The Daughter of Siena (15 page)
Riccardo reflected that his father, now, would be slicing his bread and sausage and pouring a cup of wine. The duchess would be dining alone in her lonely palace at a long polished table, while a hundred silent servants revolved around her needs. And Pia Caprimulgo of the Aquila
contrada
? What would she be doing? Would she be playing the harp or dulcimer? Plying her needle? Or submitting to the rough attentions of her dreaded husband Nello? Riccardo’s throat tightened. He plunged through the great doors of the cathedral and the duomo swallowed him whole.
contrada
? What would she be doing? Would she be playing the harp or dulcimer? Plying her needle? Or submitting to the rough attentions of her dreaded husband Nello? Riccardo’s throat tightened. He plunged through the great doors of the cathedral and the duomo swallowed him whole.
Mass was over and the huge, cavernous space was darkening, slashed here are there by the vivid strikes of coloured light from the stained glass: twilight split
into a rainbow by a prism. Where the light fell, nameless wonders sprang from the dark: frescoes of the damned, mosaics of the saved, priceless reliquaries holding the fragments of broken saints. Riccardo had been here for high mass, among the jostling, bright crowds, a hundred, a thousand times in his life. Pressed against his neighbours in the sweat and heat, he had always found it an awesome and godly place. But at night the place was vast, dark and forbidding. Tonight, it seemed that God had left his house and leased his domicile to the Devil. The thought, and the old stones, chilled him. Ghostly shapes moved silently about – a sacristan, a priest, an old lady with a broom. The dust of her sweepings rose to Riccardo’s nose, there to mingle with the incense of the censer, lately swung through the faithful, belching the white smoke of sanctity.
into a rainbow by a prism. Where the light fell, nameless wonders sprang from the dark: frescoes of the damned, mosaics of the saved, priceless reliquaries holding the fragments of broken saints. Riccardo had been here for high mass, among the jostling, bright crowds, a hundred, a thousand times in his life. Pressed against his neighbours in the sweat and heat, he had always found it an awesome and godly place. But at night the place was vast, dark and forbidding. Tonight, it seemed that God had left his house and leased his domicile to the Devil. The thought, and the old stones, chilled him. Ghostly shapes moved silently about – a sacristan, a priest, an old lady with a broom. The dust of her sweepings rose to Riccardo’s nose, there to mingle with the incense of the censer, lately swung through the faithful, belching the white smoke of sanctity.
Riccardo sank to his knees, but his lips did not move in prayer. His litany was a trinity of words that were all the same:
where, where, where
? The duomo was huge, with numerous chapels, vestries and votive niches. He must find a place that would allow him to overhear the Nine’s conference, and for this he must find the place where they would meet.
where, where, where
? The duomo was huge, with numerous chapels, vestries and votive niches. He must find a place that would allow him to overhear the Nine’s conference, and for this he must find the place where they would meet.
He walked about in the light of the devotional candles, the wavering banks of tiny golden flames making a shimmering whole. He walked the length of the nave, drawn to the greatest mosaic of all – the She-Wolf. He gazed down at the grey beast, suckling her babes beneath his scuffed shoes, and the wolf, wonderfully rendered in tiny nuggets of silver and pewter glass, seemed to look back at
him with the eyes of a beast who owns the city and everything in it, a beast who can count on the utter and unquestioning loyalty of her twins.
him with the eyes of a beast who owns the city and everything in it, a beast who can count on the utter and unquestioning loyalty of her twins.
The duchess had said Minerva was a Roman goddess, that this cathedral was built upon a Roman temple. Beyond that, his own ignorance frustrated him. Could there be some tunnel, some way down into the depths of the cathedral, where the ancient stones of a Roman temple lay? He patted his feet along the mosaic, the nuggets of priceless glass winking at him knowingly in the candlelight. There was no telltale join, no cavity, no ring to raise a secret trapdoor. Riccardo cursed himself for his boyish notions. The She-Wolf looked on him balefully.
Riccardo spun on his toes and walked back up the nave to the Chigi chapel, a beautiful place ringed with ancient green columns and with a golden rood screen. If the She-Wolf did not hold the secret, then he must return to the Owlet – the Chigi were Civetta, to a man, and this was their foundation. He revolved around in the glorious little space. This was a possible meeting place, but it was open to the greater cathedral; a clandestine conference would demand a closed space. Very well: back to the symbol of Minerva.
He moved swiftly now, looking for an owl somewhere, anywhere. In the stones of the pilasters, in the glass of the mosaics, in the paint frescoes. He was becoming increasingly frustrated. He heard the great bells above chime the three-quarters – he had but a quarter of one hour before the meeting was to commence. Suddenly the whole notion, the Nine, the coded message, Minerva,
seemed far-fetched. A bubble of mirth rose in his throat, but just as it seemed about to burst forth and betray him as a simpleton or a lunatic, he felt a presence at his elbow and turned to greet the priest. He did not recognize him and felt relief. The fellow was young and eager, he must have come here in the last year or so.
seemed far-fetched. A bubble of mirth rose in his throat, but just as it seemed about to burst forth and betray him as a simpleton or a lunatic, he felt a presence at his elbow and turned to greet the priest. He did not recognize him and felt relief. The fellow was young and eager, he must have come here in the last year or so.
He sketched a pilgrim’s blessing. ‘
Pax vobiscum
, Father,’ he murmured and the fellow replied in kind, nodded, regarding him with benevolence.
Pax vobiscum
, Father,’ he murmured and the fellow replied in kind, nodded, regarding him with benevolence.
‘Here are many wonders,’ he remarked.
Riccardo agreed.
‘Have you seen the Chigi chapel?’
Riccardo relaxed a little. The young priest was proud of his new church and wanted to show it off. Such instruction could be useful.
‘There are many wonders here indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Is it true this place is built upon a Roman temple?’
‘Indeed, so it is said: the temple of Minerva.’
Riccardo nodded, his face shaded by the cowl. ‘Meet it is when our God can enshrine himself over the gods of ignorant pagans.’
The priest nodded solemnly. ‘True, true, it is a common practice to commandeer a site where the faithful already gather – borrowing worship, I believe it is called. In Rome, too, there is a church named Sopra Minerva – on top of Minerva. A papal church, the very church of our own Francesco Todeschini Piccolomini.’
That name was certainly familiar, but Riccardo feigned ignorance. ‘Piccolomini?
‘Ah, you are not from Siena. Many years ago one of the
Piccolomini family of the Civetta
contrada
rose to preferment with the Vatican and became Pope Pius III. His own library is in this very place – there at the north of the nave. The Piccolomini Library.’
Piccolomini family of the Civetta
contrada
rose to preferment with the Vatican and became Pope Pius III. His own library is in this very place – there at the north of the nave. The Piccolomini Library.’
The Piccolomini Library. Riccardo’s heart gathered pace. ‘Is it possible to see inside the library?’
The priest hesitated and Riccardo’s instincts began to prickle. From childhood he had had what his father called a
sensa sesto
– a sixth sense: the same sense, his father asserted, that allowed him to talk to horses and have them understand him. A sense that would always tell him when something was amiss.
sensa sesto
– a sixth sense: the same sense, his father asserted, that allowed him to talk to horses and have them understand him. A sense that would always tell him when something was amiss.
As a child he had once tugged his father’s coat insistently in the square outside, pulling them both clear as a stone detached itself from the duomo, falling and falling through the starlings and the sky, to land in the very spot they had been standing. Many times since he had done the same: turning to avoid the slice of a sword in battle, stamping out a lick of flame in a haybale, or pulling a child from the path of a carriage. Always, always, the portent was preceded by a pricking in his thumbs and at the base of his neck where he tied his hair. Riccardo felt it now.
In that split second of hesitation he knew that the priest wanted him to leave, that he did not want him to see the library.
All Riccardo’s doubts vanished. The Nine were meeting, they were meeting tonight, and they were meeting in the Piccolomini Library. In the foundation of the most important Civetta who ever lived, a pope, no less. A man, moreover, who had a connection with Minerva.
‘I regret, my son, that the library is closed to visitors,’ said the priest smoothly, his face now shuttered too. ‘Is there anything else I may show you before you continue upon your way?’
Riccardo shook his head, made his farewells and moved toward the great doors and the outside. But in the portico he looked about him and squeezed his length into the blackest shadow of one of the columns, nose to nose with a painted apostle who looked back at him with almond eyes. At length he heard the great doors grind closed and his world turned black. Riccardo counted a hundred heartbeats and emerged, creeping back into the vast dark space on silent feet. The candles for the dead burned still, lighting his way back up the nave to the forbidden door of the library. His hand shook as he took the handle: dreading it was locked, dreading it was open. The handle turned and he was inside. The candles were lit here too and a wondrous cycle of frescoes leaped from the walls at him, their glories reaching up into the dark. Everywhere was the same man in his scarlet robes and hat, in progress, in Siena, in conclave, in Rome: Francesco Todeschini Piccolomini. The portraits were so vivid that it took Riccardo a couple of moments to realize with relief that he was alone in the room.
Before he left, the priest had left just eight ornate chairs in a neat circle. Riccardo did not have time to wonder why there were only eight: under the watchful eyes of Francesco Todeschini Piccolomini, Civettini, cardinal and pope, he cast frantic eyes around the room for a hiding place. He struck upon the two great windows at
the north end of the library with their two thick twin tapestries shutting out the night. One sweep of a hand would find him out at once, but it would have to do. In the dusty space he breathed steadily and tried to slow his heart. He had barely got his breath when he heard the strike of nine and the handle of the door. He tried to count footsteps, lost count, and heard the scrape of the eight chairs, murmured greetings and then silence.
the north end of the library with their two thick twin tapestries shutting out the night. One sweep of a hand would find him out at once, but it would have to do. In the dusty space he breathed steadily and tried to slow his heart. He had barely got his breath when he heard the strike of nine and the handle of the door. He tried to count footsteps, lost count, and heard the scrape of the eight chairs, murmured greetings and then silence.
‘Well, Faustino, you have my sympathy and the sympathy of all. But if you’ll forgive the indelicacy, we have now lost, in your son, an important part of our plan.’
Riccardo did not recognize the voice that broke the silence – aged, cultured, measured; it was not the voice of Salvatore Tolomei, Pia’s father.
Then Faustino’s voice. Slow and rumbling like a growl. ‘My son cannot be replaced. But his place in our design can, and will, be filled by another.’
‘So you mentioned at your house.’ This was Salvatore. ‘But can he ride as well as Vicenzo? There was no one in Siena to match your son on horseback, and his skill was the key to all.’
‘Salva, I loved my eldest more than life, so you will know what it costs me to say this – Nello rides every bit as well as his brother, and better. Vicenzo was his better in all things, except this.’
‘And the horse?’
‘I will pair him with the best that there is.’
‘But the best there is Berio, that tall fast bay,’ put in another voice, troubled. ‘And it is forbidden for the Eagles to draw him again, as Vicenzo rode him in July.
It’s forbidden for a
contrada
to ride the same horse twice in a year.’
It’s forbidden for a
contrada
to ride the same horse twice in a year.’
‘I’m aware of the rules.’ Faustino again, testy. ‘But there is not a problem; I have found another horse, just as fast.’ Now his voice held a smile in it, as if amused by a private jest.
‘And how will Nello take all of this?’
‘To be given a new horse, the best that money can buy? Well, I should imagine. In Siena that’s better than being given a new bride, be she never so beautiful. Eh, Salva?’
Riccardo waited for Pia’s father to rush to his daughter’s defence. He waited in vain.
‘And you’ll train him?’
Faustino again. ‘I will. He is to run in the Maremma – well away from the city. We have a castle there, the Castel di Pietra.’
Riccardo attempted to collect his thoughts. First, Nello was not present. Two, he was to take over his brother’s place, not only in his marriage bed, but in whatever plan the Nine had for the coming Palio. Riccardo had not known that Nello was a rider of such skill, but imagined his childhood: growing up with his strange appearance, undersized and overlooked. He could not equal Vicenzo in any other arena of life, but Riccardo could imagine Nello riding and riding, every day, desperate to better his brother at this, essentially Sienese, skill.
‘Are all the other horses taken care of?’
‘That’s up to you,
capitani
. We will bring them in through known traders. Boli, from Arezzo, supplies the San Martino fair.’
capitani
. We will bring them in through known traders. Boli, from Arezzo, supplies the San Martino fair.’
‘And the horses of the other
contrade
? Our enemies, the ones not present tonight?’ A new voice this time, younger.
contrade
? Our enemies, the ones not present tonight?’ A new voice this time, younger.
‘Simpleton, they will not run, they will not be drawn. It’s very easy. Ten run. Nine for the Nine, and one other. I have elected that one should be from the Tower. Nine nobbled, and one clear winner.’
‘And what of the Tower boy? He’s a fine rider. What if he doesn’t lose to Nello?’
Riccardo’s flesh crept – it was as if they had torn back the tapestry and seen him.
‘He’ll lose.’ Faustino spoke with utter certainty.
There was a clamour of questions, all at once.
‘How is that to be achieved?’
‘His horse will be handicapped?’
‘He owns his own?’
‘Not yet. But he will, that will not be a difficulty.’
‘He is yours, this boy? Your creature?’
‘Yes. I had him carry the carcass of the Panther. He knows the price. He knows who I am.’
This innocent word covered so much. Riccardo did indeed ‘know’ Faustino. He knew him in the sense that society would have it, and he knew him through and through, the workings of his predator’s mind. Riccardo knew that Faustino could carve a man up on the rack, then have his son and a stranger carry him out like a platter of meat.
‘And besides, I have contrived a distraction for him. He will not be a problem.’
‘Faustino.’ Another voice, gravelly and hesitant.
‘Gabriele?’
‘Why don’t you just get rid of him. You know.’
There was a silence. Riccardo’s throat tightened as his flesh crawled with dread.
‘Because,’ Faustino’s voice was almost a whisper, ‘because, he was the only one –
the only one in this city –
who tried to save my
son
. Not even his own kin went to his aid.’
the only one in this city –
who tried to save my
son
. Not even his own kin went to his aid.’
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