The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (28 page)

Orione hated being behind. He was born to race, born to win. I felt him surge toward the opening L’Oca had left.

The other riders knew I would have to give way to get through the narrow section. But Orione didn’t want to slow down, and I didn’t want to force him. For the last few strides before the narrows, there was a widening at the entrance to San Giorgio. If we did not get back into place, Orione and I would ride straight into the wall to our death.

As we met the final stretch of the downhill, I let go of my seat muscles and leaned forward, flattening on Orione’s mane. We galloped beside L’Oca. The jutting building was right there, just ahead, there was no way
. . .

And then, with a final impossible surge, Orione bolted past L’Oca, threaded his way through the vanishing slice of clear space, and we were still alive.

Alive and in the lead.

La testa!

I saw only the road rising ahead of us and the cheering crowds pressed flat against the walls, risking their lives and ours.

We veered to the right. Hoofbeats thundered in my ears, close behind.

But we were in la testa!

Now the road climbed up toward Le Logge del Papa and the curve left onto Via di Città and into the last third of the race.

We were embraced by the pounding thunder of hoofbeats, surrounded by the cheering of the crowds above us, beside us, all around us. And amid all that, I heard the shattering of crockery, a flowerpot, on the street behind me. Was that an accident, or was it aimed at someone? It didn’t matter. All thought was lost in the thunder as we battled through the turn onto Via di Città. I caught a glimpse of the tower of the Duomo rising above the city’s roofs.

Focus, Virginia!

A sharp whistle. The repeated thwack of a whip.

L’Oca on the right! He pushed next to me, his nerbo smacking his horse and then Orione. Then I felt the whip across my hands and the reins.

All is fair in the Palio.

“No!” I shouted.

I saw the buildings flashing by, a glimpse of Via Fontebranda. I heard my Padrino’s voice, “Almost too late!” We were at the fatal curve, the shadowed corner where the Palazzo Cervini jutted out into Via di Città.

A horse I dearly loved died right here.

L’Oca was on my right, still lashing at me with his whip. Montone was hard on my left, shoulder to shoulder.

“Narrows!” I screamed.

I kicked Orione with my right foot, pulling sharply on my left rein. We ran hard against Montone, making him bounce away, staggering for a stride.

L’Oca slipped into the space I had occupied a blink of an eye before. The fantino screamed in agony as his arm and leg scraped the wall.

I had let him live. But now I saw the light blue and white of Onda on my left—where had he come from!—forcing his way between Montone and me.

The road to the Palazzo Chigi was a hard uphill. Orione heaved ragged breaths under me. I could hear the roaring breath of L’Oca and Onda as we galloped toward the gleaming white palace.

A riderless horse came up on our left side. Montone’s fantino had come off in the battle with Onda.

We made the sweeping right toward the last stretch of uphill, toward the final corner. The hard right turn onto Via del Capitano, then the final sprint to the Duomo.

The afternoon sun was fierce, beating down on the white marble of the Duomo and the crowds at the finish line. Just above, on the terraces of the de’ Medici Palazzo, looking out over the Piazza del Duomo, sat the granduca and granduchessa. Bianca Cappello tried in vain to cool herself, her fan beating the air with the velocity of a hummingbird’s wing.

“Bring me another glass of wine,” she snapped to her lady-in-waiting. “This heat is barbaric.”

Secretary Serguidi slipped out onto the balcony.

“The horses should be approaching any moment, my granduca.”

“Are we ready?” asked the granduca, his voice low.

“Sì,” said Serguidi. They both stared down Via del Capitano to the sharp curve, the late sunlight casting a pool of shadow.

Giacomo di Torreforte was among the nobili gathered at Piazza di Postierla, at the corner of Via del Capitano. He stood as close as he dared to the canvas barricade. He heard the hoofbeats an instant before the horses came into sight.

The villanella was in the lead!

L’Oca and Onda were riding hard, close behind on either side. But as they fought their way up Via di Città, the black stallion pulled ahead.

Out of the corner of his eye, di Torreforte saw two men on the flag-draped balcony of the building at the apex of the turn. Their heads disappeared as they quickly crouched out of sight. As Orione entered the hard right corner, the men reappeared, their shoulders working in unison.

Three large planks sailed down, clattering into the street.

“No!” di Torreforte shouted.

The men disappeared inside the dark room behind the balcony.

Later, I thanked God. But right then there was no time to pray, no time to think. Orione raised his head. I caught a glimpse of the nobility—the ladies in finery under the shade of fluttering awnings; the men crowded tight, cheering their contradas.

Then I saw something. There! What? Boards! Just in front of me! Clattering to the street. I clung to Orione’s mane as he leapt. I felt the two of us lift up and over, flying, weightless.

We cleared the first two boards. There was no room for a stride before the third.

Orione fought to keep his footing, then lost that battle. I went down with Orione, clinging to his back as he stumbled on his forehand.

Women screamed. Men shouted. And somehow in that swirl of noise and panic and color and fear, I saw one single face clear in the crowd: Giacomo di Torreforte standing close enough to touch. And in that same instant, I heard Giorgio’s voice.
“He will stop at nothing to see us fail.”

Faces and voices disappeared as Orione scrambled to his feet in the instant that L’Oca and Onda raced past. We pushed on, galloping toward the piazza and the towering marble Duomo. But I felt the change in his gait, and my gut sank.

The shadows of Via del Capitano were a tunnel between what could have been and what now had to happen. In the distance, I could hear the roaring crowd, see the sun dazzling on the marble cathedral, glimpse the flap of the drappellone just ahead. I pressed my face close to Orione’s mane, letting his head free to gallop the last strides of the race.

We emerged into the bright light of the piazza and the roar of the crowds, the flap of banners, the whistles and cheers. We raced hard to catch the sweating flanks of L’Oca, never reaching Onda. Onda had come out of nowhere to take first, L’Oca second. I pulled Orione into a circle, trying to avoid running down a Senese. I slid off Orione, my hands already on his left fetlock as my boots hit the ground.

He flinched at my touch, raising his foot. A Drago contradaiolo took his reins.

“We will take care of him, Virginia. We will treat him like a king.”

“Soak his foot in cold water. Send for Cesare Brunelli. I think he broke a bone—he—”

The next thing I knew, I was raised above the ground on the hands and shoulders of a throng of dragaioli.

“La villanella! La villanella!”

“But she lost!” exploded Granduca Francesco, dashing his crystal wine goblet to the ground. An attendant scurried to pick up the shards.

“These Senese morons!” roared the granduca. “Why this jubilation? The shepherdess did not win!”

He looked down at the girl, lifted in the air above the crowd as they roared.

“La villanella! La villanella!”

He saw Drago’s barbaresco lead the limping Orione away, surrounded by dragaioli.

“Serguidi! Summon di Torreforte at once,” snapped the granduca.

“Sì, Serenissimo!”

“Where did she get that horse?” said the granduca, turning to Governor di Montauto, thinking he already knew the answer.

“I believe that horse has always belonged to her, Granduca,” the governor said, watching the girl be jostled in the waning sun of the afternoon. “They were born for each other.”

C
HAPTER
64

Siena, Pugna Hills

A
UGUST
1581

I sat on a stool beside Zio’s pallet, stroking his hand as I recounted the Palio. He was too weak to move, and he could not speak. But he hung on every word I said, the flickering candle reflecting in his eyes.

“We would have won, Orione and I. He was so bold, so swift and nimble. You should have seen him move past L’Oca, charging ahead!”

Zio could not smile, but I saw the glint of light move in the shadow of his eyes like a bright fish.

“Ah! But the boards spooked him. Such treachery. I know who did it. I am certain—”

I stopped, hearing a commotion at the door and the sound of a carriage outside our hovel.

“She is in there,” I heard Zia Claudia say. “She will not go willingly, mind you!”

A spark of fear widened Zio’s eyes. He opened his mouth, but no word came. Only the silent echo of a scream.

Giacomo di Torreforte ducked his head to avoid the low beam as he entered the house. He was accompanied by a big man in coachman’s garb. I saw Zia Claudia beyond him, shaking a bag that sounded with the heavy clink of gold coins in her sooty hands.

“Forgive me, Giovanni,” she said, her fingers clutching the bag. She pushed past the two men. “I cannot raise this wild girl alone.”

Zio struggled to rise, to speak. But he lay paralyzed, his eyes blinking.

The coachman grabbed me, tossing me over his shoulder. I pounded my fists against his back, my feet kicking hard until he pinned them tight against his chest.

“Tie her up,” said Signor di Torreforte. “Put her in the coach facing backward. I will sit opposite.”

As the big man turned to carry me out the door, I heard di Torreforte address my zio. “You will never know what a favor I do here today, Giovanni Tacci,” he said. “She will always be Siena’s heroine. Not even the de’ Medici can take away that honor. Not ever.”

I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t breathe.

The world went black.

P
ART
V

Ferrara

A
NNI
1581–1582