Juliet (29 page)

Siena
,
A.D
. 1340

I
T WAS THE DAY OF THE PALIO
, and the people of Siena were merrily afloat on a sea of song. Every street had become a river, every piazza a whirlpool of religious ecstasy, and those awash in the current kept flapping their flags and banners that they might rise out of the shallows and straddle the slippery swells of fortune, reaching up for their mother in Heaven to feel her tender touch.

The tide of devout mankind had long since broken through the floodgates of the city, spurting out into the countryside all the way to Fontebecci, a few miles north of Porta Camollia. Here, a heaving ocean of heads watched intently as the fifteen horsemen of the Palio emerged from their tents in full battle dress, prepared to honor the newly crowned Virgin by a dashing show of manhood.

It had taken Maestro Ambrogio the better part of the morning to leave town, elbowing his way through the masses, and had he been able to feel less guilt in the matter, he would have given up and turned around a thousand times before he was even halfway to Fontebecci. But he could not. How very wretched the old artist felt this morning! How dreadfully misguided had been his intervention in the affairs of these young people! Had he not been in such a hurry to join beauty with beauty for beauty’s sake, Romeo would never have known that Giulietta was alive, and she on her side would never have become infected with his passion.

How very odd, the idea that an artist’s love of beauty could so easily turn him into a delinquent. How very cruel it was of Fortuna to teach an old man a lesson at the cost of a young couple’s bliss. Or was he mistaken when he tried to explain his own crime through lofty ideas? Was it in fact his base humanity, and nothing else, that had doomed the young lovers from the very outset? Was it possible that he had transferred his own infirm desire to the admirable body of Romeo, and that all his hopes for the happy union of the youngsters had merely been a way of gaining vicarious admittance into Giulietta Tolomei’s bridal chamber?

The Maestro was not one to wallow in religious riddles unless they were part of a painting and payment was forthcoming, but it suddenly struck him that the slight nausea he was feeling at the thought of himself as a lascivious old puppeteer must be somewhat near what God was feeling every minute of every day. If indeed He felt anything. He was, after all, a divine Being, and it was entirely conceivable that divinity was incompatible with emotion. If not, then the Maestro sincerely pitied God, for the history of mankind was nothing more than a long tale of tears.

With the Virgin Mary it was different. She had been a human being, and she understood what it meant to suffer. She was the one who would always listen to your woes and make sure God sent his thunderbolts in the right direction. Like the lovely wife of a mighty man, she was the one to befriend and beseech, the one who knew how to reach his divine heart. She was the one to whom Siena had given its front-door keys, the one who had a special fondness for the Sienese, and who would protect them against their enemies, the way a mother protects the little son who seeks her embraces against the harassment of his brothers.

The Maestro’s air of imminent apocalypse was not reflected in the faces of the people he pushed aside in his quest to reach Fontebecci before the race began. Everyone was feasting, and no one was in a particular hurry to move forward; as long as one secured a spot along the open road, there was no real need to walk all the way to Fontebecci. Certainly, there would be sights to see at the starting area with all the tents, the many false starts, and the noble families whose sons were participating, but after all, what spectacle could be more worthwhile than the oncoming roar of fifteen galloping warhorses?

When he finally arrived, Maestro Ambrogio headed straight for the colors of the Marescotti eagle. Romeo had already emerged from the yellow
tent, surrounded by the men of his family, and there was a remarkable scarcity of smiles among them. Even Comandante Marescotti, who was known to always have an encouraging word for everyone, be it in the most desperate of situations, looked like a soldier who knew he had fallen into an ambush. He was the one who personally held the horse steady while Romeo got into the saddle, and he was the only one who addressed his son directly.

“Fear not,” the Maestro heard him say, adjusting the plate armor covering the animal’s face, “he stands like an angel, but he will run like the devil.”

Romeo merely nodded, too excited to speak, and took the lance with the eagle flag that was handed to him. He would have to ride with it all the way, and if the Virgin Mary was kind, it would be the very one that was exchanged for the cencio at the finish line. If, on the other hand, the Virgin was in a jealous mood, he would be the last rider to plant his flag in front of the cathedral, and in return he would have to pick up a pig as a symbol of his shame.

Just as the helmet was brought out, Romeo caught sight of Maestro Ambrogio, and his surprise was so great that the horse became nervous beneath him. “Maestro!” he exclaimed, and there was understandable bitterness in his voice, “have you come to draw a picture of my downfall? I assure you, it will be quite the spectacle for an artist’s eye.”

“You are right,” replied Maestro Ambrogio, “to taunt me. I gave you a map leading straight to disaster; now I am eager to undo the damage.”

“Undo away, old man!” said Romeo. “You had better hurry, though, for I see the rope is ready.”

“Indeed I shall,” replied the Maestro, “if you will allow me to speak bluntly.”

“Blunt speech is all we have time for,” said Comandante Marescotti. “So let us hear it!”

Maestro Ambrogio cleared his throat. The carefully rehearsed monologue he had worked on all morning now quite escaped him, and he barely knew his first line. But necessity soon overruled eloquence, and he blurted out his information in the order it occurred to him. “You are in great danger!” he began. “And if you do not believe me—”

“We believe you!” barked Comandante Marescotti. “Tell us the details!”

“One of my students, Hassan,” the Maestro went on, “overheard a conversation in Palazzo Salimbeni last night. He was working on an angel in the ceiling, a cherub, I believe—”

“To Hell with the cherub!” roared Comandante Marescotti. “Tell us what Salimbeni is planning to do to my son!”

Maestro Ambrogio drew in air. “I believe their plan is as follows: Nothing will be attempted here at Fontebecci, as so many eyes are watching. But halfway to Porta Camollia, where the road widens, the son of Tolomei and someone else will attempt to block your way or push you into the ditch. If Salimbeni’s son is far ahead of you, they will be content with just slowing you down. But that is only the beginning. Once you enter town, be careful when you go through the contrade controlled by Salimbeni. When you pass the houses in the neighborhoods of Magione and Santo Stefano, there will be people in the towers, and they will throw things at you, if you are among the three front riders. Once you get into San Donato and Sant’Egidio, they will not be as bold, but if you are ahead of the field and look like a winner, they will risk it.”

Romeo looked at his father. “What do you make of that?”

“The same as you do,” said Comandante Marescotti. “This is no surprise, I was expecting it. But thanks to the Maestro, we now have certainty. Romeo, you must start ahead of the field and stay in front. Do not spare the horse, just go. Once you reach Porta Camollia, you must let them pass you, one by one, until you are in the fourth position.”

“But—”

“Do not interrupt me! I want you to stay in the fourth position until you are clear of Santo Stefano. Then you may climb up to the third or second position. But not the first. Not until you have passed Palazzo Salimbeni, do you understand?”

“It is too close to the finishing line! I can’t pass!”

“But you will.”

“It is too close! Nobody has ever done that before!”

“Since when,” said Comandante Marescotti, more softly, “did that ever stop my son?”

A clarion signal from the starting line ended all conversation, and the eagle helmet was placed over Romeo’s head, its visor closed. The family priest quickly executed the—very likely last—blessing of the young man,
and the Maestro found himself extending the wishes to the nervous horse; after that it was up to the Virgin alone to protect her champion.

As the fifteen horses lined up at the rope, the crowd began chanting the names of favorites as well as foes. Every noble family had its supporters and its antagonists; no one household was universally loved, or despised. Even the Salimbenis had their throng of devoted clients, and it was on occasions such as these that great, ambitious men expected to see their year-round generosity rewarded with a lavish show of public support.

Among the horsemen themselves, few had thoughts for much except the road ahead. Eye contact was sought and avoided, patron saints were mobilized like locusts onto Egypt, and last-minute insults were hurled like missiles at a closing city gate. The time for prayers had passed, advice was no longer heard, and no deals could now be undone. Whatever demons, evil or good, had been conjured from the collective soul of the people of Siena, they had been given life, and only the battle itself, the race, could execute justice. There was no law but fate, no rights but the favors of chance; victory was the only truth worth knowing.

“So, let this be the day,” thought Maestro Ambrogio, “where you, divine Virgin, celebrate your coronation in Heaven by leniency towards us poor sinners, old as young. I beg you to take pity on Romeo Marescotti and protect him against the forces of evil that are about to eat up this city from within its own bowels. And I promise you, if you let him live, I shall devote the rest of my life to your beauty. But if he dies today, he has perished by my hand, and for sorrow and shame, that hand shall never paint again.”

AS ROMEO RODE UP
to the starting area with the eagle banner, he felt the sticky web of a conspiracy closing around him. Everyone had heard of his brash challenge to Salimbeni, and knew that a family battle must ensue. Knowing the contestants, the question in most people’s minds was not so much who would win the race, but who would be alive at the end of it.

Romeo looked around at the other riders, trying to guess his odds. The Crescent Moon—Tolomei’s son, Tebaldo—was clearly in alliance
with the Diamond—Salimbeni’s son, Nino—and even the Rooster and the Bull looked at him with eyes full of treason. Only the Owl nodded at him with the stern sympathy of a friend, but then, the Owl had many friends.

When the rope dropped, Romeo was not even fully inside the official starting area. He had been too busy looking at the other riders and judging their game to keep an eye on the magistrate in charge. Besides, the Palio always began with many false starts, and the starter had no qualms about bringing everyone back and starting over a dozen or so times—in fact, it was all part of the game.

But not today. For the first time in Palio history, the clarions did not sound a cancellation after the first start: Despite the confusion and the one horse left behind, the fourteen other riders were allowed to continue, and the race was on. Too shocked to feel more than a flash of fury at the foul play, Romeo tilted the lance forward until it sat tightly under his arm, dug his heels into the horse, and took up the pursuit.

The field was so far ahead that it was impossible to say who was in the lead; all he could see through the eye slit of the helmet was dust and incredulous faces turning towards him, faces of bystanders who had expected to see the young lover already far ahead of his rivals. Ignoring their cries and gestures—some encouraging, others anything but—Romeo rode right through the fray, giving the horse full rein and praying that it would return the favor.

Comandante Marescotti had run a calculated risk by giving his son a stallion; with a mare or a gelding Romeo had a fair chance, but a fair chance is not enough when your life is at stake. At least with a stallion it was all or nothing. Yes, it was possible that Cesare would get into a fight, pursue a mare, or even throw his rider to show the boy who was in charge, but on the other hand, he had the extra power needed to pull away from a dangerous situation, and, most important, he had the winning spirit.

Cesare also had another quality, something that was, under normal circumstances, entirely irrelevant to the Palio, but which now occurred to Romeo as being the only possible way in which he could ever hope to catch up with the field: The horse was an uncommonly powerful jumper.

The rules of the Palio said nothing about staying on the road. As long as a rider started at Fontebecci and ended up at the Siena Cathedral he was eligible to win the prize. It had never been necessary to stipulate the
exact route, for no one had ever been foolish enough not to follow the road. The fields on either side of it were bumpy, filled with livestock or heaps of drying hay, as well as being crisscrossed by numerous fences and gates. To attempt a shortcut through the fields, in other words, meant facing an army of obstacles, obstacles that might be fun for a rider wearing a tunic, but which were murder for a horse carrying a knight with plate armor and a lance.

Romeo did not hesitate for long. The fourteen other riders were heading southwest, following a two-mile-long curve in the road that would eventually bring them to Porta Camollia. This was his chance.

Spotting an opening in the screaming crowd, he steered Cesare right off the road, into a recently harvested grain field, and beelined for the city gate.

The horse relished the challenge and tore through the field with more energy than it had displayed on the road, and when Romeo saw the first wooden fence coming up ahead, he pulled off the eagle helmet and tossed it into a passing haystack. There were no rules outlining a rider’s wear apart from the lance with the family colors; riders wore their battle dress and helmets exclusively in the interest of self-protection. In throwing away his helmet, Romeo knew he would be vulnerable to punches from the other riders as well as to objects deliberately dropped from the tower-houses of the city, but he also knew that if he did not lighten its load, the horse—strong as it was—would never make it into town.