Love Falls (30 page)

Next came Il Drago. Kip clapped wildly and looked around to see if there were any other Dragons in their stand. Dragons wore red with a trim of fur along the bottom of their capes and one black and one red leg disappearing into knee-high boots. Their banner was edged in gold with a gold dragon at its centre, and when they knelt and twirled and threw their banners the sky looked as if it were on fire. Kip and Lara were surrounded by Towers, Porcupines, Eagles and Shells but not it seemed a single Dragon.

The Woodland were next, in orange velvet hats, creamy damask capes and jerkins and soft suede boots. After each display the little troupe, followed by two horses, one that would run, and another, saddled up and ridden by the jockey, moved on. The drums rolled, the brass band played and another
contrada
appeared at the far corner of the square.

‘There's Il Nicchio,' Kip pointed.

Il Nicchio's flag was blue with a large shell in its centre. Its banner wavers wore fur-lined capes, with white gloves, red tunics and tights with zigzags of red and gold. They stopped a little further along and Lara had to crane sideways to see their display. But it was just the same. Twirling, flinging, leaping and catching. The flags unfurling and fluttering as they flew into the air. Lara imagined them practising and practising all year long, their hearts pounding as they threw the banners high, never relaxing for a moment till they'd caught hold of them again.

And now the procession was marching. The big bell on the Palazzo tower was tolling, the drums were beating, the brass band playing. A group of children in white with leaves of laurel marched behind Dolphin, the last of the ten competing
contrade
, and then after them, one by one, came the seven who were not racing. These seven threw their banners with equal flourishes, passed and stepped and danced to the roll of their drums. Their supporters sang to them, and shook their fists at their enemies, just as heartily as if they had been running too.

After the seven came a strange and sinister procession. Six men on horses in velvet skirts with veils of chain mail, the men with solid metal visors with nothing but a slit through which to see out.

‘Who are they?' Lara asked and Kip told her they were the ghosts of the
contrade
.

‘The
contrade
that are no more.'

Out of each of the men's helmets rose an emblem. A serpent – its mouth open and spitting – a fist, its fingers clasped around a knife. There was a cockerel too, a lion, a wreath and a bear.

‘But what happened to those
contrade
?' Lara asked.

Kip shrugged. ‘Died out, I suppose. Got taken over.'

After the ghosts on their veiled horses came a cart pulled by four white oxen. A cheer rocked the crowd, and everyone who had a flag began to wave it.

‘That's the Palio,' Kip told her. ‘That painted cloth. Whichever
contrada
wins the race – that Palio is theirs.'

Lara saw it, billowing tall as a sail. It was painted with a horse's head, a sickle moon, the head and shoulders of a woman. The cart was surrounded by men in armour, and on either side were buglers blowing into the sky.

Each ox was led by a man in an earth-coloured jerkin and, as it passed below them, Kip leant close in to her ear.

‘You see those oxen?'

Lara nodded.

‘The jockeys' whips are made from the dried skin of their  . . .'

‘What?'

‘Their . . . you know . . . their . . .' He was gazing at them as if by staring she would see what he meant.

And then she did see. ‘No!' How could she have missed them? The great leathery penises as dark as bulrushes against the white of their coats. ‘That's horrible.' She put a hand to her mouth, and then to cover her reaction, she added, ‘I mean, horrible, horrible that they use whips.'

‘They don't just use the whips on the horses,' Kip said. ‘They whip each other.'

‘Is that allowed?'

‘What do you want them to do? Whisper sweet words of encouragement as they overtake?'

‘Why not?' She thought of the race that Caroline had missed. The final trial where each horse tried hard not to win.

Kip slid his hand around her waist. ‘And then the winning jockey has to eat the ox's bollocks in this evening's feast.'

‘No!'

‘No.' Kip couldn't stop laughing. ‘You're hopeless. Of course they don't.'

They sat together, holding hands, laughing and spluttering, until with a roll of drums the collected banner throwers, one from each
contrada
, lined up in front of the Palazzo, and hurled their flags as high as they would go into the sky. Seventeen flags flew high against the Palazzo tower, the colours dancing like a fountain, and then down they plummeted again. The trumpeters trumpeted, the people cheered and a group of men in smart grey suits strolled along the track, exuding wealth and power, their faces smooth, their mouths drawn down at the seriousness of what was to come.

‘Your friends from the Mafia.' Kip nudged her.

The track was emptying. The white-clad boys with their laurel leaves swished by, and then the sweepers appeared and, brushing away the footsteps and the hoof marks, they smoothed the earth. But a scuffle had broken out from the central area, somewhere near the balustrades. There was shouting and movement, and two ambulance men were rushing across the track.

‘Someone's fainted,' Kip said. ‘It happens all the time,' and a body was lifted up and passed over the fence. It was thrown on to a stretcher and unceremoniously whisked away.

The sweepers appeared and swished away their steps and a moment later everything was quiet. Even the bell had stopped. The silence was unnerving. That bell must have been tolling for hours. Lara could feel the echo of it pulsing in the air.

‘Look at the pigeons trying to get a drink,' Kip whispered, and it was true, a flock of birds was circling over the square, swooping down hopefully and then rising up again when they found their way to the fountain was blocked. There were people sitting on it, clinging to the masonry, getting a high view for free.

And then the air was split with the roar of an explosion. Lara jumped. The people cheered. It meant the horses were in the Campo! They were trotting out through the vast doors of the Palazzo and now there they were, climbing the hill at the far corner. Everyone craned to see. They were coming round the bend, the jockeys in their coloured hats, their whips in their hands, trotting towards them, and just like the night before, they assembled a little way from the starting rope which had been weighted and stretched across the track.

‘Is this . . .' Lara turned to Kip, but a woman from the Tower, blonde and with immaculate make-up, turned and shushed them savagely.

And there was silence. Silence in a crowd of 60,000. No one would dare faint now, she thought, and just then a name was called. Il Drago. Il Drago reared up and then sped down to the line, where it proceeded to turn round and round as if outraged by its position against the fence. Another name was called, and another. Some greeted by cheers, others by boos, until nine horses were in place.

Lara craned forward. ‘Which is the tenth horse?' she whispered, one eye on the woman from the Tower.

L'Istrice, the Porcupine,' Kip hissed back, and they watched as L'Istrice pranced and reeled, the jockey's eyes never leaving the line-up for a moment. ‘Last-minute dealings,' Kip murmured. They could almost see the deals being done out of the corners of the men's mouths. But Il Drago was rearing again and had to be ridden back and forwards several times before it would calm down. Finally once it was in place Il Nicchio startled. It nudged the others sideways and had to be turned around and settled too. And then for a miraculous moment each horse was still. Each one ready in the order in which it had been called. Even L'Istrice was facing the right way. Start. Lara urged. Start. But the King Maker didn't make a move. There was a bulge in the centre of the line as several animals started to back up, squeezing the last two against the fence. Il Drago was growing agitated, and the crowd that was pressed against that part of the fence started back as he reared round.

‘You know they give them drugs,' Kip murmured.

‘To calm them down?' Lara asked.

‘No, to liven them up.'

A shout rang out. One lone shout of frustration above all the others, and Lara took her eyes off the horses and looked around her. She had to. She couldn't breathe with the suspense, and then without meaning to she glanced up at the overflowing balcony of the Caffè del Campo. And there they were. Piers and May. Roland, Tabitha and Pamela. They were leaning over the red-draped edge, peering down into the crowd. Lara looked away as fast as she could, but even as she did so she caught sight of Lulu, her honey-coloured hair swept back, her dress plunging down to reveal the deep gold of her neck. Lara felt a prickle of unease. Was that why Kip hadn't mentioned that she'd stayed away? Maybe he hadn't noticed. Maybe he'd been too distracted by Lulu's return to mind.

She pulled on the pinstriped jacket, tugging it over her thighs, letting the sleeves engulf her. She stared hard at L'Istrice. It was circling and throwing its head, the jockey's legs clasped to its side with nothing but his reins to hold him on. The line-up at the rope was still in disarray. Horses skittered backwards, others spun round, the eighth was nudging and pushing until the ninth was standing right across the start. Each time a horse was shunted out it did its best to get back into line, but the others made it as difficult as possible for it to regain its place.

They must all be standing beside their enemies, Lara thought, but she couldn't remember which
contrade
were aligned. Hisses filled the air. Shouts and boos and whistles. Words of advice.

‘Now!' Lara couldn't help whispering every time even some of the horses were still. ‘Now!' But L'Istrice was not allowed to start.

‘He's collecting up more bribes,' Kip whispered, and once again Lara allowed her eyes to roam over the crowd.

She let them rest on the thousands in the centre, examined those behind the mattresses at the San Martino corner, draped in scarves, hanging from their seats, imagining them to be more bloodthirsty than the rest. And then she looked up, just for a second, at the balcony. Andrew Willoughby was there too, and beside him, Lara couldn't believe it, was Isabelle, with Hugh leaning up against the wall behind. Shouldn't she be visiting Lambert! And then she remembered that he didn't want anyone to see him until he was discharged. She turned away. She wouldn't look again, but almost immediately, she couldn't resist it, she glanced up one last time. Roland was staring straight at her. His eyes locking into hers. She snapped her head away, pulled the jacket tighter, but even so a shiver ran through her so violently that her shoulders shook.

‘I think this is it!' Kip gripped her hand. ‘Yes. Yes.'

The horses were in line. The crowd was straining. She could feel them, in agony, holding their breath. But no. They erupted in outrage. L'Istrice's jockey had turned his horse around. It's unbearable. Lara hung her head. She wanted to scream. It'll never ever happen. But just then L'Istrice, with no warning, wheeled round and sprang ahead. The square exploded with the starting cannon. The rope was down. The horses were running. And everyone was up on their feet.

She could still see the tenth horse, flashing ahead, but the others were gaining on him, had reached him, were squashed together in a heap. They were heading for San Martino where the track turned sharply and dropped downhill. They hurled themselves around – thank God for the mattresses – but no one fell. On they went, Il Nicchio in the lead now, and then for a moment they were out of sight, until, comical almost, like toy soldiers, they came cantering up the hill on the other side. They were streaking past, the colours of their
contrada
on their hats, and everyone was screaming, shouting, as L'Onda in the inside lane began to gain, began to push past La Selva who was struggling to overtake Il Nicchio for the lead. And then L'Onda fell. Il Nicchio flew on. La Selva – the Woodland – following and then Il Drago tangled with another horse and they both came crashing down.

‘NO,' Kip shouted.

‘NO,' Lara echoed.

But there was no time to mourn. Il Nicchio was safely in the lead. Il Nicchio. Caroline's horse. ‘NICCHIO,' they both screamed with everything they had.

A riderless horse was streaking along in third place now. A riderless horse could win the Palio. That was another of its rules. ‘NICCHIO!' The crowd was screaming too, swaying, weeping, singing, beating their chests.

‘NICCHIO,' Lara screamed. ‘Go on. Go on.' She felt as if she were floating. ‘NICCHIO!' Her life depended on it. Caroline's life too.

Il Nicchio was streaming past them again. Once more he braved the turn at San Martino and in a flash he was forcing on up the last hill, frothing and straining, was racing round the last corner, with the riderless horse no nearer than his rump, and yes, he could hardly fail to win.