Karl Eugen shook his head in disbelief. ‘This will end badly,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Hawkwood. ‘It will end honourably.’
Donnina wept as the White Company made preparations to leave for Siena. Her exhortations had come to nothing.
Hawkwood was adamant.
He would ride in the Palio.
Palio
What manner of fellow may you be,
Who is so impertinent to contest here?
Siena
26 July 1369
Karl Eugen was intrigued that, far from being regarded as an enemy and interloper, Hawkwood had been formally welcomed to Siena by a deputation of civic dignitaries. Hawkwood had taken obvious pleasure in the courteous – albeit cautious – manner of his reception.
As they walked within the city, Karl Eugen was agreeably surprised at Hawkwood’s familiarity with the treasures Siena had to offer. He could only conclude that Sir John had been adequately instructed in this respect by the Lady Donnina.
For his part, Karl Eugen was captivated by the elegant twelfth-century palaces that fringed Siena’s shell-shaped Piazza del Campo, dwarfed only by the slender Torre del Mangia belltower. To the right of the tower – recently completed by the renowned architect brothers Muccio and Francesco di Rinaldo – was the Palazzo Publico, whose Sala del Mappamondo boasted not only Pietro and Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s celebrated map of the known world but also Pietro and Simone Martini’s Maestà, portraying the Virgin Mary in all her glory, complete with her entourage of apostles, saints and angels.
Karl Eugen was nervous: neither he nor Hawkwood carried any weapons. What was to prevent the Sienese from taking them prisoner and holding them to ransom? He voiced his misgivings more than once, but Hawkwood repeatedly reassured him that, as was plain for all to see, Siena was indeed – if only for the time being – an open city.
No harm would befall them.
They moved from chamber to chamber in the Palazzo Publico. They admired Lorenzetti’s celebrated allegorical fresco of Good and Bad Government, which decorated the Sala della Pace. And Hawkwood paused in the Sala del Mappamondo before Simone Martini’s equestrian portrait of Italian condottiere Guidoriccio da Fogliano, depicted in full battle dress.
‘It seems we are not the first condottieri to have made our mark on Siena,’ he said.
‘No,’ replied Karl Eugen. ‘And, with certainty, nor shall we be the last.’
Hawkwood had as yet not made known his intention to ride in the Palio. When he did, the cordial atmosphere altered abruptly.
‘I fear that cannot be permitted’ was the immediate response from Dario Bruschelli, the Senior Deputy of the Festival.
‘Why not, pray?’
‘The Palio is our greatest institution,’ replied Bruschelli. ‘It is the soul of Siena, and only citizens of the Siena contrade are admitted to the race. Besides, the ten districts to be represented this year have already been determined and their horses chosen and inspected. The first trials have been run. There remains only the general trial, which will be contested three weeks from today.’
‘Then, clearly, an eleventh mount must be selected and put at my disposal for that trial,’ said Hawkwood.
Bruschelli shook his head. ‘That cannot be. There are forty-two contrade in Siena, and only ten are admitted to each Palio – the others must await the outcome of next year’s ballot. We cannot sanction any departure from this tradition.’
‘That is unacceptable,’ said Hawkwood with a grim smile. ‘How shall I explain to my Company – encamped as it soon will be – but one hour’s march from the gates of Siena, that their captain-general’s modest request has been rejected by this city? I warrant they will not take kindly to such a grievous insult.’
‘We intend no insult,’ insisted Bruschelli. ‘But be reasonable, Condottiere Hawkwood. Siena cannot countenance infringement of rules honoured these hundred and fifty years and more.’
‘Rules,’ said Hawkwood gruffly, ‘can be broken. I propose you reconsider your decision. I would wish no harm to come to the fair city of Siena.’
He and Karl Eugen waited patiently in the Sala della Pace while the Sienese withdrew to deliberate. Bruschelli was opposed in principle to Hawkwood’s participation in the race but was mindful of the implicit threat posed to Siena should the Company take station beyond the city walls. Any disruption to the hallowed tradition of the Palio was unthinkable.
It was Gianluca Pinna, the sindaco of the Torre district, who proposed a compromise: that Hawkwood be permitted to ride in the final trial, scheduled to be held on the morning of the Palio itself.
‘There can be no great danger in that,’ said Mayor Pinna. ‘This arrogant Englishman may ride well, but he will prove no match for our own experienced riders. Almost certainly, he will be taken down. It will add to the spectacle to witness his fall from grace. Should he fail to complete the course, he will perforce forfeit his right to enter the Palio.’
There were nods of agreement.
‘What if he does not accept these conditions?’ asked Bruschelli.
‘He is a man of overweening arrogance,’ replied Pinna. ‘Should he fail in the general trial he will not seek further humiliation. Of that we can be certain.’
‘And what if he should acquit himself well?’ put in Luca Trecciolini of the Lupa contrada. ‘What then, I ask you all?’
‘Then we shall have a problem of a different order on our hands,’ said Bruschelli, ‘and we must then seek another solution.’
In the interim, Pinna’s suggestion was grudgingly accepted.
Bruschelli returned alone to the Sala della Pace to inform Hawkwood. He fully expected the compromise solution to be rejected out of hand, and was agreeably taken aback when the Hawkwood nodded his assent.
‘The proposal is good,’ said Hawkwood. ‘I thank you for the honour you do me.’
‘The honour is ours,’ said Bruschelli, wondering how this great bear of a man could have come to be known as Giovanni Acuto. Acuto?
Foolhardy more like it.
Siena
16 August 1369
The Piazza del Campo was filled to overflowing. Minstrels, fire-eaters and clowns thronged the neighbouring streets, striving to entertain the crowds. Wine-sellers dispensed their wares from goatskin pouches and pastry and sweetmeat vendors hawked their cavatelli, ricciarelli and panforte. Pickpockets plied their trade, bumping and jostling this way and that amid the expectant masses, relieving the unsuspecting citizens of Siena of purses and other valuables. Dark-eyed whores rubbed themselves invitingly against city burghers, flitting a hand over a cheek here, clutching a groin there. Above, on the palazzo balconies, Siena’s notables gazed out over the square, pointing excitedly as riders and mounts emerged and took up position.
It was the morning of the final trial, the provaccio or ‘bad trial,’ thus called because the riders rode more prudently than before, anxious to husband their own strength and that of their mounts for the Palio proper, which would be contested that evening.
John Hawkwood faced his first trial ride with unexpected trepidation. The mounts were without saddle. Each rider carried a vicious whip fashioned from ox tendon. Once the race was under way, no holds were barred, no tactics outlawed. He felt more nervous than before any battle he had ever fought. His mouth was dry and his hands twitched as he sought to control Ambasciatore, the dark chestnut stallion he had been allotted. He ran his hands through the horse’s mane and patted it reassuringly on the neck. It was a fine animal, heavily muscled and powerful. He had feared he would be given a mount of inferior quality; this was manifestly not so.
He looked around at the other riders. They returned his gaze. There was no mistaking the hostility in their eyes. But he saw fear there also – fear of losing, fear of failing to acquit themselves well, fear of shame and disgrace.
A fear he now shared.
The course was set out around the circumference of the Piazza. Turf had been laid along the outer perimeter to help the
horses keep their footing on the polished cobblestones. Padded sections alongside the course afforded a measure of protection to the riders – and to the crowd.
The starting order was determined arbitrarily, using coloured balls that were drawn in random sequence to establish who lined up next to whom. Hawkwood had been drawn sixth, squarely in the middle of the starting line-up. He held station as the horses to his left and right buffeted him.
A tiny cannon was fired. There were ten riders in the line. The hempen rope stretched before them fell away, signalling the off.
The race was under way.
Hawkwood knew what he must do: survive. He cherished no hope whatsoever of winning the race, only of competing well. He settled down midway through the field, moving easily and holding his position without great difficulty as they swept through the initial curve of the course. The horse nearest him swerved abruptly into his path and he checked momentarily. As they completed the first of the three rounds of the Piazza del Campo, he felt the exquisite pleasure that springs from the bonding of man and horse.
He began to ride more aggressively. There were only three riders ahead of him, contesting the lead. The inside horse veered into the path of the other two, crowding them out at the turn. The tactic was as effective as it was ruthless. One horse went down, pitching its rider into the path of those behind. The second shied away, losing ground rapidly.
Hawkwood decided to do nothing rash. He lay a comfortable third as they approached the start line for the last time. To his left, a riderless horse drew level, and he checked his own mount to let it pass: there was no need to take risks.
The noise was deafening as the crowd acclaimed the winning horse. It was ridden by a lean, wiry man who brandished his whip in triumph and elation as he took a further turn round the piazza.
Hawkwood reined in. He was more than satisfied. He had come through the trial unscathed and had learnt much which would stand him in good stead that evening. The race had been exhilarating, but he knew in his bones it was only a mild foretaste of the main event. He had given a good account of himself, proving he was indeed horseman enough to compete in what was regarded as the most gruelling horse race in all of Europe.
High above the piazza, Bruschelli turned to Pinna. ‘There is a problem, is there not?’
‘I fear there is,’ replied an ashen-faced Pinna. ‘And I am honour-bound to resolve it.’
Siena
17 August 1369
The feast day of Our Lady of August, the Virgin Mary of the Assumption, had been one of incomparable pageantry. Siena was festooned with garlands, tapestries and banners. Flag-throwers had paraded through the streets of the city. Horses and riders had been blessed. A number of prisoners had been ceremonially pardoned and released. And there had been food and drink for all. Thousands of wax candles, many embellished with intricate gold leaf scrolls, had been placed in the cathedral. And the pallium, the splendidly ornate strip of precious embroidery that gave its name to the race, had been stuffed with valuable ermine pelts and put on display to the people thronging the Piazza del Campo.
Hawkwood had marvelled at the splendour and sheer opulence of it all, relishing the spectacle as each of the city’s forty-two contrade paraded its colours, irrespective of whether that year’s draw had favoured their inclusion or not. Now, however, as the prescribed hour drew close, he could feel a dryness in his throat. He wiped his hands on his black, tight-fitting breeches. He tried to visualise the course, to gauge in his mind’s eye the distances to be covered before each tight turn, assessing in advance when and where it was best to put on or take off speed, choosing the most opportune and efficient racing line.
The riders sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, each steeling himself for the challenge ahead. Three turns of the Piazza del Campo. One thousand paces. One hundred seconds. The shortest of intervals between fame and shame.
Goose, Caterpillar, Dragon and She-Wolf.
Panther, Snail and Porcupine.
Owl, Unicorn and Tortoise.
And Ambasciatore.
Hawkwood tried to compose himself. He searched the tense faces around him, noting the tell-tale signs. Feet shuffled, fingers drummed, hands twitched. Some prayed, some stared blankly into the distance, others held their eyes closed. They had each looked him over in turn and had made no effort to conceal their animosity. Hawkwood sensed he was a marked man. The evening was warm and still and Hawkwood could feel the sweat pooling under his arms and gathering at the nape of his neck.
He coughed to clear his throat.
Three horses had finished ahead of him in the prova generale that morning, but he could identify only two sets of colours with any certainty: the black, red and cobalt blue stripes of the winner, Istrice (Porcupine), and the white, orange and blue stripes of the Lecorno (Unicorn) contrada. The riderless horse he had allowed through on the final lap was possibly Oca, from the Goose contrada. And the horse that had fallen so heavily during the provaccia had, as far as he could recall, carried the red, green and yellow-striped colours of the Drago (Dragon) contrada. Its rider now boasted a left arm swathed in bandages. His face was severely bruised. Hawkwood could only admire the man’s courage and tenacity.
Bruco (Caterpillar) had finished fifth behind Hawkwood, followed by Lupa (She-Wolf), Pantera (Panther), Civetta (Owl), Chiocciola (Snail) and – appropriately enough – Tartuca (Tortoise). But those placings were irrelevant now. There was no telling what tactics each rider had elected to follow in that morning’s trial. Worse, Hawkwood found it impossible to assess the qualities of those who had finished behind him.
Any of us could win, he thought – including myself. But he put all thoughts of winning to one side. It was enough to compete. More than enough.
It was a daunting prospect. Most of the competitors had ridden in the Palio before and knew what to expect. Two horses, Istrice and Bruco, were previous winners, and heavy wagers had been placed on both. Karl Eugen had wagered on Hawkwood, although he secretly believed his captain-general had next to no hope of carrying the day. At that moment, Hawkwood would have agreed and would even have thought twice about placing a wager on himself. He resolved to acquit himself as best he could, however, although he was already beginning to regret his insistence on taking part.
The draw had been made and Hawkwood found himself consigned to the inside position. This was a serious disadvantage, because the turns would be substantially tighter than on the outside. The horses were escorted to the starting line by their grooms, who, with volunteers from their contrada, had spent many sleepless nights watching over their charges and protecting them against interference by rival districts.
The riders were called by their starting order. As each emerged from the enclosure in front of the Palazzo Publico, an ear-splitting roar came from the crowd. As a consequence of the draw, Hawkwood was the last to appear. He had not expected a welcoming roar – a ripple of polite applause was probably the most he could have hoped for – but he was wholly unprepared for the hissing and booing that greeted him. A wave of unmitigated hatred swept over a bewildered Hawkwood, and the other riders stared at him with undisguised venom.
Only when he walked forward to take his place beside Karl Eugen, who was holding Ambasciatore at the ready, did he understand why. Hawkwood – the outsider, the interloper – was dressed in black breeches and a plain white blouson. Unwittingly, he had chosen the ‘colours’ of Siena, the hallowed black and white that decorated the city’s balzana or coat-of-arms, the symbolic black and white of the marble flagstones in Siena Cathedral. The huge crowd screeched their fury at what they took to be a deliberate affront.
As Hawkwood reached his allotted place in the starting line, a man broke from the crowd to his left, a stiletto glinting in his hand. He bore down on Hawkwood and slashed viciously at him. Hawkwood was too stunned to react, but Karl Eugen thrust himself between Hawkwood and his assailant.
The stiletto buried itself to the hilt in Karl Eugen’s belly.
He staggered and fell back against Hawkwood. The attacker immediately disappeared into the crowd. It had happened in a matter of seconds and only a handful of people had either seen or grasped what had occurred.
Karl Eugen slumped to the ground. Hawkwood knelt beside him, cradling his head. There was next to no blood, but Hawkwood knew the wound was deep and suspected it was fatal.
The young German lay still, his face contorted in pain. ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘Ride – ride for me.’
Hawkwood hesitated.
‘Go!’
A small group had gathered round them. They gestured to Hawkwood to stand back, and gently lifted Karl Eugen’s limp body and carried him to one side. An emaciated but still uncommonly beautiful young woman in a nun’s habit stooped and covered him with a simple woollen shawl. Karl Eugen’s breathing was shallow, his face a deathly white.
*
The cannon fired and the lead rider lurched forward. The hempen rope was still in place but the race had effectively started. Hawkwood threw a desperate last glance at Karl Eugen, then turned and mounted. As he did so, the rope dropped.
Hawkwood was last away and trailed the field by several lengths as the leading horses arched into the first turn. He shook his head violently in a bid to concentrate on the task in hand. He felt a fury unlike any he had ever experienced. And he channelled that fury into a race he was more than ever determined to win.
He at once realised there was a considerable advantage to being at the back. He could see how the race was developing ahead of him while keeping out of harm’s way in the early stages. Best of all, the inside draw was no handicap now. He was free to choose the best line, to hold station and to reel in those ahead during the second and third laps.
As the field turned towards the finishing line at the end of the first lap, Tartuca was in the lead, closely shadowed by Lupa and Civetta. That morning’s winner, Istrice, trailed by a length, while the other horses were in a tight bunch and gradually losing ground.
Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Page 17