Florentine palace, she sought the creatures out in books. She read, once, to Ferdinando, shyly, a passage from the writings of Marco Polo, fascinated that the traveller had seen a unicorn at first-hand. Ferdinando laughed at her.

  ‘He is describing a rhinoceros, an ugly horned brute from the Africas. Unicorns do not exist.’

  Violante closed the book and put it down as if it burned her. ‘They do,’ she said quietly. It was the first time she had dared to gainsay him. Ferdinando came closer to her and took her chin in his hand. She could not meet his scornful, beautiful eyes.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if they do, you may still capture one yet, my little maid.’

  He left her then, feeling the imprint of his hand, feeling the full meaning of the words. She was, a month after marriage, still intact.

  ‘The Once and Future King,’ Violante repeated. ‘The Once and Future King.’

  She walked along the shelves of her library, trailing her long fingers along the spines of the books with love. She looked at the age spots on her hands and at the beautiful books with their jewel-coloured leather, tooled and chased with gold. She would die and rot but these things would remain for all time.

  She had embraced literature and music when she had married Ferdinando, adopting his loves as her own, and when it became clear he had no love for her, these things had abided with her and been her comfort and joy. Living in the cold winter of Ferdinando’s disregard, she had nonetheless enjoyed the company and courtesy of his circle, including the composers Scarlatti and Vivaldi, whose names would live for ever in their works. Ferdinando’s books were her inheritance; she had brought them all to Siena and lined this room with them. She had escaped into those tales, casting herself as the tragic Iseult or the feckless Guinevere, women whom she could never have been, women who could once have captured a unicorn.

  Now, she sought, with her ageing fingers, the solution to a puzzle, the echo of a chime that Riccardo had sent ringing in her head, the phrase that he had brought to her from the cathedral: the Once and Future King. It had fluttered around her head, intangible, and come to roost here like a dove in its cote. She sought it among the stacks.

  Riccardo sat, wondering at the room in which he had found himself. There were more books here than he had ever seen all together in his life. They had met, as before, at the top of the Torre del Mangia, and Riccardo had given his account of the meeting he had witnessed, ending with the cryptic direction for the next meeting place in nine days’ time: at the church of the Once and Future King. The duchess had led Riccardo through the inner door joining the tower to the palace. Gretchen, wearing her night-time plait, had joined them there, giving Riccardo a curt, but not unfriendly, nod of greeting.

  ‘Gretchen,’ said the duchess, ‘go and find Zebra. Direct him here and come back yourself.’

  So there were four of them in this unlikely alliance to save the city, a council of war comprised of the least warlike people that could be imagined. At length, Violante took down a book, bound in green leather, thick and heavy as a keystone. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘The Once and Future King.’

  She placed the book carefully on the dark wood table around which they were seated. Riccardo tried to make out the letters, but they were not in any language that he knew. LE M-O-R-T-E D’-A-R-T-H-U-R.

  He raised his head. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Death of Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory, an English writer.’

  ‘Who is Arthur?’

  ‘Was. Arthur Pendragon, ancient king of the Britons.’

  ‘What is he to do with Siena?’

  ‘I do not know, but that was what he was called: the Once and Future King.’

  Violante leafed through the volume as she talked, the printed pages rustling under her hands.

  ‘He was the son of a great tyrant called Uther Pendragon. Arthur plucked his legendary sword Excalibur from a stone, when no other man could draw it. He was king of a great court known as Camelot where his knights met around a round table. He had a beautiful wife called Guinevere, who betrayed him with his first knight, a fellow called Lancelot.’

  Violante looked at Riccardo carefully under her sandy lashes. She wanted to warn him of the perils of an attachment to a married woman.

  ‘And at the end of his life, he gave his sword back to a lady in a lake.’

  Riccardo shook his head. It all seemed nonsensical. He grasped the one element that made sense to him. ‘In the duomo, one of the conspirators carried a sword, even in the church, and said it was his right, something to do with a battle.’

  Violante sat down opposite him. ‘The battle of Montaperti. The man with the sword must be an Oca, a Goose. At the battle of Montaperti the Goose contrada fought so valiantly against the Florentines they were given the right to wear swords at any time. They were given the title “governors” of Siena.’ She appreciated the irony of the title. ‘Orsa Lombardi is the captain of the Geese. The swordsman must be him.’

  ‘Then perhaps,’ said Riccardo tentatively, ‘they may all meet in the church of the Goose contrada? In nine days’ time? For is not a governor a sort of king?’

  The duchess was not convinced. ‘We will think on this later. Let us ask Zebra what he knows of these horses of which the Nine spoke.’

  Violante could not remember the last time she had had a proper conversation with a man. With Conti, her chief councillor, she discussed the dry business of state, and at formal dinners she uttered the small nothings and niceties expected between the high-born at leisure. But not since she had been with her brother-in-law, Gian Gastone, in Florence, when she was lately married to a man who did not love her, and he was to be married to a woman he did not love, had she discussed something real. He had taken her to the Boboli Gardens and they had talked, with great candour, about the nature of love. Today, once again, she had been forced to think. It felt good. Her dull brain was begi
nning to wake up.

  The door opened and Zebra was ushered in by Gretchen, yawning, scratching, his hair standing up like a palomino’s mane. He had clearly been pulled from a bed of straw somewhere. The city was Zebra’s home and he had a different stable every night – it was a credit to Gretchen that she had tracked him down so swiftly.

  ‘Our own stables, madam, if you please,’ said the old lady, her mouth set in a hard line.

  Zebra grinned sleepily.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Violante. ‘Sit down. Will you take something?’

  Zebra’s eyes snapped open. ‘I liked that bread and milk from the other day.’

  Violante nodded to Gretchen, who vanished. The duchess leaned forward in her chair until her corsets bit. ‘Zebra, when does the next horse fair come to town?’

  ‘Wednesday fortnight, ’donna.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Riccardo, pacing behind the boy. ‘The Nine are meeting again in nine days’ time … They said they were placing horses in their stables before then. One for Nello, and one for “the boy from the Tower” – me. Their plan, as we understand it, is to feed ten horses into the city, secretly. Nine are to be asini.’

  ‘Asini?’ questioned Violante.

  ‘Asses. Donkeys. Slow and stupid,’ supplied Zebra.

  Violante recalled suddenly the tale of the rotting donkey that had been cast, a week ago, over the Camollia gate. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Only one horse, Nello’s, will be a runner. They intend to fix the horse draw, with the help of someone from the Giraffa contrada, so that only the New Nine, and my own contrada of the Tower, shall run in the Palio dell’Assunta on the sixteenth day of August. By the laws of our city only ten can run – those will be the ten. Those ten will run and Nello will win.’

  Zebra had a child’s capacity to cleave straight to the point. ‘Well, the traders can bring horses to order. Outside traders and the capitani can visit other cities.’

  ‘What do you know of this man they mentioned – Boli from Arezzo – who supplies the San Martino fair? Is he corrupt?’

  Zebra’s eyes were round as coins. ‘No, ’donna. Straight as a Roman road.’

  ‘That does not signify. The trader may not have been told what they are for. He may have been merely told to bring nine duds and one runner.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this, though,’ Zebra broke in, ‘Nello’s horse will have to be a star. ’Tis all very well being a good runner, but to win?’ He turned to Riccardo, two men discussing horses. ‘You’ve run it, you’ve seen the San Martino corner. You’d have to be a class horse.’

  ‘Like Berio?’

  ‘Like Berio, but, as one of the conspirators said, Vicenzo rode Berio in the July Palio. It’s forbidden for a contrada to ride the same horse again. And yet I have never seen a better mount than Berio.’

  ‘They are taking as few chances as they may.’ Violante broke into their discourse. ‘But I still don’t see how that will let them take the city.’

  ‘Bets,’ said Riccardo briefly.

  ‘Bets?’ questioned the duchess.

  The horseman nodded. ‘Yes. The Nine will create a betting syndicate. An enormous amount of money changes hands at each Palio, but this time none of the other contrade will know that the race will be fixed. The Nine will make enough on one race to finance the coup and unseat your rule.’

  Violante swallowed.

  ‘But even this is not all,’ said Riccardo gently. ‘There is more – the talk of Romulus.’

  ‘Zebra, have you ever heard anyone being called Romulus?’ questioned Violante.

  ‘Never, ’donna, only the wolf’s child.’

  ‘Romulus and Remus. Twin symbols of Siena. They are known by all – there are statues everywhere,’ said Gretchen, speaking for the first time.

  Violante breathed out. ‘Very well. Let us leave that aside for now. Let us set down what we know so far. Who are the dancers in this quadrille?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Who was at the meeting?’ Violante persisted.

  ‘Faustino,’ answered Riccardo. ‘Salvatore.’

  ‘Let us be methodical.’ She took up her quill and paper. ‘Faustino Caprimulgo of the Aquila. Salvatore Tolomei of the Civetta.’

  ‘Ranuccio Odeschalchi of the Bruco, the Caterpillar contrada, was named,’ added Riccardo, ‘and then there was the fellow with the sword.’

  ‘Orsa Lombardi, of the Oca, the Goose.’

  ‘Ah yes. We surmised they may well be central to this, as the governors of the city, the sword carriers.’ Violante wrote it all down. ‘What else do we know of the Goose contrada?’

  ‘They are dyers by trade,’ put in Riccardo. ‘They dye the very Palio banner that the victor will win. They can change white to black.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed the duchess. ‘They built the bottini, the secret waterways below the city, to carry away the corrosive dye.’

  Riccardo was reminded abruptly of the last and only time he had been down in the bottini, carrying the carcass that began all this. Before he could speak, the door opened to reveal a maid with the gruel. Zebra fell to it hungrily.

  ‘And there was another name,’ said Riccardo once the door had closed, ‘Gabriele. He tried to persuade Faustino to kill me. And when Salvatore and Faustino started to squabble, Salvatore said; “No, no, Gabi, don’t try to stop me.”’

  Zebra didn’t wait to empty his mouth. ‘Gabriele Zondadari, captain of the Wave – the Onda contrada.’

  Violante frowned. ‘Why them?’

  All eyes turned to her.

  ‘Well – why? They are a poor, insignificant contrada.’

  ‘Sea coast,’ said Riccardo. ‘They defend the coast beyond the Maremma. They control what comes in and out of the city – including the horses.’

  There was a loaded silence, broken by the duchess.

  ‘Well, then. To recapitulate: Aquila, Civetta, Oca, Bruco, Onda. The Tower, through you, Signor Bruni, is their ally too, whether they know it or not. I suspect that the Panther contrada was set to be one of the Nine before the events of the Palio, and your actions that day, Signor Bruni, gave them a substitute. They also seek the alliance with Giraffa. And the mysterious Romulus. And we missed one out.’

  ‘Who?’

  She was not likely to forget. ‘Unicorn. Leocorno.’

  ‘Romulus and the Unicorn were named as the key to all,’ recalled Riccardo, ‘but were not represented there.’

  ‘Perhaps they will speak at the next colloquy,’ mused the duchess, ‘and we will discover their purpose then.’

  ‘Provided we may attend,’ put in Riccardo. ‘We must discover, first, where it is to be held.’

  When Pia was summoned to see Faustino Caprimulgo, she felt much more afraid than she had – could it be only a week ago? – when Salvatore had called her down on her name-day. The breadth of Nicoletta’s smiles augmented her fear. The maid was always happiest when some misfortune befell her mistress. When she’d first seen Pia’s hair she had positively beamed.

  A certain fatigue now accompanied the fear. Four days had passed since her marriage, and although she bloodied her sheets every night, she could not rely on this ruse for much longer. In truth, she no longer believed that her deception alone kept Nello from claiming her. In her wildest imaginings she dreamed he might be physically incapable, but then dismissed this, remembering the fate of the little Benedetti heiress. It must be something else. As she followed Nicoletta’s bulk down the stairs, she wondered, wearily, what else could happen to her.

  When she entered her father-in-law’s salon she was pleasantly surprised. In her imagination she had transmuted him into a beast. But the man who greeted her sat at a desk, his white hair clean and cropped, his suit of clothes neat and brushed, his hose white and his buckles shining. He even smiled and rose from his chair as she entered. She looked about her. The room was pleasant: the leather smell of the desk-roll, the quills and inks ranked in shining pots upon it, the papers and scrolls neatly stacked,
a wooden globe standing on the blotter to remind of a world outside Siena. She considered the wooden world for a moment. She had never seen any of those countries, not even the painted blue sea in which they floated. In the sunlight coming through the windows, her own peninsula and Europe were in the light. In the dark shadow, the Africas and Indies and the rest.

  She could almost be in the studiolo of a civilized man. The sole anomaly was the great wooden shelves empty of books. She missed her own books only a little less than she missed her mother’s gowns, for even Salvatore had known that a gentleman kept a library. It was this that gave Faustino away. He was no gentleman, and when she looked above the smile to the hooked, beak-like nose and the cold amber eyes, she knew him for what he was: a savage, who had beaten a man to death in his cellars. A wild man, little better than those who lived in the shadowed half of the globe, the half she could not see.

  She stepped forward, chin high and defensive. Her newly sharpened instincts told her that he needed something. Her cooperation. And, ground down by fear, she knew that she would grant what he asked. Her courage rubbed away to reveal the transference of colours: she was yellow on the inside, as yellow as Faustino’s eyes, as yellow as the Eagles’ banner. A coward.

  And yet when he asked the question she could not have been more surprised. ‘My dear. Would you like to learn to ride?’

  Her mouth must have dropped open, her eyes must have widened. It was the bastard son of the question she had been asked days before, by the horseman, at dinner.

  He turned, hands behind his back, to the window, where the towers of the city pierced the lowering sun. ‘It is an accomplishment suitable for a married woman. And it must be dull for one so young to be here alone.’

  Pia discounted at least half of this. Why would Faustino care about her state of mind? She watched him carefully as he turned back to her, and she knew he had reached the meat of the matter.

  ‘I had a notion that young Signor Bruni could teach you. When we broke that jest at dinner, it led me to thinking, and I have thought on it much since. I think it would divert you, and it would help you to understand your husband’s great passion.’