by Angela Petch
Within an hour I reached the main square of Badia Tedalda. I hung back, pushing myself into a doorway, waiting for the right moment to blend with the noise and activity. I counted more than fifty men and youths busily tending animals and lifting bags onto carts, whilst a group of older shepherds stood arguing over some detail. Every now and again one of them would pull his pipe from his mouth and brandish it to reinforce what he was saying. Horses stamped their hooves on the cobbles, their harnesses jangling and clinking as they tossed their heads, snorting out their breath mingling with mist curling round the porticoes and steam rising from fresh droppings. The tell-tale clanging of sheep bells in the near distance – tin, tin, tin, like part of the Sunday Mass liturgy - told me a flock must be herded in the meadow beneath the square where fairs were held. I knew more animals and men would join in with the caravan along the route and by the time they reached the sea, the numbers of beasts and men would swell to several hundred, together with cattle already driven down by herdsmen.
Parked away from the bustle, I noticed Paolo’s two-wheeled cart or barroccio, his mule tethered to a metal ring fixed to the wall next to the butcher’s. The idea came to me to slip onto the back and hide amongst the load until the caravan was safely on its way. Then, at an opportune moment, I could slip out and merge into the crowd of shepherds and young apprentices. I would certainly not be allowed out of this square, as I hadn’t been included on the chief shepherd’s contract list, but I was banking they would not send me back once we were well on the way. I waited for the moment when Padre Mario began his ritual blessing of men and animals, sprinkling holy water on their heads and, whilst they were bowed in prayer, I climbed onto the cart and wriggled under the cover.
I remembered Nonno telling me that for the long months away between September and May, shepherds became like snails – carrying their homes upon their backs. It felt as if all of the homes had landed up on my particular cart. There was a huge pile of umbrellas, for autumn always brought rain and mist and it was better to travel dry. I wriggled free of the sharp spokes only to find myself face to face with a caged broody hen which set up such a squawking, I was certain of being discovered. But I needn’t have worried: the cacophony of clanking buckets, copper pots, colanders and ladles banging against an iron cooking stove drowned the bird’s indignation.
It was an uncomfortable bumpy ride but having lain awake most of the previous night, anxious not to oversleep and miss the three chimes of the church clock, I was now extremely sleepy. Manoeuvring closer to an inviting pile of sacks, it was not long before I nodded off to the rhythm of the rocking, laden cart.
‘What in the devil’s name and all the saints are you doing here?’ Paolo had ripped the cover back from his cart and I blinked up at his frowning face, silhouetted against a sullen sky.
The caravan had stopped a couple of kilometres before the Viamaggio Pass, in front of the church next to landowner Chiozzi’s large stone house, to wait for the arrival of the Pratieghi flocks. They were late and with rain falling steadily, Paolo was anxious to hand out umbrellas. Putting a finger to his lips, he yanked me from my comfy nest, shouting, ‘Lazy bones thought you could get away with it, did you? Now get back to work…’
Under his breath he muttered to me we should talk later, but at the top of his voice he ordered me to hand out all the umbrellas and to be sharp about it or else I would be going without my supper.
I recognised most of the shepherds, including the tall, forbidding figure of Severo, the vergaio or leading shepherd, who was reputed to know the way down to the Maremma coast like the insides of his pockets. He tutted and scowled from beneath splendidly frizzy eyebrows when I handed him the wrong umbrella, pointing impatiently at the largest and strongest at the top of the pile. From beneath the generous shelter of his umbrella, while drips sploshed down onto my bare head, Severo yelled commands to all the shepherds, urging them to hurry up now the Pratieghi group had deigned to put in an appearance. Turning on his heels, his long cloak swirling around him like a thunder cloud, he strode to the front of his troop. He thwacked his staff on the rump of the leading gelding and the band of animals and men moved forward as one. The flock meekly followed their leader, packed tightly together like an army, heads low as if wanting to hide amongst each other, some bleating for their newborn lambs slung like soft white scarves around the necks of a few of the shepherds.
‘Tell me what to do,’ I muttered to Paolo. We were positioned towards the back, Paolo’s old mule struggling to pull his load. Four mules tied to each other with a thick rope trotted behind it, bearing baskets full of winter supplies, whilst the final mule carried a young boy called Tullio who, Paolo told me later, had tripped and hurt his ankle not long after leaving Badia Tedalda. He bounced up and down as the animal trotted to keep up, wincing with pain at each jolt.
‘Watch the other garzoni, the young apprentices, and copy them,’ whispered Paolo.
Chapter 10
Giuseppe joins the transumanza
At the Viamaggio Pass, the view I’d gazed on two years earlier on my journey down to Arezzo, was now obscured by thick mist. The flocks began to spread out from their tight pack, tempted by grass on the wider verges of each side of the track. Shepherd dogs, their dirty cream coats matted with dung and burrs, pricked up their ears, listening to the shepherds’ whistled instructions to round up wandering sheep. I watched a boy not much older than myself leap over the ditch to chase two sheep away from a field of newly planted fennel, its first feathery shoots poking up deliciously green. There would be fines to pay to landowners if the animals spoiled crops and one of the main tasks of the garzoni was to make sure this didn’t happen. I followed him, waving my hands about in an effort to help, but the sheep were scared of me and scampered deeper into the field.
‘For fuck’s sake, go back to your nice warm seminary where you belong,’ one of the garzoni shouted at me. It was Antonio from Badia who used to serve on the altar with me. For a fleeting moment I was tempted.
By noon we had crossed meadows cropped and meagre from summer grazing and descended stony paths past the hermitage of Saint Francis. It clung to the massive round rocks of Cerbaiolo and once again I was teased by a couple of apprentices walking near me. Word had obviously got round.
‘Stop off here, why don’t you?’ they jeered. ‘A nice warm cell and dry sackcloth to wear would suit you down to the ground. What are you doing here, anyway?’
I ignored them and instead gazed at the view. Pieve Santo Stefano lay in the valley below. Stone houses straggled along the River Tiber that snaked through the little town. The cupola on the church of Madonna dei Lumi glinted in the autumn sunshine. I could make out women pounding clothes on flat rocks edging the water and one looked up as we approached, the sheep pushing their way across the narrow bridge. One of them shaded her eyes with her hands and then waved vigorously as our caravan drew near.
‘That’s my aunt,’ cried Luciano, one of the garzoni who so far hadn’t dealt me any insults, ‘and she makes the best chestnut cake in the world.’ He dashed down the bank, slithering as he went and fell into her arms. He returned with a brown paper parcel dangling from his hand and a smile that stretched from ear to ear. I hoped he might share some with me later.
At Sigliano, after another hour’s climb up the other side of the valley, we stopped to rest the animals in the shade of a beech forest. The sun was high now, warm for early October. The ground was dry and it seemed we mountain folk were the only ones who had had rain in the past weeks.
Paolo gestured to me to come and sit next to him and I waited for another earful of reprimands. But he must have noticed the strain on my face, for he broke off a piece of his loaf and handed it to me before passing over a generous slice of mature pecorino cheese.
‘I don’t know why you’ve run away and I don’t want to know,’ he said, ‘but your mother would never forgive me if I didn’t keep an eye on you.’
We ate our simple meal together, to the sound of a gentle b
reeze rustling through the trees and the bleating of sheep. Crisp, golden leaves spun and fell and occasionally an acorn thudded to the ground. Paolo packed away his knife and the rest of his bread and cheese into a leather saddle bag, talking to me as he prepared for the next stage of our journey.
‘As it happens, Giuseppe, you’re in luck. They’re sending Tullio back to Badia tomorrow morning. He’s no use to us with his sprained ankle, so I’ve persuaded Severo you can take his place. You’ll have to pull your weight, mind.’ He glanced at my hands, soft and white, more suited to work with pen and ink than manual labour.
‘Thank you, Paolo. I won’t let you down. I promise.’
‘Well, we’ll see about that. Stick close by me this afternoon. The paths are very steep and I’ll need help with the cart.’
It took over three hours to reach the top of Poggio Rosso. On the way, Paolo pointed out a huddle of houses perched on the mountains on the right hand side of the valley. ‘That’s Caprese,’ he said, ‘where the great master Michelangelo was born.’
I’d seen pictures of the Sistine Chapel in a book in the seminary library but I could hardly believe such a famous artist could come from a tiny village lost in our mountains. I stumbled over a stone as I craned my neck, trying to keep the houses in sight for as long as I could and Paolo clipped me round the ear for making his cart wobble precariously as I grasped hold of it, trying to stop myself from falling. ‘Wake up, Giuseppe Starnucci,’ he shouted, ‘you’ll be the ruin of me before the end of this journey. I can see trouble ahead.’
That evening when Severo called for us to stop and prepare for camp, I would have bent down and kissed his feet if I’d had enough strength in my body. I was exhausted. But there was still work to be done before any rest. I helped Paolo drag the portable fencing, the addiaccio, from the cart, to build a pen for the sheep. Together with two other lads we lifted a heavy stove off the cart and helped the cook who was nicknamed Cipolla, because he loved onions and ate them raw, his eyes watering when he peeled them. We hefted a sack of polenta over to the fire for the evening meal. I was ravenous and when it was ready, filled my belly with piping hot corn meal. Cipolla had flavoured it with wild mushrooms foraged from the roadside during the day’s trek. It was not as tasty as Mamma’s recipe, but welcome all the same to my grumbling stomach. The polenta was poured onto a shepherd’s cloak on the ground and everybody sliced off their portion with a pocket knife. Paolo lent me his. And all the while I was realising how ill equipped I was for this journey down to the sea.
After supper I sat next to him by the fire but he whispered I should move further back. It was only the more experienced older shepherds and workers who took up positions nearest the brazier. I was quite content to lie further back in the shadows that first evening. My body and mind were shattered and I wondered how I’d manage on the following day. The night chill was a surprise to me after the day’s sweaty toil. I had thought that nearer the plains the temperature wouldn’t drop quite as low in as in our mountains. I wrapped Nonno’s cloak round me like swaddling clothes and lay down near the dogs, trying to put names to the men resting in front of me.
One of the older shepherds, a white-haired man called Ulisse, started to sing. His voice was strong, melodic. I recognised the tune. “Dove tu te ne vai.” Where are you off to? The words were those of a young girl asking her lover if she could come along with him. “I’m off to the Maremma, my pretty Rosina, and you can’t come with me,” was the reply.
My own mother used to sing this tune as she went about her tasks in happier days, before my brother was lost to us. My eyes moistened as I thought of what I’d left behind. A tear escaped down my sun-stung cheeks and I brushed it away, glad of the darkness. I screwed my eyes shut, willing myself to stop.
‘Hey, Rofelle boy! Fetch me some water.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. It was Fausto’s voice and he was poking me in the ribs with something hard. I opened my eyes to make sure it was him and tried to get up, but Nonno’s cloak was wound fast around me. Fausto put his crook between my legs and tripped me back to the ground. His guffaws and jeers caused Ulisse to stop his song and glare. His listeners muttered and swore at the noise we were creating.
‘Show some respect, you youngsters…’
‘Get some rest…we’ll be up at four…’
‘If you’re not tired enough, we’ll find you harder work in the morning…’
I ripped off my tangled cloak, spitting dust from my mouth.
‘What do you want from me, Fausto?’
I tried to sound big and brave but I was ready to piss in my clogs. I wondered what I had done to deserve bumping into my loathsome enemy once again.
He swayed closer to me. I could smell wine on his breath.
‘What do I want?’ he slurred. ‘First off I want to settle a score with you - for getting me expelled from that cosy seminary. And then what else do I want?’
He ran his tongue around his lips, sucking in air through the gap in his front teeth and scratching his balls.
‘I wouldn’t say no to those pretty little sisters of yours. That’s what else I want. But give them a year or two, they’re not ripe enough yet…’ He held his hands like cups in front of his chest and grinned.
I head-butted him, knocking him backwards to the ground. He fell on a sheep dog and it started to bark and snarl. Then I jumped on top of him, every blow rained down on his ugly face delivered with expletives, each one filthier than the last. The flames from the fire were red in my head and I’m certain I would have killed him but, mercifully for me, I felt myself hoisted away. As I dangled from somebody’s strong grip, I sensed I was in trouble.
The man with the strong grip was Matteo, a farrier and friend of Paolo. He chuckled as he carried me away. ‘You look puny, lad, but you’ve some strength in you, I’ll grant you that.’
I struggled and kicked and shouted for him to let me go as he walked towards his hut, whereupon he tossed me into an animal trough filled with icy water. It took my breath away. I coughed and spluttered and Matteo told me to stop behaving like a toddler. Then he roared with laughter and fetched a rough woollen blanket to wrap myself in, telling me to sit near his brazier. A pair of tongs protruded from the flames. Shivering, I watched as he pulled out a metal shoe with the implement and start to hammer it into shape on his anvil, one hard blow followed by a lighter touch, sparks dancing from the iron U-shape as he worked. His touch was firm yet delicate.
‘I don’t usually work this late,’ he shouted between strikes, ‘but one of Paolo’s mules is in danger of going lame and I owe him a few favours.’
I stopped shivering. My knuckles smarted from the pelting I’d dealt Fausto. I wanted to crawl away somewhere and sleep but Matteo was having none of that. He tossed me a hunk of bread and then, unwrapping a cured leg of pork from a piece of sacking, he cut a thick slice and threw it on top of a griddle to the side of the brazier.
‘Even though you don’t deserve this, lad, get it down you and then tell me what was going on between you and that half-wit. Then I’ll see to your hands - they’ll go septic if we don’t bathe them.’
I munched the delicious meat. Blacksmiths had a reputation for eating lots of good food; they had to build stamina and strong muscles for their work and Matteo was the chief camp farrier. I watched his right forearm bulging as he hammered the shoe to the desired thickness. He wore a thick leather belt round his middle and a piece of cow hide hung down his front, like an apron. He stopped working when I told him about the theft of Nonno’s watch and gave a low whistle.
‘He’s a little shit and no mistake,’ he said.
I felt at ease with him and this was work I’d watched many times in the little stone forge where Nonno worked. I got up to stoke the charcoal and he grunted his approval.
‘You’re Pierone’s grandson, aren’t you?’ he asked me.
‘How did you know?’
‘Word gets round here faster than a buzzard swooping on its prey! Anyway, P
aolo already told me. He’s a good man. Like a brother to me.’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Well, if you knew who I was, why did you ask?’
He stopped mid-strike, eyebrows raised. ‘You’re too cheeky for your own good, lad.’
He stuck the tongs back into the hot embers and walked over, his big body looming over me. ‘Look, Giuseppe,’ he said, ‘you’ll do yourself no favours if you carry on like this. Whatever has gone on between the pair of you in the past, you need to sort it out. Or else you’ll not last another day in this outfit.’
I mumbled an apology.
He pulled out the red hot tongs and horse-shoe and plunged them in a bucket of cold water. A hiss of steam blew up into the night. Then he started to form nail holes around the middle of the shoe, bending closer as he concentrated on piercing the red hot metal.
‘We all have to rub along together, no matter what. Otherwise, it doesn’t work. There’s no time or place for disagreements.’ He smiled and held up the finished article. ‘This’ll see the old mule right for another few months. Quite lame she was, but this will sort the poor old girl.’
The shoe was thicker at the back than normal, like a wedge. I was impressed with the workmanship and said as much. ‘The butteri herdsmen used to come to Nonno with their lame horses. He was famous for the way he could improvise,’ I said.
‘Where do you think I learned my craft?’ Matteo sat down next to me. ‘I was apprenticed to him for a while but you won’t remember me. I was a skinny little runt in those days.’ He got up to cut another two hunks of bread and pork, offering me one.
‘No thanks. I’m stuffed,’ I said, patting my belly and yawning.
‘Come and see me tomorrow and we’ll talk about taking you on.’
‘I’m already helping Paolo.’
‘Paolo and I work together. Go and get some sleep now.’