The next morning broke clear and cool, and Giorgio set out before sunup for Doctor Celli's villa. He carried only a small parcel containing his clothes, which were wrapped about a chunk of bread and a salami. If Gaudenzia was fit to travel, he would make her load as light as possible.
The shadowed road was still cool from the night, and the birds only beginning to sing. Giorgio whistled as he strode along, and the notes came so light and fast he could hardly keep up with them. The song he whistled was about the common road to glory, and there was such a bursting in his chest that he half ran the shadowy climbing way to the villa on the hilltop.
The sun was less than an hour high when he stood at Doctor Celli's door, completely out of breath. "Suppose," he suddenly thought, "the doctor is a late riser! Suppose word has not reached him that I am coming and he is off hunting rabbits in the hills. Suppose the weasely groom is in charge!"
But before Giorgio could pick up the brass knocker, a beautiful shiny one made in the image of a unicorn, the door opened wide and Doctor Celli, with a dog at his heels, stepped outside.
"Buon giorno," he smiled in welcome. "Your whistling and the barking of my hound announced you well ahead of time. Before I take you to the mare, I have some things to explain." He led the way to an ornamental bench in the midst of a rose garden, and motioned Giorgio to sit beside him. The red-eyed hound nosed the boy appraisingly, then flopped at his feet.
Doctor Celli began, choosing his words carefully. "To you, I believe I can talk as man to man."
Giorgio felt a stab of uneasiness at the tone of voice. He reached down and scratched the dog's head, trying not to show concern.
"I doubt the mare is fit for travel," the doctor went on. "The hurt tendon still gives her much discomfort. Maybe in a month or two she will be ready. And if, in the meanwhile, you wish to stay here and work in the grape harvest, I would be pleased."
"A month or two!" Giorgio stared at the man, unbelieving.
Doctor Celli got to his feet and touched Giorgio on the shoulder. "Follow me," he said, and he walked down the path to a cluster of outbuildings. "I will show you where she is stabled. I have no groom now, so her bed may be soiled and her white coat stained." And in the same breath he added, "Poor beast, it was an evil bump she had in the Prova. The cartilage above the hoof is badly damaged, and the nervous tic tortures her. But of these maladies you are already aware."
He turned to smile at Giorgio as they came to a halt before the closed door of a narrow stone building. He made no move to open it. "Sometimes with strangers she is quite savage," he explained. "Therefore, I think it imperative that you establish at once who is master. Perhaps," he questioned, "perhaps you wish to go in alone?"
Giorgio looked at the forbidding, heavy door. He drew a deep breath, hesitated, then lifted the latch and pushed. The creaking of the hinges sent Farfalla rearing to the rafters. Quietly Giorgio stepped inside and closed the door. He stood transfixed at the change in her—the ribs showing, the mantle harsh. Her stall was big enough, but lit by only one window, too high for looking out. It smelled of cold earth and hay and dung. All this he sensed in some faraway place in his mind. He had never before been alone with the mare, and he stood motionless, making no sound.
She too was electric with curiosity, pulling in the scent of him, blowing it out with a rattling snort.
"I am here," the boy said in a quiet tone. "It's only me."
The mare's head jerked high, her nostrils flared red, her ears flattened. "Stay back!" she warned. Fear was strong in her, but spirit, too. When Giorgio did not retreat, she wheeled about, took aim, and like a cat ready to spring, she gathered herself for a mighty kick. In the split second before her heels lashed out, he leaped against her rump, pressing his body hard against her. She was trapped as if her hind legs had been hobbled! Through his clothes he could feel her break out in lather. He too was drenched in sweat. Relief and happiness flooded into him as her muscles relaxed. He had won the first skirmish.
He went around now to her head and gently took hold of her halter. "You, so soft-eyed," he said. "You could not hurt me. Not ever. I am not afraid. Why are you afraid? Come," he coaxed, trying the new name softly. "Come, Gau-den-zia." And he led her out into the morning.
Doctor Celli could not hide his surprise. "Colombo!" he shouted to his farmer, who was throwing a pan of soaked acorns to the sow. "Look here! Already she knows who is master."
The farmer and Doctor Celli stood back in amazement while Giorgio lifted her hurt foot and held it between his knees. Carefully he pressed his hand from her hock down her cannon bone and along the tendon to a point just above the fetlock. To his great relief he could tell that the tendon was not bowed.
"The leg," Giorgio said, "should be rested if...."
Doctor Celli nodded. "So I told you! A month, maybe."
"No! No!" the boy spoke quickly. "If the tendon bowed out, then she would need rest. But now we got to keep her leg moving. The gristle otherwise will harden."
The men exchanged glances, eyeing each other with doubtful, questioning looks.
Giorgio pretended not to notice. He spoke with a bold sureness that surprised even himself. "If you please," he said, "I now make a poultice of flour and alum for the bruised place, and if you don't mind, we leave at once. It is sixty kilometers to Monticello and I must stop often to rest her."
The farmer disappeared to fetch the flour and alum, and Doctor Celli himself produced the bridle.
"She does not willingly take the bit," he said. "I will help you."
Giorgio smiled and shook his head. He led the mare inside her stable and cross-tied her to iron rings fastened to opposite walls. Then he saw that underneath her chin was a raw, red place. He thought a moment, and took from his pocket the rabbit's foot. Much as he prized it for a good luck charm, he skinned it and wrapped the soft fur about the chinstrap of the bridle.
"Now, Gaudenzia," he said as if he were talking to a small child, "with rabbit's fur the strap will not chafe the sore spot."
It took only a little firmness to slip the bit between her teeth and to adjust the throat latch. And she actually pushed her leg against Giorgio's hand while he bound the poultice in place.
For as long as he lived, Giorgio knew he would never forget this day. Of all the masters Gaudenzia had known, she had singledhimout as the one to trust! Why else did she let him leap aboard without bolting? Why else did she travel the mountainous country with scarce any favoring of her hurt leg? Why else did she swivel her ears to pull in his talk, or a snatch of his song?
The trip took all day, with Giorgio walking up the hills and riding down. Whenever they came to a stream, he let her wade into it, let her paw and plash to her heart's content. It was a remedy Babbo had handed down. "One thing you must know about horses," he had said time and again. "Soak hurt feet and legs in mountain streams, and you leave behind the fever and the pain."
Giorgio wished he could make the day last forever. In riding, he and Gaudenzia fitted together as if some sculptor had molded them all of one piece. In walking, they were a team, enjoying the cool wind in their faces and the warm sun on their backs.
It was good to see the country again! The little checkerboard farms with rows of grapevines holding hands, and hills swelling away to the horizon, and cypress trees marching bold and black against the sky.
They met farmers with guns on their shoulders, and lean dogs nosing for game. And they saw oxen slow-footing as they turned over the clods of earth.
They saw strawstacks, layered golden and brown, like mocha tortes. At thought of the tortes Giorgio was suddenly hungry. Standing at the side of the road, one arm through the reins, he ate his bread and salami and watched Gaudenzia graze. He wondered how far into the distance she could see. He studied her purple-brown eyes, but all he saw in them was his own reflection.
The sun was slipping into the folds of the mountains when they reached the wild loveliness of the Maremma. Never had it seemed so boundless. To Giorgio it was not lonely looking at all. He bristled at the thought. To him the tangle of brush and brake was beautiful, and the wild birds more plentiful than anywhere, and the autumn weeds winking bright and yellow in the roughed-up land. He stopped at a small wayside shrine decorated with a bouquet of dahlias, and asked a blessing for his new responsibility.
As they took off again, he noticed that the mare had lifted one of the flowers from the shrine. He laughed to the wind and the echo rolled back to him.
At last, in the thickening twilight, they wound up the hill to the huddled houses of Monticello. He clucked to Gaudenzia, asking her to trot the last few meters home in triumph. Her hoofbeats alerted the whole village.
Shutters flew open. Heads popped out. Voices shouted.
"Look! Look what Giorgio brings home! A white scarecrow!" And the children made a sing-song of it. "A white scarecrow! A white scarecrow!"
"Hey, Giorgio! She's got ribs like a washboard!"
"If you sell her for nothing, I wouldn't buy."
The jokes were all good natured, and in high spirits Giorgio leaped from Gaudenzia's back and led her to Pippa's stable. But Pippa was not there. In her place stood a red motor scooter with Babbo's old cap on the handle bars.
For a moment Giorgio felt grief. Then he wiped it away as if it were a cobweb. He had to think ahead now. "It is better Pippa is not here," he said to the mare. "Nobody now can be jealous." He showed Gaudenzia around, showed her the old donkey cart and the trunk with the oats in it and the big wide windows. "You have only a little alley for view," he explained, "but nicer than Doctor Celli's stable with windows too high for seeing out. No?"
As he took off her bridle, she rubbed her head against him where the leathers had been. He sighed happily, feeling singled out and special again. "At last you have come to me!" he said. Then he went to the trunk and scooped up a measure of grain. Before pouring it into the manger he sifted it between his fingers, removing the dried grasshoppers and beetles.
It was late evening when his family returned home from the farm where they had been gathering grapes. But they all had to see the mare, and admire her points, even though she was not in a welcoming mood.
That night when Giorgio went to bed in the family bedroom he did not mind that Emilio, with arms and legs flung wide, slept crosswise, taking up most of the bed. As the wind blew cool, he pulled up the cover, making it snug about Emilio's back. It was good to feel cozy and warm and welcome; good to belong to a family again.
Before he dozed off, he saw through the open window a fingernail moon far away above the mountain. A new moon, a new mare, a new beginning....
When Giorgio awoke the next morning he felt whole and strong and full of purpose. He hurried at once to the barn and set to work. He grained Gaudenzia and gave her fresh water. Then he nailed hardwood boards over the lower half of the two windows. "In case of kicking," he explained to an early visitor, "splinters of wood are better than splinters of glass."
Word quickly flew from house to house that "the little runt of Monticello" was back home with a race mare. Neighbors, relatives, friends came from far and near just to look. A few recognized that she was Farfalla, the cart horse, but they seemed puzzled by her fineness, awed by the Arabian head. In her shabby harness they had never really noticed her before. They were not speechless, however. The advice Giorgio got was enough to fill a book.
"Worm her! It is the worms that make her thin."
"Mix tiny pinches of snuff with her grain."
"Pull her shoes at once, before she kicks you over the moon."
Giorgio listened with only half his mind. He wondered how he was going to handle the curious visitors and get his work done, too. But the novelty soon wore off. For everyone, that is, except Giorgio.
Each time he opened the door to her stable he felt the same inward excitement as on the first day he had seen her. And each time he held the water bucket for her to drink, or felt her head scratching against his shoulder, the joy was so deep the whole world seemed different. It wasn't exactly a fatherly feeling he had; it was stronger, more fantastic, as though he lived in ancient times and some oracle had said: "Fate has given her to you. You, Giorgio Terni, are all to her—master, teacher, god. Now prepare her for the great battle of the Palio."
Never before had Giorgio paid much attention to calendars; he had enjoyed the pictures on them and noticed the holidays. But now, suddenly, the pages of the months flashed and signaled importantly.
Hanging on a nail in Gaudenzia's barn, beside the bunches of drying anise-seed, were several dusty old calendars. The top two were 1948 and 1949, but they would do. He tore off the first eight months of 1948 and wrote on the bottom of the page markedSettembre, "Rest her."
OnOttobrehe wrote, "Walk her four kilometers."
OnNovembre, "Walk three, jog one."
OnDicembre, "Walk two, jog two."
On the 1949 calendar, forGennaiohe wrote, "Walk one, jog three, gallop one."
OnFebbraio, "Two-two-two."
OnMarzo, "Walk one, trot two, gallop three."
Then he put ditto marks onAprileandMaggio, and forGiugnowrote, "Walk one, jog three, gallop three and one-half."
As he lifted the page forLugliohe solemnly circled the second, the Festival of the Visitation of the Madonna, the day of the Palio. He turned then to face Gaudenzia and found her blinking at him, yawning in contentment.
"Our life-threads squinch closer and closer together. No?" he asked of her. He wanted to say more, to show her he grasped the total wonder of their fate, but there were things he could not put into words.
With the training program laid out on paper, Giorgio went to work with a frenzy. He felt that no force on earth could stop him. Each day he glanced at the calendar on the wall as if it were a generalissimo barking out orders.
One morning when Gaudenzia stood bridled and ready for exercise, Babbo burst into the stable with startling news.
"The government!" he announced proudly. "It has jobs—for you and for me!"
"Jobs?"
"Si, si. Down the slope of Mount Amiata we must plant trees."
"But already there are many!"
"More they need, to hold the soil. You see," he explained, "the rain washes away the earth, causing great damages. The pay is not much," he added, "but it helps. We both go."
Giorgio's stomach rose and fell. I will have to tell Babbo "no," he thought. On the calendar I have already fixed the plans for Gaudenzia. She is in training for battle; we cannot stop now.
"Babbo," he said, "every morning I take Gaudenzia to the road that winds round the hills. We walk, and we jog, and then we begin the gallops and...." He broke off as a sudden thought struck him. Instead of working Gaudenzia in the morning, he would plant the trees, and take her out at night. Was not the Palio held at sundown? Why not accustom her to the late hour?
He smiled. "But from now on I train her by night. Yes, Babbo, I will go with you. We will plant the trees together."
Later that day the father proudly told the townfolk, "That Giorgio of mine, he makes of Gaudenzia no morning glory! Horses has time-clocks in their heads. The morning bloomers wilt by noon. Oh, that boy, he thinks like the four-footed!"
As the days grew shorter, the workouts grew longer, more intense. Long walks with little jogs gave way to long jogs with little walks. By starlight, by moonlight, the white mare rounded the curves of Mount Amiata like some floating phantom of the night. She was never extended, never pushed. Without anyone's telling him how or why, Giorgio knew he had to build up her confidence in herself. Always he stopped short of what she could do. There was plenty of time to reach the peak. The real mountain, he knew, was not Amiata.
October, November, and December were torn off the calendar. In January there were many days of mist and drizzle when Giorgio still had to work, planting trees. Then no one passed the stable for hours at a time, and Gaudenzia's nervous twitching came on again and she took to crib-biting. One dismal evening when he came to bridle her, she stood grunting as she clamped her teeth on her manger, sucking air into her stomach. Giorgio tried fastening his belt around her neck, loose enough so that she could munch grain, but tight enough to prevent her opening her jaws for swallowing air. It worked! After this, on rainy days, he made her wear the belt, and all went well. And so, regardless of weather, they left the stable each evening at the same hour, clattering down the stony lanes of Monticello, and out upon the lonely road cleft in the hill.
Nothing was too good for Gaudenzia. He gave her rub-downs, first with straw, then with burlap bags. He borrowed the flour sifter from home, and each measure of grain he sifted free of bugs and dust, saving the dead beetles for the kittens. He begged old sheeting from his mother and spent precious lire buying cotton and alcohol with which to bandage her forelegs.
"You cannot even imagine," he told Gaudenzia, "how firm we make your legs." Sometimes she threatened to bite him as he worked, but she never did. More often she lipped the back of his sweater, in the way a dam gently nibbles along the neck of her colt.
Giorgio lived all day—digging and planting—for the night. He might have been sticking faggots in the earth for all he knew. His mind was everywhere else: on the calendar in the stable, taking the curves of the mountain, putting on his helmet for the race. Trumpets and drums beat like blood in his ears. Unconsciously he began whistling the "March of the Palio." It made Babbo and all the other men work better, happier.
The months of winter passed, not in days and weeks, but in developing Gaudenzia's wind and stamina. When Giorgio came home each night, mud-spattered and hungry, his mother reheated the soup and stood by as he drank it. One night when his hair was wet with snow, and his jacket sagging and sopping, she cried, "Giorgio, Giorgio, Giorgio, why can't you let up?"
The boy stopped eating. "Mamma, I can't!" he said firmly. "Have you forgot the Palio? Three times around Il Campo is four and a half kilometers. She must go the whole way and still be strong at the finish!"
By March she was galloping three kilometers.
On the fifteenth of May, Giorgio walked her to nearby Casole d'Elsa and entered her in a race on a straightaway course. She flew ahead at the start, and with no sign of difficulty, led all the way. It was a stunning triumph for the mare and her young trainer.
The whole family took a long time deciding where to hang the little red-and-white flag she won. Teria chose the spot. "Here," she said, "beside the cupboard. On this wall the sun comes just before setting."
Often, when no one was looking, Giorgio ran his fingertips over the painting of the white mare on the red silk. Was this the work of a soothsayer? He read the artist's name in the turf beneath her flying hoofs. How did the man know that a white mare would win, and so picture her instead of a black, or a bay? And under the date of the race was painted a golden crown bright with jewels. Had the oracle spoken to the artist, too? Or had he seen a boy flying in the night on a white phantom?
Once when Babbo caught Giorgio fingering the little humps of oil paint that made the jewels of the crown, he pulled the boy aside. "Jesters," he said, not wanting him to be hurt, "sometimes wear the crown like king and queen. Maybe that artist fellow, he dangles the carrot before Gaudenzia only to tease."
June! The hallway into summer. The season for strong happenings, the season for living. Giorgio's mind was on tip-toe. Looking at his calendar one morning he thought, in a flash, of the ski slide on Mount Amiata, saw the skiers toiling up and up for one breathless whoosh into space. Now he knew how they felt. For months he and Gaudenzia had been toiling up and up for the wild two minutes of glory that was the Palio.
The days of June neither dragged nor flew. They were as alike as echoes. Walk Gaudenzia one kilometer, jog her three, gallop her three and a half. Bandage her hind legs, bandage her forelegs. Grain her, a handful more each day. Cut down her hay. And always, the inner command pounding through him: Don't let her reach the peak until July. Climb, climb, climb. Bring her right uptoit.
In the last week of June, the long-awaited message from the Chief-of-the-Guards reached Giorgio. "Come to Siena! At once!" was all it said.
By cockcrow on the morning after, boy and mare were on their way, trotting along gay-spirited, as if the wheatfields spattered with wild red poppies, and the hills high-rising to the sky, and all the creatures in it were theirs. Gaudenzia wanted to race every moving thing—a rabbit skirting the edge of the road, a hound streaking for a bird—the bird, too. Her friskiness, her eagerness to go filled him with a pride so strong he had to whistle to let the steam of his happiness escape. Nine months ago, with a bandage on her heel, she had slow-footed her way over this same road. Now, like Mercury with wings, she was returning.
A solitary shepherd, hungry for human company, ran out on the road and invited Giorgio to share the meal he was preparing over an open fire. He pointed his crook at Gaudenzia.
"Magnifico!" he exclaimed, with a smile so wide it showed the dark hole where two of his teeth were missing.
"Magnifica!" Giorgio laughingly corrected him. "She is a mare!" He joined the herdsman in a meal of goat cheese and grilled eel. And while the mare grazed, her eyes ranging with the cloud of sheep, the lonely herder questioned Giorgio about his plans. Then he poured out his own heart. He too had a dream. He would teach a young boy to herd, teach him just where to noon the sheep, and which ones to watch in a storm. Then he would be free for a little while, and he would walk to Siena, and there, before he died, he would witness with his own eyes the manifestation of the Palio!
It was all Giorgio could do to break away from the man and his dream. With their final handshake the herder for the first time became mute. Wistfully, he watched Giorgio mount Gaudenzia and rein her out onto the road. When at last he found his voice, he cupped his hands and called out after them: "Magnifica!"
In Siena, too, the mare created admiration, but it was thinned with doubts and forebodings. Entering the city through the Arch of Porta Romana in the early evening, Giorgio could feel at once the general air of agitation. The usual flow of promenaders had given way to excited knots of men choking the traffic. Bruco! Oca! Onda! Tartuca! The names of the contradas punctuated the talk. And town eyes were staring his way.
"What a beautiful beast goes there!" a voice said. And the same voice asked, "Boy, where did you get her? What are you going to do with her?"
Giorgio turned and saw a grizzle-headed old man, the center of a group. "It's a long story, Signore," he answered. "She used to be Farfalla, but now she—"
The man did not let him finish. "Eh?" he exclaimed. "Can this be Farfalla returned from the dead?"
And another said, "A fine parade horse she would make. But for the race?" The shoulders owning the voice shrugged.
And then Giorgio overheard, "Would you wish to draw her foryourcontrada?"
A whole chorus answered, "No! No!" It was as if her tortured limping in last year's Palio was a memory too fresh to be wiped out.
Giorgio himself flinched at the recollection. He touched his heels to Gaudenzia and hurried her through the crowd. "How they feel about you, I do not care," he told himself. "It is better so. Popular horses are nearly killed by too many sweets, too much petting and pulling of tail-hairs for souvenir. I believe, and the Chief believes!"
He found the Chief striding across Il Campo, heading for his home. They saw each other at the same moment.
"Giorgio!" the big man shouted, and his arms flung wide apart, as though he would clasp the boy and the mare both. "How are you? How is it with ourcavallina? Tell me all about her! Don't keep me one minute more in this anxious waiting."
Giorgio suddenly felt shy. He answered with two little words. "All fine."
"That I can see!" the Chief laughed. "The mare, she is rekindled!" He stepped now in front of Gaudenzia, pulled off his white gloves, and with both hands felt of her chest and forearms. "Not even sweating," he nodded in approval. "Come, let us walk to the stable, and while walking you will tell me how she goes in her work. Then, after she is bedded down, you will come to my home where we can engage in serious talk."
The stable was midway of a narrow downhill alley with walls high-rising on either side. Giorgio's spirits plummeted at its darkness. It did have a window, but it was covered by a curtain of gunny sacking. There were two stalls divided by heavy planking. The one nearer the door was occupied by a bay gelding, and the other, deeply strawed, awaited Gaudenzia.
"To find stable room is very difficult," the Chief was explaining. "But Morello here is a good horse and the two will become friends and help each other to forget the Maremma. He, too, comes from your wilderness."
Across the partition Gaudenzia and Morello began at once to get acquainted—first in screams, then nips, and at last in low whinnies.
"How quick they make friends!" the Chief grinned. "Now then, the hay is piled here, the grain is in the sack yonder, and the medicines in the cabinet. Now you can take over."
Giorgio noted the racks already filled, the water buckets brimming. He would come back later to grain and groom Gaudenzia and to remove the gunny-sack curtain.
He followed the Chief to his home, which perched on a ledge of rock like an eagle's nest. The view was miniature compared to the world of the Maremma. Below was a tiny dim valley, and climbing the opposite hillside were busy little farm plots. But the same deep sky was overhead and the same stars beginning to punch holes in the blue.
The Chief's wife and daughter greeted Giorgio with politeness and relief. "The supper is ready," the Signora said with a hot-stove smile. "I would not want the chicken to cook a moment longer."
The meal was a feast such as Giorgio had not tasted since his days at the Ramallis'. First there was a piping hot broth of chicken with tiny pearls of dough swimming along the bottom. Then came a beautiful plate of antipasto—black olives, and mushrooms in oil, and little white onions, and small green peppers, and anchovies curved into tight nests, with a caper on each. Giorgio was encouraged to take something of everything. And still he had room for a drumstick and breast of chicken, and a baked tomato stuffed with ground beef.
All of this he sluiced down with a red Chianti wine which he thriftily diluted with water as though he were at home.
The Chief helped himself to the food sparingly, and in silence. He seemed preoccupied, brooding. But Giorgio ate heartily. The Signora beamed at him. "For a small man, as you are," she said, appreciatively, "you haveun bel appetito."
Giorgio felt his face flush and his ears redden at the half-and-half compliment.
With the dessert of fruit and cheeses on the table, the wife and daughter disappeared into the kitchen. The silence grew heavy. The Chief pushed back his plate without touching the food. At last the moment for talk had arrived.
But the words did not come. He ran his finger around the inside of his collar and cleared his throat. He got up and stood at the open door, looking out upon the night. He came back and sat down again. Then, gripping the edge of the table, he blurted out, "My boy, the Palio is not going to be as we dreamed it."
Giorgio swallowed whole the apricot in his mouth. It was as though an icy hand had gripped his throat.
"You see, thepeoplewant beautiful horses such as Gaudenzia, but the judges, no!"
Giorgio's voice sank back so deep inside him it was scarcely audible. "But why?"
The Chief took a breath. For the boy's sake he wanted to sound matter-of-fact, to ease him gently into disappointment. "The news of Gaudenzia's win at Casole d'Elsa has spread to Siena. All at once she is known as the get of Sans Souci, a full-blood Arab. And the full-bloods are not wanted."
"But, Signore, she is only half-bred. Her dam was a farm horse."
"I know, I know," the Chief answered in irritation. "But because she is now too beautiful, too well-trained, the rejection may come."
Giorgio waited in numbness.
"High-mettled Arabians have caprices, the judges say. Besides, the turns of the course are too perilous and the layer of earth over the cobblestones too thin for a full-blood with the delicate toothpick legs."
There was a momentary pause as the Chief's daughter brought in two small cups of coffee.
"You see, Giorgio, we Sienese are like moles burrowing, always digging into our past. I have heard the judges say, as if only yesterday it happened, how in the year 1500 Cesare Borgio's big stallion reared on his hind legs and in coming back to earth hit the starting rope so hard he could not run in the Palio. And in 1885, the purebred La Gorgona cracked up in the last Prova, her legs brittle like eggshell. And you, Giorgio, you must remember Habana? You remember when she flew into the fence, and broke the boards to splinters!"
"But Signore! It happens with the mixed blood, too. Have they forgot Turbolento?"
"Hefell, Giorgio. But the others? One might say they destroyed themselves."
Anger lit Giorgio's eyes. "Signore! This you should have told me before! Why did you send for Gaudenzia and me? Why did you let me nourish all the hopes to win?"
The Chief wiped his face tiredly. "I do not know, truly. Perhaps the hope is in me, too. Perhaps the hope is stronger than the reality. I fear, Giorgio," he said again, "the Palio is not going to be as we dreamed it."
"Signore! Shake yourself!" Giorgio's anger turned to wild appeal. His words tumbled out bravely, recklessly. "Something we can do! Something wemustdo! Think!" He took hold of the man's sleeve, actually shaking him in his eagerness.
The Chief closed his eyes thoughtfully. "What comes to mind," he said at last, "is a very simple plan. Maybe too simple."
"Tell me! Tell me!"
Something of the old vigor crept into the Chief's voice. "Listen well, my boy. In the trials when the horses are selected, you must make Gaudenzia appear mature, sensible; an average beast."
Giorgio nodded, listening with every fiber.
"And in her workouts she must appear tranquil."
"That is easy! Easy! What else?"
"Wherever you make talk, you must say how her dam was a poor old farm horse and how she herself was a cart horse for many years, and her colts were nothing at all, good only for the slaughterhouse."
"I will!"
"Margherita," the Chief called to his daughter, "our coffees are now cold." He turned back to Giorgio. "Only one thing is in our favor. You see...."
There was a pause as the coffees came and he liberally spooned sugar into both cups. "Because all the contradas think her nervous, unpredictable, none will ask for agreement from you to help another horse to win."
Giorgio sighed in deep relief. "Of that I am glad. When I am on Gaudenzia I amsimpaticoonly to her. But why is it no one has ever come to me to make the secret agreement?"
The Chief could not help chuckling. "'The runt of Monticello', they say, 'is young and green like new spear of wheat. We do not make agreements with a boy so little he has to have double lining in his helmet to keep it on.'"
The man suddenly went silent. What if Giorgio were not asked to ride Gaudenzia in the Palio? He held his tongue. The boy had had enough worries for one night.
Tuesday, June 29. Morning. The whole city seething in warlike impatience. Il Campo in battle array. Everything ready for the trial of the horses. The stout railing around the shell to keep the people from spilling onto cobblestones. The mattresses, upright, lining the treacherous curves. The tiers of seats rising in front of the palaces and shops. The high platforms for the judges and dignitaries. The bomb cage on stilts, looking like an oversized parrot cage, ready for the charge of gunpowder.
And people converging from all directions, talking excitedly with their hands, their voices. Which horses will be chosen to run? Surely not the old one who has twelve years! Surely not the little one with the ewe neck? Surely not Gaudenzia with the hot blood in her veins?
The lone hand on the clock of the Mangia Tower points to nine. Within the courtyard of the Palazzo Pubblico seventeen horses and riders are ready. Giorgio is ready. He has done everything the Chief asked. And more. He has plastered sculptor's clay on Gaudenzia's legs to make them look coarse, like those of any cold-blooded hack. But there is nothing he can do to coarsen her fine, intelligent head.
Out in the shell, a little insect of a man, known as the Spider, climbs his ladder, touches a match to the gunpowder in the cage, and with a thunderingbangthe trials have begun! Four horses prance out of the palace courtyard. At the starter's signal they take off, leaping over the rope before it touches the earth. At the very first curve one horse falls, skids across the track like a slab of ice. The crowd screams as the horse scrambles to his feet. He will be rejected. It is Fate.
Another group is called. No falls this time, but the horses are not evenly matched. They straggle along like knots on a string.
And still another group, while Gaudenzia waits. She listens to the hoofbeats. Flecks of foam come out on her body. Her whole being asks: Why are we not out there with the others? She whinnies out after them. Giorgio lays quieting hands on her, soothes them along her neck and withers. He is glad her mantle is gray so the sudsy foam does not show.
At last she is called with the remaining five. Her long-reaching legs are ready. Her heart and lungs are ready. Giorgio mounts. His heart tightens in sudden doubt. Is speed her only virtue? Has she learned obedience? He wets his parched lips, prays fiercely. "O Holy One, let her be in the middle! Don't let her run away and set the pace. Let her just be middling!"
The starter steps on the lever. The rope, set free, snakes crazily to earth. Five horses leap over it. They're away! Evenly! Past the scaffold of the judges, past the Fonte Gaia. One horse tries to wing out at the incoming street of San Pietro, but the others are moving in a bunch. "Oh, Mamma mia! Don't let her win! Don't let her!"
She is third at the curve of San Martino, and third at the Casato. Suddenly she asks to arrow out in front, but she feels the bit pulling up into her mouth, exerting more and more pressure on her tongue. She slows. She lets Giorgio hold her. She obeys!
Out of the first realization, like the first glint of sunlight from behind a cloud, Giorgio feels an unutterable joy. Twice around, and three times around, she lets him hold her! In third place she finishes, all her fire inheld. The trials are over!
While the judges pondered and debated their decisions, Giorgio rode into the cool courtyard of the Palazzo. Here were only the sweating horses and the men, all of them bound together in the misery of waiting.
The Chief-of-the-Guards, immaculate in his starched white uniform, looked in and strode over to Giorgio. There was a smile of incredulity on his face.
"I salute you!" he said. "Gaudenzia's disguise wasbellissima! When first I saw her at the starting rope, it seemed I dreamt with open eyes. Even a sculptor, I think, could not have done a better work on living skin."
He made no effort to hide his happiness, for already he knew the results of the trials. Already a deputy was fastening a disc numbered 10 to Gaudenzia's cheek strap to show that she had been chosen.
The Chief led Giorgio and the mare out into the Piazza, into a corral where the ten horses would be on display as at an auction. The big difference was that here a horse could not be bought; not for any price. It was assigned to a contrada as irrevocably as a child is born to certain parents. Here all was luck. A minuscule slip of paper in a tiny capsule would tell which contrada would win the best horse.
Suspense was growing intolerable. There was wild shouting for the favorites. Voices came piercing and crashing around Giorgio.
"We want Ravu!"
"We want Uganda!"
"We want Rosetta!"
An official groom shoved Giorgio to one side, took hold of Gaudenzia. There was now no need for Giorgio. And then, in a flash, he realized there was no need for him anywhere! The awfulness struck him. For nine months he had been blindly running up a dead-end street. Feeling sick and bereft, he went back into the empty courtyard. He picked up Gaudenzia's rub rag, hung it on a peg. He made meaningless motions of tidying up. But even here, away from the crowd, he saw the whole scene in his mind—the Mayor and the captains at the long table, the urns containing the capsules, the pages and trumpeters waiting. And then, as in a storm, when thunder rumbles and ricochets from rock to rock, the voices came booming against the Palazzo wall and into the very courtyard:
"Number seven, Ravu, to the Ram!"
He could hear the Rams roaring with joy for the favorite.
"Number nine, Pinocchio, to the Giraffe!"
Men and boys howled in derision, "Long Neck gets Long Nose! Long Neck gets Long Nose."
The roaring was uncontrolled; it subsided only while the capsules were being opened.
"Number one to the Wolf!"
"Number five to the Dragon!"
"Number two to the Tower!"
"Number ten to Onda, the Wave!"
Giorgio shot out of the courtyard, but the way to the corral was blocked. By the time he could wriggle through, the drawing was over! And, suddenly, there was trumpet music, and drums beating wild, and the barbaresco of the Onda was leading Gaudenzia to their stable. In an agony of emptiness Giorgio melted into the throng, went tagging along like some outsider. With no halter or bridle to hold, his hands felt awkward, useless. A piece of his heart was going away with Gaudenzia.
Should he catch up with the barbaresco and tell him about the crib-biting? Should he offer his belt? Should he offer to clean Gaudenzia's stable tomorrow, and tomorrow?
No, everything was out of his control now. In the next moments he lived a lifetime. No contrada had asked him to be their fantino. Why should they? In two Palios he had not won.
A fight started in the crowd. A young boy from the Dragon and one from the Tower began with friendly roughness, yanking each other's caps, then grabbing contrada scarves, then arms swinging, and fists pummeling. Giorgio wanted to join in, to throw one and then the other flat on the ground. Anything would be better than having nothing to do. Someone in the crowd recognized Giorgio, pointed a finger at him. "Hey, fantino! Afoot now? Ha! Ha!"
Giorgio leaped at the lanky fellow, ready to land a left jab, when suddenly his arm was wrenched behind him. A strange, deep voice commanded: "Hold there, Giorgio! Let up! Street fighting is for boys.Youface the real battle, the battle of the Palio."
Giorgio looked into the eyes of a gentleman. At once he recognized the man. He had just seen him on the platform with all the officials. "You!" he gulped for air. "You are General Barbarulli, leader of the Onda!"
The General smiled. Then he linked his arm into Giorgio's, and above the din spoke into his ear: "The Chief-of-the-Town-Guards tells me it is you who trained Gaudenzia."
Giorgio nodded, scarcely breathing.
"A stroke of chance has given her to the Onda, but," the General slowed his words, emphasizing each one, "but with Giorgio Terni as her fantino, that is not luck.Thatis destiny."
Immediately after Giorgio's talk with General Barbarulli, four bodyguards were assigned to him. They were tall, strapping fellows—Carlo, Pinotto, Enzio, and Nello. Their eyes followed him wherever he went. They never let him alone. Even at night he could feel them peering at him, boring right through him in the dark.
"Am I a dog on a leash?" he asked, trying to make a joke of it.
The young men only laughed at the trapped-animal look of him. "We attach ourselves to you," Carlo said kindly, "to prevent rival contradas from coming with secret offers."
"But no one will! Even the Chief-of-the-Guards tells me that. He says I have not yet seen enough Palios."
The boys agreed. "But we must also protect you from street fights," Enzio explained. "We must save your hands. They are small as...."
"I know." Giorgio bit his lips, then supplied the missing words. "Small as girl's hands!"
It was scarcely any relief to swing up on Gaudenzia and ride twice a day in the Provas. For even then he was not free. He knew that he was being carefully observed, his every action noticed and weighed.
Why, he asked himself, did it take two Palios to teach him all the rules and regulations leading up to the big race? He answered himself honestly. Turbolento and Lirio, the horses he had ridden last year, had been little more than names to him—no, they had almost been nameless. But Gaudenzia was a part of his very life.
So now, for the first time, he was terrified by a rule that had not really concerned him before. According to a proclamation of the Grand Duke in 1719, the choice of the fantinos is not made final and official until the day of the Palio. If through Giorgio's carelessness Gaudenzia were kicked and lamed as in last year's Prova, he could be dismissed abruptly. He had been hired, yes, but he could still be replaced, even on the very morning of the Palio!
Thus, tortured by uncertainty, he took great care to keep Gaudenzia clear of the other horses, and to bring her in slowly at the finish of each Prova.
At night, however, he and Gaudenzia knew no restraints. When the moon rode high, he took secret delight in waking his bodyguards, who slept on mattresses in his room.
"Wake up, or I go alone!" he told the sleepy young giants.
Grumbling, they dressed and went out with him into the night. They pounded heavily on the locked door of the stable of Onda. It was easier to wake Gaudenzia than the sleeping barbaresco.
"Open!" shouted Giorgio, and it was the mare's stomping and pawing that finally woke the groom. She remembered well the routine of galloping in the dark, and the time clock in her mind said, "Now."