The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (13 page)

C
HAPTER
31

Siena, Pugna Hills

N
OVEMBER
1574

“Puttana!” shrieked Zia Claudia, her skin tight against her skull in anger.

She spat at me, sending a gob of phlegm shimmering on the grass.

“You whore!”

Whore?

I stared at her, not comprehending. I was still a child, but I knew full well what a puttana was: a painted woman who lurked in the shadows after dark, giving her body for money.

“You ingrate! After all we have done for you!”

My uncle restrained her, grabbing at her flailing hands, his body blocking her approach.

“Now the tanner’s son will never want to marry you!” she screamed. “You—ruined by Brunelli’s son! The red-haired demon who has no occupation but to spend his father’s money on paints!”

I stared at her face, contorted with anger and bitterness. Slowly I realized her accusation. I was nothing to her but a prize ewe she could sell.

“Who told you?” was all I could say.

Zio answered, still engaged in subduing his wife.

“Your cousin Franco. He said he saw the two of you with the horses.”

“But Zio, Franco is wrong,” I said, pulling at his sleeve. “I ride. I ride the horses. Even Stella, the Palio winner.”

Despite the effort to hold back my aunt, I saw a wave of pride cross Zio Giovanni’s face.

“You?”
he said, his eyes flashing open as if he saw me for the first time. “You—ride the Oca horses?”

He forgot about my zia and reached out to grab me by the shoulders.

“You
ride
, Virginia!” he said, emotion washing over his tired features. “Tell me—”

“Oh, Zio, how I have longed to share this with you! Sì, I have ridden Stella. She is faster than the wind. And Orione, he follows close behind—”

“Riding the duchessa’s Palio mare!” Zia Claudia raised her arms to the heavens at this new outrage, this new terror. “A foolish girl astride a Palio horse? We must swear the boys to secrecy—bribe them if we must!”

I turned toward Zia.

“Oh, no,” I said, standing firmly, facing her. “You are wrong. I want to show her. She shall be proud to see a girl on her mare.”

Zia slumped to the ground, groaning.

“Help me get her to bed,” said my uncle. “This is too much for her.”

Once my zia knew of my nightly adventures, she forbade me to leave ever again after dark. I knew she would listen for me, sleeping lightly from then on to prevent my escape.

As I was thinking of the long nights that awaited me, with no horses to fill the minutes after midnight, I grew restless. Zia Claudia kept me busy scouring cooking pans with sand, ash, and ewe grease.

Zio Giovanni sat close to the hearth, poking the ember moodily.

“Harder,” Zia said, watching me rub a pot’s blackened bottom with a brush of red reeds.

As I bent my head closer to the pot, I saw a motion from the far end of the room.

“Wife, I have business to attend to,” said Giovanni, rising to his feet. His voice was gruff.

“I will be back late tonight.”

“Where do you go at this hour? What business—”

“
Basta
,” he said, not answering her. “And leave the girl in peace!”

My uncle reached for his staff and cloak and disappeared into the falling darkness.

I spoke not a word to Zia Claudia in the hours after Zio left the house. She glowered at me, her eyes as hot and menacing as the burning embers in the fire.

Finally she spoke, her voice cutting through the hostile silence.

“You know what they say about horses and girls,” said Zia, her eyes glittering. “Horses are for transport and necessity. A girl who loves to ride—”

“What? A girl who loves to ride, what?”

“A girl who loves to ride pleasures herself like a whore. What other enjoyment could there be?”

I stared at her, not understanding.

“You and that wicked red-haired devil. He put you up to this. To warm you up, to take you in the field, like a ram ruts a young ewe—”

Though I did not fully understand what Zia was saying that night, I felt the cold menace of her words, her shrunken heart. She could not see the beauty I felt when I was riding, the freedom and strength I gathered from galloping as the wind combed through my hair.

She cheapened my passion for horses to a whore’s pleasure—something I could not even understand. Her words were ugly, destroying the magic I felt on a horse’s back.

“You are a dirty, mean old woman!” I shouted. “I have always hated you!”

I ran out into the night, tears wet on my cheeks, chilling me.

I saw the silhouette of Zio walking up the hill. I raced down the path into his arms.

“Virginia!” he said. “What are you doing out in the night air?”

“I will leave, Zio!” I burst into tears again. I choked, and my nose began to run. “I will go live in the stables with my padrino.”

Zio Giovanni took a rag from his sleeve.

“Blow,” he said. “Clean that nose up and tell me what happened.”

“Zia has said the most wicked things to me. She speaks of curses and dirty tales, she cannot understand the beauty of the horse—”

“Ah. We must convince her then, ciccia
,”
he said, pulling me close. “Let us go into the house. I am chilled.”

Inside, Zio Giovanni brought me next to the hearth. He sat next to me, stroking my hair. I felt Zia’s spiteful stare boring into me. My zio pulled me close, sheltering me from her eyes.

His gentle touch, usually reserved for his favorite sheepdogs, calmed me.

“This is not the end of your training, Virginia,” he whispered.

He tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at his brown eyes.

“On the contrary, it is only the beginning. I have talked to both Giorgio and your godfather. You start riding under your padrino’s tutelage tomorrow. It is time to meet the true master. Cesare Brunelli shall instruct you himself.”

“Davvero?”

I kissed my uncle on both cheeks, then kissed him again. Under the musk of hard work and sweat, he smelt warm, redolent of lambs and sweet grass.

“You are a Tacci,” he whispered in my ear. “Let us see what the great horsemaster Brunelli can teach you.”

C
HAPTER
32

Siena, Brunelli Stables, Vignano

D
ECEMBER
1574

Once I began instruction under the famous Brunelli, everyone in Vignano and the Pugna Valley knew of my riding.

Villagers—and sometimes strangers from Siena—flanked the muddy field where my padrino gave me daily lessons.

Nobili from Siena drove out from the city in their lacquered coaches, waiting near the field where I rode. Even Siena’s governor, Federigo di Montauto—a de’ Medici official—came to watch me train. The noblemen raised their hands in animated gestures as I rode, finding points to criticize.

“Drive your heels down,” they would say. “Chin up, leg down.”

But the
nobila
—the noble ladies—would beam with delight, as if I were their own sister or daughter. Their faces would transform from restrained nobility to animated youth as they shouted from their carriages:

“Brava, pastorella Virginia! Brava!”

No longer was I permitted to ride Stella or the Oca horses. Now I rode mounts Brunelli selected for me—often as many as seven horses a day.

I ate, drank, and slept with horses. Never was there a minute I was parted from them.

“A fantino must know as many horses as possible in his education,” said my godfather. “Each horse will teach you a different lesson. Only then will you be a true fantino.”

“A fantina,” I insisted, reining in the skittish mare he had selected that morning. The cold air made her shake with energy.

“I cannot change the Italian language. A jockey is a jockey. A fantino
.
Masculine,” he insisted. He paused to think. “
Ragazza-fantino
,” he said at last, compromising. A girl-jockey.

His mouth puckered at the strange word he had created.

“Now pay attention, do not talk back.”

“Sì, signore.”

“Good,” he said, watching me calm down the mare, who snorted and shied at the gathering of spectators.

“Do they have to be here?” I said. “Staring at me.”

“And you are the girl who wants to ride the Palio? Get used to it, ciccia. There will always be an audience from now on. Ignore them. Only you and your horse exist.”

As I rode out of the courtyard into the fenced pasture, a flock of little birds flew up from the pile of manure. The young mare Margherita jumped sideways as quickly as a thunderclap. I clamped my legs tight, barely able to stay on. I clung to her mane, pulling myself up straight again. I cooed soft words to her, calming the green filly.

“Yes, you look secure on a well-trained horse,” said Padrino. “But I will put you on some wild ones. Then you will truly learn to ride.”

“This mare is skittish enough, do you not think?”

“Ha!” he said. “Margherita is a child’s pony compared to the horses you will ride soon!”

Someone in the crowd around the field shouted my name, and the mare shied sideways again as quickly as a bolt of lightning. She jumped in the air, skittering half a dozen steps sideways. I held tight, soothing her with my voice as I recovered my seat.

I knew the ground below me was frozen hard as stone. I had fallen off so many times in the last year, my legs and hips seemed permanently plum-colored. Only in the last few months had they started to turn pink again.

“Yes,” he said. “Stretch your leg down the horse—even farther!—as if you were trying to reach the meadow grass with your feet. Pretend it is tickling your soles.”

I smiled, stretching my thin legs down as far as they would reach. I heard the murmur of the village boys.

“Look at her skinny calves. More a scarecrow than a girl!”

“Silence!” shouted Brunelli. “If any man insults this girl, I shall thrash you myself.”

Giorgio, on the edge of the field, shouted, “But not before I pummel you!” He rolled up his sleeves above his freckled arms.

A couple of young bucks sniggered at Giorgio’s threat.

“Your bony fists can only hold paintbrushes, Michelangeletto!” said one.

“I could beat you into mush, you faggot!” said the other brawny youth.

But the crowd quickly silenced them. “Zitti! Shut your mouths! How dare you insult the girl, our ragazza-fantino!”

The two farmers’ sons clenched their fists so their muscles bunched under their skin. They spat on the ground but held their tongues.

My padrino sucked in his breath, glowering at the boys.

“This is my goddaughter,” he said, his voice loud but steady. “Do not forget this. An insult to her is an insult to me. And I will deal with you personally.”

“And you, Rompicollo,” said my padrino, “shall show all Italy what a Senese girl with a brave heart can accomplish on a horse.”

A raucous cheer erupted, causing the two youths to drop their heads in shame. The sudden sound made Margherita jump sideways with me clinging to her back, my skinny legs clamped around her.

C
HAPTER
33

Siena, Palazzo
d’
Elci

D
ECEMBER
1574

The day Giorgio saw Michelangelo’s
Leda and the Swan
, a piece of his soul clicked into place.

He had always loved to draw horses—he had found passion in their instinct, majesty, and intuition. But they were beasts. He had never found perfect beauty and wild passion in humans, though he searched for it, an incessant thirst urging him on.

Except for one human subject: Virginia Tacci.

He had traveled to Florence once and felt his blood simmer as he stood before the statue of
David
in the Piazza della Signoria. He stood for hours taking in the curve of the muscle and curl of David’s hair rendered in marble. The flawless white skin of a godlike creature emerging from the stone.

But that was perfection, not passion, he decided. And Michelangelo’s
Pièta
, too, was perfection. Perfection of sorrow, the human condition. Yet still not passion. But
Leda and the Swan
was much more than mere perfection. The curve of Leda’s thigh draped over the swan. The beast’s beak reaching for her lips. The undulation of the swan’s neck resting on Leda’s breast. He had found erotic passion at last, between woman and animal, in the rendering of a myth.

He was aroused as he stood gazing at the canvas.

Giorgio was no stranger to the whorehouses of Siena. He had tried to find satisfaction between the legs of prostitutes, who kept a bucket and rag at the ready next to the musky straw pallets in the brothels.

But never had he seen the look of ecstasy that imbued the features of Leda. Never had he seen this transformation.

“Why do you stare at my face?” complained his favorite whore one night, catching sight of his glittering eyes. She reached out her long arm to snuff the candle, but he caught her by the wrist.

“Let me look at you,” he pleaded. “Just a moment, let me study you.”

“You look as if you lost a florin, the way you search. Close your eyes, signore. Then I can best perform my duties.”

Giorgio was shaken from his reverie by the maestro’s voice.

“Enjoy it, young Brunelli,” he said. “You are one of the few Italians who will ever see her face, our Leda. Michelangelo himself is sending the painting to France for safekeeping. The Duke of Ferrara’s envoy insulted it as salacious. Michelangelo has taken offense and will not send it to Castello d’Este, despite the duke’s pleading.”

“An authentic tragedy,” Giorgio whispered. “For Italians not to see such beauty.”

“More a tragedy should it be destroyed by the Pope,” said the maestro. “Michelangelo fears the painting would not be safe in the Italian states.”

Giorgio bowed his head. He returned to his work, dabbing the merest hint of hematite on the flesh of his Leda’s lips. Then he set his eyes once more on the masterpiece before him.

“Look how smooth the gesso is on the wood panel,” he said.

The maestro nodded. “Without a perfect foundation, the artist’s skill is wasted. I suspect Michelangelo has legions of apprentices who would rather die than deliver a flawed panel to their master.”

“I cannot begin to match even the preparation of the paints and canvas, let alone imitate his skill.” Again Giorgio gazed at Leda’s face. “I have never seen such a look of human divinity—”

“Of ecstasy, Giorgio. The transportation of the soul is hardly something a man would witness
. . .
” The maestro shrugged.

“In a brothel?” said Giorgio. He looked up at the old man. “That is what you were going to say, was it not?”

“Sì. I suspect at your age and station in life,” said the maestro, smiling indulgently, “it is not an emotion you have encountered. Yet.”

Giorgio blushed, studying the bristles on his paintbrush.

“As always, maestro, your wisdom far exceeds my knowledge. But there is something in this piece that won’t release me. The artist has pulled back the curtain, we are voyeurs. It gives me—
brividi
. Look at the prickled flesh on my arm!” he said, extending his arm and pulling up his sleeve.

“Yes,” said the maestro, nodding. He dragged a knuckle across his moist eye. “Despite my age, I feel those same shivers.” He stepped closer to the painting. “A ghost of my youth. But it is the transformation, the nudity not just of the body, but of the soul. A masterpiece.”

Giorgio set down his brush. “It is enough for me to give up painting forever. I could never capture that magic.”

The maestro shifted his eyes to his pupil.

“Do not be so sure, Brunelli. I believe you have a gift,
mio studente
.”
He put his hand on the youth’s shoulder.

“Your horses,” whispered the maestro. “Perhaps you do not have a Leda in your life, but your horses are imbued with a divine strength, Giorgio. There is something rebellious, magnificent about your renderings. Passion is not only sexual. Follow your vision.”

Giorgio looked into his teacher’s eyes.

“Yet in class, in front of di Torreforte and all the Florentines—”

“I had to. But that did not mean your work was not magnificent. I trust that you, as an artist, could not bear to destroy such a painting.”

Giorgio raised his chin.

“An artist must find his medium. And his muse,” said the maestro, inspecting his student’s canvas. He put on his spectacles and leaned so close, Giorgio expected his maestro’s nose to come away smudged with paint.

“And your muse is not Leda, nor is it a swan.”