The Daughter of Siena: A Novel

by Marina Fiorato

  Riccardo looked down, deep, deep into the water, as if he could part the current and see the river bed, burn with his gaze through the silt and sacking to see the tiny bleached bones of his twin, his brother, the other half of his own heart. If he was grand duke of Tuscany he could have dragged the river with cannon and found that pathetic sack with three stones and a skeleton of a child; now he would never meet his twin. But as he looked, intently, at his own reflection, another face transposed itself upon his own. A face just like his, but with eyes a little wiser, hair a little blonder. His heart thumped, his flesh chilled, and then he smiled at his own fear, the half-smile he had always thought unique until now. His twin smiled back at him, until a passing grain barge broke the image and his brother returned to the deep.

  Riccardo lifted his hand to his throat and pulled off the kerchief of the Torre colours, burgundy and sky-blue, with the blazon of the elephant and castle. Dropping it into the water, he watched it darken, then be pulled beneath, in the same way that a weighted sack had sunk over twenty years before.

  He mounted Berio and trotted into the Piazza della Signoria. He tethered the horse to a great iron ring bored into the wall of the palace where he had been born. He did not come to visit Gian Gastone, for the duke had already followed his brother to the Medici mausoleum. Gian Gastone had had little time to enjoy the dukedom he had always craved, and had died in his bed, watching the moon set over Florence, an end far more serene and poetic than his life had been.

  But there was someone left. Riccardo had come to see the Last Medici. The inscription on the palace door announced that the grand duchess was holding a public audience. He had Violante to thank for improving his letters, but he no longer read the books in her library, nor sat while she read to him. He stayed away because he knew that she had another to perform this service for.

  Zebra, or Pietro, adopted as her ducal ward, was growing up with all the education and privileges Riccardo had missed.

  Faustino Caprimulgo had not been so lucky. Shorn of both his heirs, ruined by his betting syndicate, he might have lived a long and bitter life in his shell of a palace. But one day a gift came to the house – a new whip, wrapped in silk, with no direction or note. He left it, for some weeks, on the side table in his empty hall. Then one day, seeking diversion, he took the one broken-down nag left in his rotting stables for a trot in the hills. He sought diversion from his troubles, and no longer had his fine carriage. But the horse was dull and lazy and when the beast hesitated at a narrow gate, he thrashed it furiously and repeatedly with the new whip. The poison that had been soaked into the leather made great ugly, burning weals in the stallion’s flank. Maddened with pain, the horse fled down the hillside and threw his rider. Faustino was found with his neck broken in the same place as Vicenzo’s.

  The shepherd who saw it all, the shepherd who had once given a little boy a jackdaw, the shepherd from the Panther contrada who came to tell his captain Raffaello Albani that his plan had worked, said he could have sworn that he heard an eagle crying far above Faustino’s body. Raffaello Albani of the Panther contrada, apothecary, maker of poisons and father to Egidio Albani, merely nodded.

  Today, Riccardo Bruni filed into the Palazzo Vecchio with the good citizens of Florence, noting as he did so that they were numerous, respectful and manifested a sort of muted excitement. He divined that the incumbent was well loved and respected, that her stance of repelling the foreign pretenders to the dukedom, and protecting the treasure trove of the city’s art, had endeared her to the public.

  In the roped-off gloom of the presence rooms he expected to be able to see her face, but as he filed into the presence chamber all he could see was silver. Everything in the chamber was of that metal or hue, from the duchess’s chair to the silver awning above her head: her gown, her looking-glasses, her ornaments. If it were true that this princess of Florence protected all the artworks that her profligate father had sold for relics and her brother for pleasure, then above half of them must be in this room.

  He bent to kiss a hand encased in a silver filigree glove and for a moment he met the eyes of Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici, his aunt. She nodded to him, and something, maybe the resemblance to her long-dead, much beloved brother Ferdinando, lifted the corners of her thin mouth in what Riccardo could tell was an unaccustomed smile. He felt in that tiny gesture a fraction of warmth, as if she had bestowed a little grace upon him. As he passed along the line he wished he could give her something, but then, as he descended the stone steps and walked out into the light, he chided himself. He had already given her everything – he had given her the duchy.

  Riccardo untethered Berio and walked him round, stepping up on the mounting block worn by generations of Medici princes, by his father Ferdinando as he pursued his princely pastimes, and by his true father Domenico as he set off for Siena with his precious foundling.

  As he vaulted on to the saddle his heart was light. Riccardo Bruni turned Berio’s head and the Last of the Medici rode out into the west.

  La Pia waited for him, as she said she would, under the merciful shadow of the Camollia gate. The sun was setting but was still fierce, and she had to rest a little by leaning against the buttress of the gate, for she was getting heavier by the month. She was not wearing the red and white of the Civetta, nor the yellow and black of the Eagles, nor even the burgundy and blue of her new contrada, the Tower. She had chosen a sprigged muslin shift from her mother’s wardrobe, tiny flowers on pale cloth, all colours and none. She had chosen the gown because it was loose and flowing, and when she tried it on she saw a panel of extra cloth had been let into the waist. She smoothed the panel down over her great belly, enjoying its significance. Her mother had worn the dress when she carried Pia.

  Pia huffed and puffed a little as she straddled her legs to take the weight of her distended womb. She recalled, almost with a pang, how she would never have leaned on a wall a year ago, and smiled a small smile of valediction for her dignity. She had no need of it now.

  Besides there was no one about to mark her. There was a hum in the distance, like a great hive of bees, and she lifted her head as the great bell Sunto struck seven. Then a cloud of frighted starlings inked the sky as a great roar of cheering almost lifted the tops off the towers. The Palio had begun.

  Pia linked her hands around her stomach to cradle the weight of her enormous, precious burden. She puffed a strand of hair out of her eyes so she could better see; her hair was longer now, curlier. She scanned the horizon under the great red sun for Riccardo, anxious for his return, for she had something to tell him, a delicious secret known only to her and Sister Concetta of the hospital-church of Santa Maria Maddalena, who had visited her this morning. The nun had edged her fingers around Pia’s distended belly, then cocked her ear to the bump with a little wooden trumpet, listening in one place, and then another. Listening, listening. Now, Pia pushed her fingers into the swollen bumpy flesh, trying to feel what the sister had felt. Miraculously, the bumps pushed back.

  Another great cheer, and the distant race was over for another year. And as if that cheer had brought him into being, she saw a horseman resolve on to the horizon, riding far and fast towards Siena and her arms. She came out of the shadow and into the light. For the last furlong he slid from the saddle and ran to her, enfolding her in his arms. They embraced under the sun. All four of them.

  The man, the woman and the twins inside her.

  Also by Marina Fiorato

  The Glassblower of Murano

  The Botticelli Secret

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  After a long and stable governorship in Siena, VIOLANTE DE’ MEDICI retired to the Palazzo Madama in Rome where she lived peacefully for the rest of her life. Her series of proclamations to regulate the Palio are observed to this day and form the rules by which the race is still run in July and August every year.

  GIAN GASTONE DE’ MEDICI returned to Florence and died there. His tombstone reads ‘Sic Transit Gloria Mundi’: ‘Here pass all the g
lories of this world’.

  His sister ANNA MARIA LUISA, the Last Medici, made a provision in her will to state that all of Florence’s great paintings and sculptures would remain in Florence. She is remembered today as the duchess who kept the Medici’s greatest legacy safe.

  FRANCESCO MARIA CONTI fled to Rome and the protection of his cousin the pope, to offer his services at the court of James Francis Edward Stuart, Old Pretender to the throne of England. Thus Conti embroiled himself in another unsuccessful coup.

  The DUKE OF BOURBON was made Gian Gastone’s heir to the grand duchy of Tuscany by statute. After all the trials and tribulations of the Medici inheritance, Gian Gastone commented that he had ‘got his heir by the stroke of a pen’.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In 2009, the year in which this book was written, the Palio dell’Assunta of 16 August was won by the Civetta, the Owlet contrada of Pia of the Tolomei.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I very much enjoyed entering the world of horses for this book and talking to those who ride them, own them or just love them.

  First, I must mention my sister Veronica and her husband Richard Brown (the real-life Riccardo Bruni!) who own various bits of racehorses through a syndicate and were very helpful in their insights into the world of racing. For the same reason, I’m grateful to Mark Kershaw, one-time MD of both Newbury and Sandown racecourses. I’d like to thank experienced horsewoman and friend Amy Shortt for reading the manuscript for horsey errors, and her father, trainer and breeder Joe McElroy, for pointing me towards the right places for my research. I’m also indebted to Lance Bombardier Dan Richards of the King’s Troop in St John’s Wood for allowing me access to their barracks and stables, and for giving me invaluable information on the life of an army horse. Thanks too to the farriers of the Troop who kindly allowed me to watch a horseshoe being made. I was lucky enough to visit the stud farm of the Lipizzaners at Lipica, which celebrated its 430th anniversary in 2010. There I was very privileged to see these wonderful horses performing an unforgettable riding display. Thanks must also go to my late grandfather William Donald Hoggarth who first got me interested in horses by letting me watch the racing and placing bets for me on Grand National day!

  In other arenas, thanks to Hayley Nebauer, expert film costumier, who was most helpful on the matter of corsets, riding habits and the other accoutrements that had to be tolerated by the poor daughters of Siena in the eighteenth century, and also to hair and make-up artist Lorraine Hill who filled me in on the matter of wigs and early hair dyes.

  Happily my research took me to Siena, and I would like to thank both the Comune of Siena and the separate contrade who were most welcoming and helpful, both to me personally on my visits there and through their excellent archives and related websites, which are mines of information. My apologies to the Eagle contrada who never had a family as evil as the Caprimulgi to darken their history, and my apologies, too, to the true victors of the 1723 Palio, who had to be nudged into second place for the purposes of this story.

  It’s not often that I find myself acknowledging a film in the course of writing a novel, but the award-winning documentary The Last Victory (2004), directed by John Appel, which follows the residents of the Civetta contrada in the days before the 2003 Palio, offered me the greatest single insight into the power and the passion of this legendary race.

  As always I must thank my brilliant agent Teresa Chris, and also the wonderful team at my new home John Murray, especially Kate Parkin for her editing skills, Celia Levett for helping me clamber out of a number of plot holes, and Caroline Westmore for managing the whole project so ably.

  Most of all my thanks go, as ever, to Sacha for his constant support and advice, and to Conrad and Ruby who had more than a little to contribute to the character of Zebra.

  And last, but not least, I would like to thank Sienna Sewell, a very inspirational little girl, whose name once gave me an idea.

  THE DAUGHTER OF SIENA

  by Marina Fiorato

  About the Author

  • A Conversation with Marina Fiorato

  Behind the Novel

  • Do You Know?

  Keep on Reading

  • Recommended Reading

  • Reading Group Questions

  For more reading group suggestions,

  visit www.readinggroupgold.com.

  ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN

  Reading Group Gold

  A

  Reading

  Group Gold

  Selection

  A Conversation with Marina Fiorato

  This is your third novel set in Italy. Your first, The Glassblower of Murano, took place in Venice; The Botticelli Secret, Tuscany; and this one, Siena. What led you to this city? And why did you want to write about it?

  Siena is a fascinating city, which, before writing this novel, I’d only visited in passing. What’s interesting about it is that when you actually stay there and get to know it, rather than visit on a day trip, you realize that it is a complete little world of its own—a microcosm of a larger society and the world outside. The Daughter of Siena reflects all the political and social tensions that were going on in the city, in Italy, and in society at large at the time. It deals with tensions between classes and tensions between royalty and republic, as well as love between man and woman, parent and child, horse and rider, and love for one’s city. The unique way that Siena is organized—small city wards known as contrade with their animal symbols and fierce loyalties—means that each area behaves as a little nation, with alliances giving way to wars and then periods of peace. And all of these tensions come to a head twice a year, at the famous Palio horse race.

  How, if at all, was the process of writing The Daughter of Siena different from your other novels? Did you do a lot of research about the Palio? And, in crafting your story, did you stick to historical fact? Or did you take artistic liberties?

  I did a lot of research into the Palio in particular and horses in general. Although I visited Siena, of course, I also did a lot of research into horses in England, not in an intellectual sense, but in a handson way. I got to know my neighbor’s ponies, went to horse races, and learned much more about these fascinating creatures. The research for this book was therefore much more practical than before: I got my hands dirty in the stable! As far as fact versus fiction goes, I always try to be historically accurate, broadly speaking. But as I’m writing a work of fiction, rather than a historical tract, sometimes I will bend the truth in the cause of a good story, or dramatize certain events.

  Your depictions of the Palio horse races are heart-pounding. What about riding horses or attending horse races inspired you?

  One of the things that struck me about the Palio and horse races that I attended in England was the fact that you could actually feel the thunder of the race in your chest as the runners go past. This singular sensation, that it’s a physical experience for the watchers, gave me the most insight into the excitement of the race. Of course, if you add into the mix that you may have put a bet on a horse, or that you might care very deeply about one of the riders as Pia and Violante do, it becomes a financial, mental, and emotional experience too. It’s completely holistic. I used to ride as a child, and still do when I get the chance. I’m drawn to it because it’s so essentially historical. Whatever the modern changes in tack or saddlery, the fact is that riding—the relationship between horse and rider—has gone unchanged for thousands of years. That connection with the past is very beguiling to me.

  How much—or how little—are you like Pia? Did you find inspiration for her character, or her story, anywhere in your own life?

  About the Author

  Well, I certainly wasn’t sold into an arranged marriage and I’ve never suffered in the ways she has! But I admire—and aspire to achieve—her spirit, and hope that I would show the same ingenuity and “gumption” in circumventing her circumstances. She can be quite impulsive though, whereas I’m a bit more calculating!

  You
once wrote that “when [you] open a historical novel [you’re] taking a trip to a different land.” Do you do a lot of traveling? Do you have any fantasy vacations in mind that you’d like to take? Or places you’d like to visit … and write about someday?

  I do a fair bit of traveling for research that gives me the pleasure of going to Italy about twice a year. This year I also went to Zagreb for a literary conference and look forward to going back to Croatia this summer, this time to the coast. But my next book is partly set in Istanbul so I’m slowly edging to points farther east—the relationship between Byzantium and Venice has always fascinated me and I’m looking forward to discovering more about it.

  Marina with her children, Conrad and Ruby, at Venice’s Palazzo del Popolo