The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (25 page)

C
HAPTER
61

Siena, Santuccio Church

A
UGUST
1581

My padrino and I rode to Porta Romana one last time before the running of the Palio.

Time and again, day after day, we had walked or ridden our horses the length of the course, from outside Porta Romana at the ancient church of Santuccio to the steps of the Duomo. Over and over again, my padrino pointed out the difficult sections, places where I might falter, places where I might fall. Dangers I had never considered. And he suggested strategies, tricks I could never have thought of.

Today, as we neared the gate, children ran alongside us, pointing and cheering. One little girl, her face smeared with dirt, plunged her fingers in her mouth. She stared, transfixed, as I rode bareback.

I lifted my reins and wiggled my fingers at her. The girl stood stunned. Her brother shoved her, waving back at me.

“Wave to the villanella, you idiot. Wave to her!”

The girl moved her hand, her black eyes riveted on Caramella, then on me.

As we approached the redbrick church of Santuccio, Padrino Cesare halted his horse at a spot where the road widened for carriages to turn around.

“The mossa will be right here.” As if I didn’t know. “Unless you are the rincorsa—the starting horse and rider—you will press your horse against the rope to feel the drop. But if you are not in control, and your horse jumps forward before the rope drops completely, the rope will trip your horse and you both could fall.” As if he hadn’t warned me a hundred times already.

I stroked Caramella’s neck. The children pressed closer. My padrino’s horse flared his nostrils, prancing.

“Move away, ragazzi!” said Cesare, his voice gruff. He flung his arm in the air to shoo them away. His horse jumped. Despite his age, my padrino stayed centered in his saddle.

Then he winked at me. “Look how Caramella accepts the crowd and confusion. You have done well with her, ciccia.”

“Rompicollo! Rompicollo!” chanted the children. “
Viva la villanella
!”

My padrino frowned. “Do not call her Rompicollo!”

“What’s wrong, Padrino?”

He shook his head. “Villanella is all right. Not Rompicollo.”

I looked down at the chastened children.

He does not want to think of me lying on the cobblestones with a broken neck
.

“It is all right, Padrino. They mean no harm,” I said.

“Basta!
Vai vi
a
!
” Go! He chewed his lip. “They are brats. Fine. Let them shout. Come the Palio, the crowds will wave flags in her face, shout, and scream. You and the horse must focus only on the race. You must focus on the course, on the streets, on the turns—on the most treacherous turn, from Via di Città onto Via del Capitano. Many hopes have died at that turn.”

I know the turn, Padrino. I see it in my sleep!

“And then—only then!—you must focus on the banner, the
drappellone
at the finish.”

We were standing at the starting line, and he was already imagining the finish. And standing there with him, I could see my hand reaching out and grabbing the drappellone, the sign of victory.

Caramella took a little side step under me, imagining victory right along with us.

As we rode the course, my padrino’s every word was an echo of words he had spoken so many times already.

“Here at San Giorgio, Caramella will be heaving, for you will have galloped a long way uphill. And here the
discesa
begins. You must control your horse, or she could stumble when she hits the downhill pitch. Prepare her. Tickle her bit with some pressure to let her know you expect her to listen. Collect her just enough to shorten her stride.

“Her legs will still be expecting to climb. I have seen other horses falter here. They run down the hill splay-footed, dangerously. Your horse must be nimble, ready for the descent.”

I nodded.

If I were riding Orione, that would be a problem. But with Caramella, I can control her gait with a light hand.

“In the late afternoon, the downhill section is shadowed like a canyon,” said Padrino, his brow creasing. “But then, as it rises again on Via di Pantaneto, there will be patches of bright sun and shadow.”

I nodded, because I had to—as he warned me for the hundredth time, because he had to.

“These shadows are the devil! If it is a bright, hot day like today, your eyes, your horse’s eyes, will not adjust to the darkness quickly enough. You could miss a turn or a narrowing of the street. I have seen both horses and fantini die smashing into a wall.”

My linen blouse stuck to my back. The divided skirt that the Drago seamstress had designed for me was soaked in horse sweat.

Better to feel the horse’s back.

Via di Pantaneto became Banchi di Sotto, and we walked the long, gradual curve of the streets past the palazzos that circled the outside of the Piazza del Campo, past the point where Sotto joined Sopra and the two streets together became Via di Città, the lower end being the old Via di Galgaria, where cobblers sold their wares.

Every step of the way, my padrino pointed out corners, arches, doorways, balconies, windows where contradaioli might cheer or jeer—or throw something—places for speed, places for caution.

We moved aside for a procession of creaking wagons loaded with dirt. The contadini were bringing more
tufo
, Senese earth, the color of yellow dust. They stopped up ahead, where half a dozen other wagons were shoveling their loads onto the pietra serena. Women and children stomped the sandy dirt, packing it down onto the stone. They were followed by two wagons with barrels of water. Men doused the tufa to harden it more.

My padrino’s horse snorted at the commotion.

“Buon lavoro, signori!”
called my godfather.

The men looked up from their labor. They doffed their caps. “Long live la villanella,” they cried. “Virginia Tacci, la villanella!”

“The footing should be good—unless we have rain,” said a man dressed better than the others. He nodded to me and winked. “But we’ll see to it the
tufo
is set well. For you, villanella. For you.”

I stared up into the deep blue sky. Today, at least, there was no sign of rain clouds, the traitors against a Palio.

“Buon lavoro,” said Padrino, nodding to him. Good work.

“Buon Palio!” answered several of the men with gap-toothed smiles.

“There may be scraps of trash underfoot,” said Padrino as we continued on the tufa-covered track. “Usually the children prowl the streets, gobbling up any edible scraps they can find. But watch for anything that might make Caramella lose her footing.”

I nodded, thinking of the children we saw lingering at the Porta Romana, arms and legs as thin as sticks. They looked as I did only a few years before, on the day I saw Isabella de’ Medici jump the fallen olive tree. I wondered what the little girl with the jam-smeared face thought when she saw me ride Caramella. She could not speak nor move.

“Those children at the Porta Romana,” I asked. “There are so many. Do they have family?”

Padrino shook his head. “If they had family, they would be working alongside them. The ones at the gates, begging for scraps, are orphans. They must sleep at night in the Maria della Scala.”

My mind shot back to the months I lived in the orphanage opposite the Duomo. After my parents’ death, Zia Claudia was certain I had the contagion, marsh fever, and would not let me enter her house.

Santa Maria della Scala—a great church and orphanage—was heaven and hell.

The frescoes on its ceilings filled with saints and angels. The graves in its catacombs filled with the bones of the ancient dead. Above us, the singing of the nuns, the deafening clanging of the great bell of the Duomo. Below us, the moans of the damned.

Night after night, I woke screaming. Not even the kind nun in our nursery could chase away the fear, though she rocked me in her arms, kissing my head. “It is all right, Virginia,” she whispered. “Santa Caterina’s spirit lingers here, even amongst the dead. She worked here many years, tending to the sick and abandoned children, just like you.”

“Virginia!” said Padrino.

I was yanked out of my reverie.

“Pay attention. Study the landmarks. Forgetting one could mean defeat—or death. Right here! Where Via Fontebranda meets Via di Città. Remember! This means you are coming to a very dangerous place, where Via dei Pelligrini joins La Città. The shadows can hide the curve, and here on your right, Palazzo Cervini protrudes out into the street. A horse I dearly loved died right here, Virginia. Listen to me! When you see Via Fontebranda on your right and the Costarella dei Barbieri on your left, it is almost too late. Gather up Caramella. Remember! Here! Left rein and pressure on your right leg to hold the turn. Stay well to the left,
capisci
?”

“Sì
,
Padrino. I understand.”

We walked on, past the Palazzo d’Elci to where the street curved back to the right at the white limestone of Palazzo di Chigi. Then the final, sharpest turn: Via del Capitano, leading to the Duomo.

“There are sure to be many nobili here,” said Padrino. “You must not be distracted by them. The ladies will wave silk banners and scarves, men will shout. Even if they don’t frighten Caramella, they could make another horse shy or balk. Be ready for a spooked horse to jump in front of you or hit you from the side in its fright.”

“Sì, Padrino. But I will be in the testa, I am sure.”

Padrino chewed his lip again. “The horses who are in the testa are the first to encounter any obstacles. Do not be a fool, Virginia. If you think you will be at the head of this race the entire time, you know nothing about winning a Palio. Victory goes to the rider and horse who use the shadows and their knowledge of the course to slip by their opponents. And disaster comes to the fantino who does not know where a palazzo juts out into the road, where a widening becomes a narrowing.”

At last we came to the Via del Capitano. My godfather took off his cap.

I looked at the rolls of canvas in donkey carts. Canvas barriers lined the turns of the course, blocking off side streets so that a
scosso
horse—a horse without a rider—would be directed into the piazza of the Duomo.

“Quattro Cantoni,” said my godfather with a nod. “It will be packed with signori from the nobili houses, pushing against the canvas to see the horses negotiate the turn. The last turn. The worst turn.”

Yet again, he told me because he had to. I nodded, yet again, because I had to. This was our ritual.

“The canvas can reflect the sun, blinding the horse. And the nobili will be mobbing this corner to see the riders negotiate the turn. By now, you will be tired. Caramella will be tired. Here, above all, you must be careful.”

I pulled up Caramella, staring at the open square, the Piazza di Postierla. The last of the evening sunlight glanced off the roof tiles, leaving a pool of shadow on the gray stones. The nobili strolling the piazetta stopped dead in their tracks, transfixed at the sight of me bareback on a horse.

Caramella whinnied, the high shriek from her lungs vibrating against my legs, shaking my spine.

“Come on,” said my padrino, making the turn into Via del Capitano.

In the light at the end of the street, I could make out the Duomo’s façade past the Palazzo de’ Medici and the archbishop’s palace. On the corner of the façade reared my white marble horse, and in the piazza directly below it, the single column that marked the end of the race.

The night before the Palio, Signor De’ Luca insisted I sleep at their palazzo. It was only a few minutes from Drago’s stable, where Caramella was kept. While I preferred to sleep in the straw next to the mare for the night, I was persuaded to show some decorum for my host and patron.

“Tonight you belong to us,” his wife said, kissing me on both cheeks. “Perhaps to all Siena, but especially to Drago.”

A blazing parade of candles lit the night as Siena prepared for the Day of the Assumption. Required by law to bring candles to the Duomo—the wax that would illuminate the cathedral for the rest of the year—every citizen of Siena entered the arched doorway carrying his contribution to the Virgin.