The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (26 page)

The cathedral filled with flickering light, then the thunder, as each contrada sent flag bearers and drummers. Ricocheting in my rib cage, pounding in the deepest cavity of my body, the reverberation stirred my spirit. I looked up to the golden stars cut in the midnight blue sky of the Duomo.

Giorgio stood at my side. He touched my elbow to draw me close.

“The stars?” he whispered in reverence.

“Sì,” I said, still looking up.
“Le stelle.”
I found myself thinking of Orione.

Giorgio took my hand and squeezed it.

“The drappellone is painted to match. It is my maestro’s gift to the city of Siena. Here it comes!”

Aquila’s contrada marched behind the great banner, stretched high on gilded poles, ten braccia high. Celestial blue brocade fringed in silk, fur, and pearls gleamed in the candlelight of the great cathedral.

Gazing down on us from the linen was the Virgin of the Assumption, wearing a lapis blue veil, with the gold crown of heaven upon her head. Seven golden stars, representing the seven contradas that would race the Palio, floated over the Virgin’s crown. Gold and silver embroidered rays lifted her up to a heaven of blue-white clouds.

My eyes were riveted on the Virgin’s downcast glance as she bid farewell to the mortal world below.

“Look, there,” whispered Giorgio. “At that man.”

I could not move my eyes from the splendor before me. The candlelight from the thousands of offerings blazed, bathing the Virgin in light.

Giorgio shook my elbow, insisting. “Look, Virginia!”

I reluctantly shifted my stare.

A man dressed elegantly in black silk taffeta stared back at me, his eyes glittering in the blazing candlelight.

“That is di Torreforte,” said Giorgio in my ear. “Make sure you know him.”

I felt a chill, but I stared at him in the flickering candlelight, absorbing his features.

“If you see him near you, you are in danger,” said Giorgio. “He is my enemy. He will stop at nothing to see us fail.”

I did not shift my eyes away from the man’s stare, but met it with my own.

The drappellone came between us, a mob of Aquila contradaioli marching solemnly behind.

When the crowd had cleared, di Torreforte had disappeared.

The night before the Palio of the Assumption, Aquila invited all the contradas to a feast in the Piazza del Campo. The heart of the city—already stifling from the mid-August heat—was choked with wood smoke from Aquila’s ovens. The streets were clogged with merchants bringing salamis, sausages, and vegetables from the countryside, wagons groaning with casks of red wine from the surrounding vineyards.

The piazza had been swept and washed clean, the stones slick and gleaming in the evening light. Tables stretched the length of the piazza, and even the meanest beggar was given a place to break bread and drink a jar of wine.

La Signora De’ Luca had dressed me in a brocade dress of crimson with a bodice of emerald green. The cuffs, made of red silk, were slashed with a brilliant gold. Together they represented the colors of Drago. Red, green, and yellow ribbons were braided into my hair, capped with a pearl-seeded headpiece.

I was given a seat of honor next to the capitano of Drago, Signor De’ Luca. I fidgeted, twisting my braided hair around my fingers, until Signora De’ Luca gently pulled my hands to my lap.

“All eyes are on you, carina. Let them see you proud and dignified, as befitting a dragaiola.”

She was right. All eyes were on me.

I avoided those eyes, looking up instead at the lavender sky of the summer evening. Clouds of
rondini,
the swallows of Siena, flew in erratic circles above us, black soot caught in a capricious wind. The flapping of the de’ Medici banner on the balcony of the Palazzo Pubblico caught my eye. The entire second floor was ablaze with candelabra.

A blast of trumpets startled me. The granduca and grandu-chessa walked hand in hand onto the balcony. The granduchessa wore a braccia e braccia
of green taffeta, molded over her wide hips, squeezed tight against her full bosom.

She looks like a stuffed olive.

The presidente
dell’Aquila stood, and all of Siena rose.

“On this feast of the Assumption,” he said, looking not at Granduca Francesco but at the contradaioli packed in the piazza, “we ask the Santa Madonna del Voto for her blessing as we begin our festivities. Bless our city, the glorious Siena, our brave fantini and their magnificent horses, who will run tomorrow with the blessing of the Madonna in the Palio of the contradas. We ask her blessing in memory of the Republic of Siena and its faithful contradas.”

Everyone at the table opened their eyes to exchange glances, their heads still bowed.

“He dares to leave the granduca out of the blessing!” whispered a woman to my left.

“Is he mad?” whispered a nobleman across from us.

I looked up and saw the granduca had lifted his head, his red lips pressed tight together, staring down at the speaker.

“And
. . . ,
” continued the presidente after an endless moment of silence, “finally, we ask for a special blessing upon our granduca, Francesco of Tuscany; his wife, the granduchessa; and their blessed children. Amen.”

Governor di Montauto, seated next to the presidente dell’Aquila, rose quickly.

“Indeed, it is the greatest honor to have our granduca and granduchessa here to witness our Palio,” said the governor, bowing to Francesco. “I am sure all Siena joins me in extending a special Senese welcome.”

The crowd applauded dutifully, the Florentines among us cheering.

I heard Giorgio to my left. “A special Senese welcome indeed,” he muttered. “His words have double meaning. He does not like the granduca any more than we do.”

The governor continued. “Tonight we salute the magnificent horses and the brave men—and one girl—who will ride the Palio tomorrow.”

“Brava! Virginia Tacci!” called a Drago contradaiolo at our table.

“Brava, Virginia Tacci! Brava, Siena!”
echoed Contrada della Torre, adjacent to us.

Then all the contradas—those who were running and those who weren’t—erupted.

“Brava! Brava! Brava!”

Governor di Montauto beamed as the contradaioli of Siena beat their fists against the tables, the sound echoing in the piazza.

“Brava! Brava!”

An attendant whispered in the governor’s ear. Di Montauto turned to see the granduca glaring down at him from the balcony.

The smile slid from the governor’s face.

“Wait, wait!” he said, waving his arms to arrest the cheer. In the silence, he struggled to find something to say. Then he smiled. “Now we will have poetry! The best poets of Siena will speak to honor our granduca and granduchessa.”

“Yes,” said Aquila’s president, rising. “We shall hear the voices of each contrada in poetry.”

One by one, the contradas extolled the virtue of their neighborhoods, of their camaraderie, and of their devotion to the Virgin.

When Drago’s turn came, Riccardo pulled out a scrolled parchment from his coat. His hand shook as he unrolled the paper. He stood, clearing his throat. He did not look at me but spoke clearly to the hundreds who filled Il Campo.

Virginia Tacci, the virgin shepherdess

Born and bred in the Senese country, among the flocks

To poor parents with no fanfare or notice

but so strong-hearted is she

her courage has quieted the swaggering braggarts

she races the Palio bravely, without wile or deception.

You holy goddess, may your beautiful mantle protect

This girl who keeps her virginal flower

I swallowed hard. “My virginal flower? How dare he refer to my virg—”

“Silenzio!” hissed Giorgio. I noticed his cheeks burning as much as mine at the words.

Come and rescue me from my burning ardor

I long to be sheltered in your glorious temple

To which I devote all my heart

that sings of my desire.

There was a moment of silence in the piazza.

“
Grazie a tutti
. Thank you, signore e signori,” said Riccardo, finishing.

“Bravo!” Contrada del Drago erupted in cheers. The tables rumbled with the pounding of fists. All the campo joined in, cheering for the poet, cheering for me. For me! Virginia Tacci.

Riccardo bowed to me, his blue eyes seeking mine. “Every word I say is true, Virginia Tacci,” he said. He sat down beside his mother, whose eyes were shining with tears.

Is this man in love with me?

I stared down at the wine stains on the tablecloth, unable to speak. Then a woman at our table stood up. Her hair was uncovered, braided in strands of pearls. She was elegantly tall, strong, and calm. Until now, all the poetry had been read by men. There was a murmur around the piazza.

The poetess took a deep breath and began, her voice clear in the suddenly quiet night.

No better courage could be shown,

No better skill.

It could not be foretold from her humble origins

That from the ancients such high passion

As Bradamante and Marfisa

Should show themselves in her.

Il Campo shook with the applause, cheers, the pounding of fists on the table.

“Who are Bradamante and Marfisa?” I asked, looking at the cups of wine raised in my honor.

“They were women, warriors who fought during Charlemagne’s time to save Christianity from the Saracens,” said Signora De’ Luca. She saw my bewildered look. “She compares you to them as a liberator for Siena.”

“A liberator? From whom?” I asked.

Signora De’ Luca raised an eyebrow, then lifted her chin up toward the blazing lights and the de’ Medici above us.

Giorgio squeezed my shoulder, whispering in my ear. “It is very dangerous, these words this poet has chosen. Stay close to me when we leave the piazza. Do not speak to any Florentines.”

Again I looked up at the balcony of the Palazzo Pubblico. The granduca stared down at me, not applauding. He rubbed his open palm over his beard.

“Viva Virginia Tacci!” shouted a voice from Aquila’s contrada.

“Viva Virginia Tacci e Siena!”

I sat stunned at hearing my name echo around the piazza. I lifted my eyes to the Torre del Mangia. When did I become a liberator for Siena? My dream was to ride—and win—the Palio. Now all Siena had fastened their hopes on me.

My dream and Siena’s had become one.

I thought of my father and mother. How I wished they could hear the voices of Siena shout our family name to the heavens. I watched the pigeons burst from their roosts in the bell tower of the Torre del Mangia and circle into the sky.

Maybe my parents could hear after all.

C
HAPTER
62

Siena, Contrada del Drago

M
IDNIGHT
, A
UGUST
15, 1581

“Virginia Tacci! Wake up!”

In the guttering candlelight, I saw the maid’s face puckered with horror.

“Signor De’ Luca waits downstairs. Hurry!”

When I burst into the Stalla di Contrada del Drago, the two grooms wouldn’t lift their eyes from the straw-covered ground, stained with blood.

“How could this happen? Were you asleep? Drunk? What?”

I grabbed one by his tunic, pulling his face close to mine.

“Look at me!”

The boy, about nineteen, flicked his eyes at me, his eyelashes laced with hay dust.

“I am
. . .
sorry.”

“Sorry! You
. . . 
!”

Giorgio pulled my wrist.

“Let him go, Virginia.”

When I didn’t let go, Giorgio yanked me away.

“Virginia!” he whispered harshly. “Leave him alone.”

A crowd pressed in the open doors. The small space was packed. I felt their eyes on me—on me and on their horse, who lay bandaged in the stall.

I crumpled to my knees beside Caramella.

“She will heal, Virginia,” said my padrino, wiping his hands on a purple-stained cloth. “The knife did not cut so deeply as to cripple her. But she will never again run a Palio.”

“How could this happen?” I cried. “How could anyone—”

“The guards said they saw no one until after the deed was done. The scoundrel took off running down Via Sapienza,” said Giorgio.

“Guards! What kind of guards are they?”

“They are grooms, Virginia. Only grooms.”

“Virginia,” said the other boy, who was only a year or two older than me. “I slept in the straw of the stall, never leaving. I heard no one, nothing, until the squeal of the mare—”

My eyes widened, my throat constricting.

“Basta!” snapped the older boy, cuffing his companion on the ear. “Do you not know when to keep still?”

The smaller boy clapped a hand on his ear and ran out of the
stalla
, crying.

“We failed you, we failed the contrada,” said the older boy. “Most of all, we failed this good mare. I will bear the shame for the rest of my life.”

I heard a murmur from the crowd.

“What is your name?” said Giorgio.

“Bastiono,” he said, hanging his head.

Giorgio laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Whoever did this was practiced in stealth. A paid assailant. You are expected to sleep next to the mare and observe her health, feed, and water. But no one expected an intruder with a knife.”

“It was another contrada,” growled the butcher from Via Terme.

“A Goose,” muttered another.

“Or Aquila itself, wanting to win—”

“Stop!” said my padrino. “Listen to you all, flinging accusations at our brothers. No Senese would have done this!”

“He is right,” shouted the wheel maker. “No Senese would hurt a Palio horse.”

“It was an outsider, someone who was determined that this mare would not run the Palio,” said Brunelli. My padrino stopped for a moment, then said, more quietly, “Determined that this mare wouldn’t run
. . .
or Virginia!”

Governor di Montauto arrived in the cool of the morning, his carriage rattling down the cobblestones, scattering the crowd that had gathered beyond the stalls, spilling out to the entrance of the old university.

“Clear the way!” shouted the driver as he turned the carriage into the mouth of the tiny Vicolo della Palla a Corda.

The mob of Drago contradaioli parted to let the de’ Medici governor into the stalls. Under the brick-arched ceiling, the chestnut mare stood awkwardly, holding the weight off her bandaged foreleg. Beside her stood Virginia, stroking the horse’s neck.

“Governor di Montauto, buongiorno,” said Signor De’ Luca quietly.

The girl turned toward the governor, her face etched with grief. He had seen her in Il Campo dressed in a brocade gown, her hair caught up in ribbons. Now she looked vulnerable and pale, just a little girl, her hair covered in a kerchief, stroking a badly injured horse.

A memory of his granddaughter flashed in his mind.

Just a girl. Not an Amazon or a goddess—a girl. A girl who loves a horse.

“I came as soon as I heard the news. How badly wounded is the mare?”

Signor De’ Luca turned. Cesare Brunelli appeared from the shadows.

“She will walk again, perhaps even gallop, governor. But run a Palio—never. The knife cut through the first bands of sinew.”

Governor di Montauto saw the girl flinch.

“Do you have any idea who the assailant was?” asked the governor.

Several people murmured, then a ripple of hostile sounds spread out of the stall to Via della Sapienza, but no one answered.

“No,” said Signor De’ Luca, his voice firm, silencing the crowd.

Di Montauto looked around. The despairing faces of the Drago contradaioli
made him think of Siena’s defeat in the siege twenty-six years before. The bright, spirited flame of last night’s celebrations had been extinguished. Bad fortune had robbed these people of their chance to compete in the Palio, maybe to win.

Governor di Montauto knew in his heart it had to have been a Florentine who did this. A sour taste welled up in his mouth, matched by a twinge of guilt.

Now the girl—this Virginia Tacci, celebrated just hours before in poetry and toasts, the star of the celebration—would not ride.

But was that not exactly the motive for this barbaric attack? This cannot stand. I cannot allow it!

“I have a horse,” said Governor di Montauto. “He is not accustomed to the streets of Siena—but he is one of the finest horses in my stable. Bred in the Crete hills, a black stallion. I believe you know him.”

Virginia stared at the Florentine governor, unblinking.

Orione!

“Virginia Tacci,” said Governor di Montauto. “He is yours. For today and always.”

Virginia opened her mouth. Her kerchief slipped back, exposing the waves of dark hair.

“I give him to you, Virginia Tacci. A present. You shall ride the Palio today for Contrada del Drago.”