The Daughter of Siena: A Novel

by Marina Fiorato

  Pia dropped her eyes and curtseyed. ‘As you wish.’

  Faustino pressed his long hands together. ‘Good. Good. I will make the arrangements.’ Now his eyes smiled along with his thin mouth. ‘One more thing, though – you will find a new dress in your garderobe.’ He was carefully offhand. ‘Put it on, would you? You will dine with Nello and me tonight.’ He bestowed this rare privilege lightly.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good girl, good girl. Nicoletta will see to your … hair and jewels.’ Even he had the grace to drop his eyes from her strangely shorn head. ‘Nicoletta!’ he bawled, opening the door. He moved surprisingly quickly.

  Pia was struck by a sudden notion. She had to act fast, before the maid came. ‘Sir, speaking of clothing … My mother had a garde-corps for riding, in her garderobe at my father’s house. If you would be good enough to have it fetched, it would do very well for me to wear at my instruction.’

  ‘Eh? What’s that?’ Faustino seemed amazed that she would open her mouth and address him. ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course. I will see it done. ’Tis a good notion.’

  It was agreed in an offhand fashion, but Pia had the idea that Faustino’s promises were worth more than her father’s. In thinking him a savage she had done him a disservice. A fierce native intelligence overlaid the brutality, and he had a completeness, a detail to his thinking. This boon he’d asked of her must be part of a bigger, infinitely complex plan, and he would be able to keep all these spheres suspended in the air, like the coloured balls of the juggler who had followed her to her wedding. And now, she too had another sphere to cast into the air. She made her tone as offhand as his and spoke quickly as she heard her maid’s heavy tread approaching from the floor above.

  ‘And your servants may as well fetch her other dresses too, with your permission, of course. She had several good gowns that would not shame your house, and I could wear them, to save your further generosity.’

  He nodded, his amber eyes flaring with pleasure at the bride he had bought for his son, crediting her with courage, pleased with her parsimony. Then, just as Nicoletta came heaving into the room, his eyes flickered to something outside the window.

  Following his gaze, Pia saw a large fellow in the greasy leathers of a horse dealer, leading two horses into the courtyard below. One horse was white, the other black, an embodiment of the city in horseflesh.

  ‘Ah, Boli is here, good. Excuse me, my dear.’

  The interview was over.

  As she followed Nicoletta back up the stair, Pia’s smile was almost as wide as her maid’s. She was beginning to learn how the game was played.

  Riccardo worked quietly and conscientiously alongside his father all day, waiting for the horse that Faustino was to give him. Nothing happened. The bees buzzed lazily around the flowers that broke through the cobbles’ cracks.

  At siesta Domenico went indoors, to shelter from the shimmering heat. Riccardo lay in the straw of the stable, but he could not rest. He tried to persuade himself that Faustino had changed his mind, that he had misunderstood the Aquila captain. Even if he was to be given a gift of horseflesh, it would have to be a nag, a mule so poor that it could not threaten Nello’s win.

  He and Domenico resumed their work until the starlings circled to their rest and the sky clotted with darkness. Then, only then, did the clop of hooves herald the approach of a horse, led, in a head-collar, by Zebra. As the horse approached, Riccardo met Zebra’s clear eyes and the boy gave the tiniest nod. It was from Faustino. And it was lovely.

  Domenico dropped his pick on the cobbles. The horse was fantastically beautiful, so white it was hard to look at the sunlight sheen on the flanks. The beast had a long head, with a noble arched profile. His jaw was deep, his ears small, but his eyes large and expressive, his nostrils flared. The neck was sturdy, yet arched, above withers that were low, muscular and broad. The horse stood perfectly still, the tail, high and well set, twitching a little, catching Zebra at the edge of his eye, the only indication that he was not a statue.

  Domenico gave a long, low whistle and approached to run his hands down the horse’s delicate legs, checking the shoes one by one.

  ‘Brand new,’ he said. ‘I could not have shod him better myself.’ He slapped the horse with a friendly pat on the flank, and it did not shift. ‘And what a looker.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a prettier white,’ said Riccardo.

  ‘A prettier grey,’ corrected his father. ‘Look closely at the feet and points. There’s some grey hair there. He was born a grey. In fact …’ He approached the horse carefully from the side and felt the left cheek gently, finding what he sought as the stallion stood still and let him. Domenico dropped his hand and backed away, astonished.

  Riccardo saw the look on his face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Feel his cheek,’ said his father.

  Riccardo approached, talking softly, and the horse looked at him calmly from one liquid eye. Riccardo moved his fingers gently over the bunched muscle and the soft hair. His fingers traced a little scar, a line that turned a corner and became another line.

  ‘It’s an L.’ He looked at his father, wide-eyed.

  Zebra caught the exchange. ‘What? What does that mean?’

  ‘He’s a Lipizzaner,’ breathed Domenico, awestruck.

  Riccardo, remembering well the stories that his father used to tell him in the place of fairy tales, said, ‘He’s from the Spanish Riding School. They’re bred at a stud at Lipizza in the Hapsburg lands. A rare and incredible breed. Horse royalty. They’re born black and turn white,’ he went on, thinking suddenly of Siena’s flag. ‘And they’re all branded, with an L on the left cheek.’

  ‘Can I feel?’

  Riccardo lifted the boy, feeling his warmth and solid weight as the little bitten fingers sought the brand. From behind them, Domenico clapped his hands with excitement.

  ‘Dio, Dio, I’ve never touched one before, never seen a finer horse since I shoed the Duke Cosimo’s horse in 1703. But even his was a Neapolitan, not a Lipizzaner. Jesu. That he should come to my stables! And yet his shoes are new and his coat is strapped to silk. Why have you brought him to me, Zebra? Whose is he?’

  Riccardo gave Zebra a squeeze before he put him down. It’s all right, the quick hug meant. You can tell him.

  ‘He’s Riccardo’s,’ answered the boy. ‘A gift from Faustino Caprimulgo – for the service he did to his dying son.’

  Domenico’s black brows shot into his hair. He shook his head. ‘Well, son. You have a powerful friend there. Such a horse is as rare as chickens’ teeth, and not cheap either. That you should own a Lipizzaner! My son!’

  It was not clear whether he was prouder of the horse or the horseman, and he clapped each on the shoulder in turn, chuckling to himself.

  Riccardo watched the noble creature standing stock-still and could not help but be affected by his father’s spirits. But he felt slightly sick too, knowing now, with the coming of this gift, that he had some place in a grand design. He was confused, however. This prince among horses did not look like an asino – he looked like a runner. The stallion had a wide, deep chest, broad croup and muscular shoulder. The legs were well muscled and strong, with broad joints and well-defined tendons. The feet were small, but tough, the newly shod hooves sparking on the cobbles. Riccardo could not fathom what Faustino meant by giving him a horse of such quality, but in spite of all that he could not help a childish bubble of joy swelling in his chest. He had never owned his own mount before and this beast, as beautiful as the moon, was his. He began, despite himself, to smile.

  The horse was already saddled in fine leather with stirrups that jingled and shone.

  ‘Well,’ Domenico said, ‘I’ll give you a leg-up. We could lead him to the block, but he looks steady enough – I don’t think he’ll move if you mount him blind. You must go and thank Faustino at once.’

  ‘In truth?’

  ‘Of course. Did you not hear me say he is a powerful man? You did him a service, he thanks
you with this incredible piece of horseflesh, now you must thank him in turn. ’Tis the way of things. Why do you linger?’

  Riccardo could not, of course, explain his reluctance. And in any case it would be the natural thing to do.

  ‘And do not forget that my business comes from all quarters – we cannot afford to offend him and his.’

  Riccardo realized then, with a sunburst of joy, that he had been given licence to see Pia again. He put his foot in his father’s clasped hands, sprang on to the horse’s back and gathered the reins. A moment later he found himself sitting on the cobbles, winded, wondering how he got there. He tried again, this time with Zebra holding the leading rein and his father holding the head-collar. He did better this time; he stayed on for perhaps three heartbeats before the horse brought up his head and his hard skull crunched into Riccardo’s chin. Riccardo, once again on the ground, tasted the metal of blood in his mouth. He had bitten his tongue. He looked ruefully at the horse and he could have sworn that the horse eyed him back with a touch of amusement. He did not dance about or pull at his captors, nor did he rear or baulk. When he was let be he stood still. But he simply would not have a rider on his back.

  Riccardo tried to mount half a dozen times, Domenico thrice. Zebra was not allowed to try. In the end the three men, a young man, an old one and a boy, stood in a semicircle around the beautiful, intractable beast. Domenico chuckled; Riccardo found it hard to see the humour in the situation. He could not win a race on a horse he could not even ride.

  He tried, at last, the method that had never failed – he stood before the horse, took the heavy white head in his hands, and began to whisper to it, holding his hands either side of the eyes, like blinkers, as he had done a hundred times before. He noticed, as he spoke, a healed bump of scar tissue, gathered into a star where a wound had healed, in the dead centre of the horse’s forehead. The stallion seemed to listen calmly to the words, even blew pleasurably. Riccardo tried to mount one more time. Zebra and Domenico watched with bated breath. Riccardo sailed elegantly over their heads to the ground.

  Domenico rubbed his white stubble, making a scratching sound. ‘Well, ’Cardo, there’s a bit of a way to go with this one. Better go to Aquila on foot, else it’ll be nightfall.’ He clicked his tongue twice and walked the horse around Riccardo where he sat. ‘I’ll settle this awkward bugger.’

  Riccardo, beaten for today, watched the beautiful horse retreat through the half-door into the dark. He could swear it looked back at him and blew a little snort of mirth. Chastened, he hauled Zebra along with him and took some comfort in the small hand closing round his.

  They walked unchallenged through the Eagle contrada at dusk, and when the palace of the Eagles loomed out of the dark, Riccardo left Zebra safely outside and was shown to the great salon upstairs.

  Pia could barely believe her own reflection when Nicoletta held up the looking-glass. The maid had spent so long on her toilette she had heard the bells ring four times. The dress Faustino had bought her was woven of cloth of gold, and the lace bodice stiff with filigree, which gave Nicoletta ample opportunity to scratch Pia’s flesh. The stifling gilt stomacher gave the maid further chances to hurt her as she laced the stays so tight that Pia’s face flushed.

  Nicoletta polished the blunt hair with a silk scarf and painted Pia’s eyelids with a single stripe of gold across the lid, poking her eyes till they watered. The maid then clasped a hundred gold chains around her neck, strangling and choking wherever she could, pinching her nape with the clasps and covering Cleopatra’s coin completely. But nothing this bullying servant could do would subsume the power of the queen.

  For when Pia saw herself in the glass she knew she had never looked so alluring. She knew she was being prepared for something and swept down the stairs, borrowing some of the queen’s power from across the centuries. Only the notion that tonight – the night of the gold dress – might be the night Nello claimed her made her stumble.

  The dining solar looked different when not dressed for a feast. Only two figures were there, at either end of the long table. She took her place halfway between them. When the food was served it was simple fare: a quiet supper of wine and snails and polenta, which made her garb seem even more extraordinary. Pia ate silently while the men conversed, ignoring her. She felt certain that she’d been primped and called to table as part of some shadowy design, but neither man seemed to take any notice of her; Faustino’s earlier friendliness had evaporated. Only when the men were drinking their Marsala at the end of the meal did her part in this play become clear.

  ‘Signor Bruni,’ a servant announced. And he was in the room.

  It all happened so fast and so unexpectedly that Pia took a gulp of her wine and felt the heat in her chest and head. At the head of the table, Faustino greeted Signor Bruni with his raptor’s grin. The horseman caught sight of her and his mouth fell open, but it was his reaction to Nello that took her notice.

  Over the last few weeks Pia had become used to keeping her ears open and her mouth shut. She’d honed her considerable intelligence to fill in the blanks with information. She watched Signor Bruni stumble and pale before her husband, and then watched as he collected himself with relief. Of course – it was the first time he had seen Nello with his hair coloured this rough black, dyed by her hands. Perhaps with the pale skin and pink eyes that no artifice could alter, he resembled the dead Vicenzo as he’d bled to death into the sand of the Palio’s track.

  In the presence of the horseman, Nello seemed as poisoned and resentful as ever. Pia’s senses prickled again – why should Nello fear and resent him? Could he, likewise, see the ghost of Vicenzo standing before him, someone dark and tall and well favoured? Was he still haunted by the phantom of his brother? Pia turned her back on him and watched Signor Bruni sketch a shallow bow to Faustino, with the careless elegance that seemed bred into his bones.

  ‘Signor, I am more grateful than I can say for the gift you have given me.’

  Faustino waved his hand, almost bashfully. ‘Well. Well. Ridden him yet?’

  ‘Ah, I … that is … we need to get better acquainted.’

  A narrow crescent of Faustino’s teeth gleamed in the dim. ‘Then I wish you the joy of him. He is not a bad horse.’ The smile spread, as if he was laughing at him.

  Faustino did not seem disposed to continue the conversation, so Signor Bruni bowed, turned and, not looking at Pia, walked to the door.

  Pia was puzzled. So Faustino had given Signor Bruni a horse? Was it one of the ones she had seen led to the house earlier, the black or the white? Was it a belated gift for the service the horseman had rendered Vicenzo? It made no sense. His hand was at the door when Faustino called him back.

  ‘I thought of a name for him.’

  The horseman looked confused.

  ‘The horse, dear fellow. I call him Leocorno. The Unicorn. By reason of his colour, of course. But also he has a scar on his nose like the stump of a horn.’

  Pia sensed a joke to which she was not party.

  ‘Of course, the animal is yours,’ said Faustino, waving his hand in dismissal. ‘You may call him what you will.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Signor Bruni, clearly not wishing to give offence. ‘’Tis a fine name. I will keep it. And thank you. Again.’

  Faustino looked at him piercingly, as if making up his mind. ‘If you would thank me,’ he said, ‘there is one more thing you can do for me.’

  Pia waited, while her flesh crept. Here it was – the reason she’d been primped and polished.

  ‘At the feast here, you may remember, we broke a little jest that you might teach my daughter-in-law to ride.’

  Signor Bruni looked at Pia, and she dropped her eyes, suddenly ashamed of this charade.

  ‘Well, it turns out that she is minded to learn,’ Faustino continued smoothly, ‘and her father and I agree that it is becoming for a lady of Siena to know horseflesh. I would like you to teach her. An hour or two a day, just until the Palio. My son is a little preoc
cupied: with his training, you know.’

  Signor Bruni looked at Nello, who also dropped his pink eyes beneath his newly black fringe.

  ‘I would pay you, of course,’ Faustino continued.

  Pia understood now – she’d been decorated to tempt the horseman, so that he could not say no. He looked wary, and she felt mortified that Faustino had been so obvious. He was Pandarus to her Cressida and her cheeks burned.

  Signor Bruni was blustering. ‘Of course,’ he stuttered. ‘It would be an honour. That is …’

  ‘Well?’

  Signor Bruni straightened his shoulders. ‘That is, if her husband, if Signor Nello, gives me leave.’

  Once again Pia marvelled at his honour and propriety. Her sentiments warmed her innards along with the wine. With this one request he had turned her from whore back to wife, had placed the entire affair above board by asking her husband’s permission.

  Nello rose from his chair and Pia clenched her fists as he headed towards Signor Bruni. He could ruin everything now. Ruin her chance to learn to ride, far and fast, ruin her opportunity to help Signor Bruni and the duchess, ruin the longed-for chance to have some honourable company or, indeed, any company that was not Nello or Nicoletta. Pia steeled herself for the answer, but she knew Nello for an obedient son, and knew he would not gainsay his father. It felt pleasing to regard him with scorn instead of fear.

  Nello walked up to Signor Bruni, and when she noted the difference in their heights she no longer feared that her husband would hit him. The two men were so close that she could hardly hear what he said. ‘You have my blessing,’ came the answer. ‘I have more important matters to attend to.’

  The hatred in his strange eyes belied the words, and his white hand gathered the cloth at Signor Bruni’s throat.

  ‘But don’t,’ he spat, ‘put my wife on your horse.’

  ‘Nello,’ warned Faustino, low-voiced and threatening, as if his son had said too much; but Nello was past and out the door, and Pia heard him clattering down the stairs. By the time she turned back, Faustino’s urbane mask was in place once more, and any anger at his son concealed. He smiled again, the smile she knew so well, the one that did not reach his eyes. ‘There,’ he said, looking from one to the other. ‘You see? It’s all agreed. Tomorrow, here, in the courtyard, at, shall we say, nine of the clock?’