“Magari,” said the duchessa, in the Senese fashion. God willing. Her gray eyes were sad. “There is no finer horse. She has won the Palio twice for the House of d’Elci.”
I stared at her. “The Palio,” I whispered.
“Yes, and she is with foal,” she said. “A very special foal.” A gleam shone briefly in her clouded eyes. “She will have the most magnificent colt ever born.”
“I love colts,” I whispered. “How they gambol and kick in the air at nothing. I watch them as I tend my flock.”
“The father of this colt is Tempesta,” she said. “He is the swiftest horse in all Tuscany. He was born in the wilds of the Maremma.”
“Has he won the Palio?”
“No,” she said. She looked out the window at the sluicing rain. “He has never been ridden. Many fine horsemen have tried, but he has thrown them all. He cannot even be approached now, he is so wild.”
“A dangerous horse?”
She lifted her eyebrow. “Deadly.”
I shivered. The vision of slashing hooves haunted me, for my padrino had told me stories of mad horses that haunted my dreams.
“Sit closer to the brazier, my child,” she said, drawing the fur rug over my legs. “You will catch a chill, mia cara. Feel how damp you are.”
I looked up at her in awe. Except for old Brunelli, no one had ever called me “mia cara.” The hot coals warmed us as we listened to the pelting rain against the wooden coach.
“Why would you want a colt from a dangerous stallion, Duchessa?”
“I want his bloodline. I believe his blood mixed with my mare will make the fastest colt Siena has ever seen. But the real secret is the mare. Mares have heart,” she said, pressing my hand.
I watched a smile grow on her face. She looked twenty years younger, like a young mother herself. She patted my knee.
“If your padrino is worthy of his reputation,” she said, “we might see the birth of that colt tonight.”
CHAPTER 7
Siena, Pugna Hills
JANUARY 1573
The mare lay on her side, her flanks black with sweat. Cesare Brunelli, still wet from riding hard and fast in the rain, rubbed the mare’s belly, squeezing her teats.
“How long has she been in labor?” he asked the duchessa’s attendant. He looked up from the man’s polished boots, now splattered with mud.
“Eight hours,” said the stableman. “She can barely lift her head now. It is a miracle we got her to these sheds.”
Brunelli shook his head. “She still has a little kick to her—I can see it in her eyes.”
“Will you bleed her?” asked the man, shifting his weight in his boots so they creaked. “I have heard that a cut to the fetlock purges the black humors—”
Brunelli snorted. “Certainly not. This mare needs all the blood God gave her.”
His fire-scarred hands rummaged through his leather bag and extracted a ceramic jar sealed with beeswax.
He used the blade of his knife to break the seal.
“You got her?” he asked Giorgio.
“Sì, Babbo.”
“Easy, girl,” said Brunelli. He knelt, bringing the little jar below her neck where she could not see it. Rings of white circled her eyes, where panic shone bright.
His finger slipped between her front teeth and back tusk—knowing too little about horses, I gasped. I was sure the mare would bite off his hand.
The mare opened her mouth, her tongue moving. With his other hand, Brunelli swabbed the contents of the jar into her throat. She jerked up her head, trying to stand. Then she fell back to the straw with a groan.
“What did you give her?” asked the duchessa.
“A potion to relax her. She needs to be tolerant for what must be done next.”
He stroked her salt-encrusted neck.
“Brava ragazza,” he whispered. “Good girl.”
The mare’s breath stirred the straw, her nostrils flaring.
Brunelli petted her with calm strokes. He listened to her breathing, not moving until she had quieted.
Giorgio wielded a pitchfork, clearing away the soiled straw. His red hair was wet and matted against his skull.
“Bring more straw,” he told me.
For a moment, my anger at the way he had mocked me—and my disgust at his devil’s red hair—flared. But I knew there was no time for that. We were working together to save the mare and her foal.
When I returned to the stall with fresh straw in my arms, Giorgio was behind the mare, lifting her tail away from her body. I watched as Padrino coated his arm with sheep lard.
His hand disappeared into the mare’s body.
“Come, Virginia,” said my uncle, turning away. “This is not for the eyes of a young girl.”
“No. Let her stay,” said the duchessa. “She—”
Bleating from the ewes in the next shed interrupted her words.
Brunelli nodded. “With your permission, my friend. Your niece should stay.”
“Never tell my wife,” said my uncle, wringing his cap. “She would never forgive me. The blood, the birth—”
“Why?” sniffed the duchessa. “These are things of women. It is a mare who gives birth, may I remind you good gentlemen.”
Giorgio and Brunelli smiled. Uncle Giovanni wore a bewildered expression. His fingers continued to fumble with the cap in his hands, as if he were trying to tear it apart.
“Of course, good lady,” he said, bobbing his head in respect. “Forgive my ignorance.”
“I have helped birth dozens of sheep,” I said to my uncle. “Is it so different?”
“Sit with me, Virginia,” said the duchessa. “Stay away from the mare. She may stand up and lash out.”
My padrino chuckled.
“With respect, Duchessa. I gave her belladonna—it is doubtful she will rise within the half hour.”
Padrino’s right hand was inserted inside the mare past his elbow. He touched under the mare’s belly with his left, as if trying to grasp his hands together through the abdomen wall.
“It has begun,” he said.
He pulled his hand from the mare’s insides. His arm was slick. A few seconds later, a gush of pinkish water soaked the straw.
The mare groaned. Her sides heaved like the bellows in my padrino’s forge. Her snorts blew a thick stream of mucus from her nostrils.
The duchessa rose quietly from where she had been sitting in the straw by the mare. She drew out her linen handkerchief, cleaning the nostrils with a deft hand.
“Good. That will help her breathe,” said Padrino, looking up from the mare’s hindquarters.
Suddenly Padrino’s face turned rigid. The duchessa held her breath beside me.
“May I see, per favore?” I asked her.
She nodded. I moved toward my padrino.
Between her legs, the flesh of the mare was now bright pinkish-red, as if she were turned inside out. She groaned and made a strange sound deep in her throat.
Something glistened in Padrino’s hands. A translucent sac was beginning to emerge from the mare.
“Yes,” he said. “This is what I felt. The foal is coming tail first.”
The duchessa closed her eyes. “She has no strength left.”
Padrino glanced at the duchessa.
“But she has the heart of a champion, duchessa mia.”
The duchessa nodded, opening her creased eyes wide.
“Come on, mia cara,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Just a little more.” Her breath made the mare’s ear’s twitch.
My padrino pulled out his knife, making a slit in the sac. I could see two little hooves inside. He grasped the hooves with his hands and pulled in a twisting motion to release the foal’s haunches.
“Oh,” I whispered as I saw the waxen form, the tiny hooves.
This miracle horse in miniature chased away words.
The duchessa beckoned to me. “Help me clean her nostrils,” she said. She ripped her fine handkerchief in two, giving me ha
lf. “She needs air.”
I mopped at the long strands of phlegm. The duchessa stroked the mare’s neck.
“I wonder if she can win this race,” she whispered. The deep wrinkles around her eyes were red like raw meat from being clenched with weeping.
“Of course she can, Duchessa,” I said, laying my hand on her arm. “A mare who won the Palio. Twice!”
Padrino’s hand disappeared into the mare again. I could see his muscles working as his hands fumbled deep inside the birth canal.
The wind rattled through the timbers of the lambing shed, powdering us with snow. An attendant brought the duchessa her furs from the coach. She patted the straw, inviting me to share the warmth.
“No, grazie,” I said, my teeth chattering as I hunched over the mare’s nostrils, dabbing away phlegm.
I saw Padrino’s lips moving. My young ears heard muttering. Almost a chant, though I could not decipher his words.
Was Zia Claudia was right? Was he a horse witch, speaking their language?
My padrino’s jacket pulled up, but he was too engaged in his work to notice. I saw the buckle of white skin, the muscle forged from pounding iron now rimmed with fat.
Was he too old now to perform miracles?
As soon as I thought it, I cursed myself for my doubts.
Padrino can perform any miracle with horses!
I watched the pale flesh bulging over his belt turn bright red in the cold as long moments passed.
The duchessa’s fingers twitched, her puckered lips quivered. My eyes darted back and forth between the two souls who fought desperately to save this colt.
My padrino sat back. He withdrew his arms from the mare. The tiny foal lay quiet—so quiet—in his huge hands.
“Stillborn,” he said at last, his voice weary. “I am so sorry, Duchessa. I did all I could.”
The Duchessa d’Elci made not a sound. Her mouth was a perfect O of sorrow. She slowly raised her blue-veined hands to her face.
Giorgio stared at the dead colt. His eyebrows drew up in red peaks, his freckled face pinched. He shifted his rabbit eyes to mine. We stared at each other, terrified.
Then I realized he was not so much terrified as beseeching. I looked away, confused.
The duchessa was silent, her face hidden behind her hands, which were still slick with phlegm.
Her shoulders shook.
I stared at the foal’s body, perfectly still in the straw.
Deep inside me, deeper than heart or gut, I felt something move. Move and twist of its own accord, like a small animal had harbored deep within me.
I crawled across the rustling bedding to the wet foal, my eyes unblinking. The red and blue umbilical cord led from the mare to the belly of the foal, bits of straw clinging to it. I followed it, this lifeline between dam and foal.
“Come away, ciccia,” said my padrino. “You shall see other foals birthed, happy moments. Forget this one,” he whispered, pressing my hand in his.
I pushed his hand away. I barely heard him, my body trembling with a force I did not recognize. My fingers snatched at the knot in my head scarf, and my hair tumbled down loose. I wiped the slime from the stillborn nostrils with the coarse linen cloth.
I pressed my lips over one tiny nostril, closing the other with my cupped hand.
“What is she doing?” I heard the duchessa say, her voice choking.
Padrino watched silently. I could feel his eyes on my back.
I pulled air down into my lungs as deep as I could. My chest expanded until I could feel the beating of my heart, tight within my rib cage. I breathed deeply into the tiny nostril.
I felt Padrino touch me.
“Come away,” he whispered.
I shook my head violently, pulling away from his hand.
No!
I do not know how long my lips cupped over the velvet soft muzzle, damp and salty. Time disappeared—I felt only the rush of air out of my body and into the colt’s.
Padrino took my free hand gently. He placed it on the horse’s tiny ribs, my fingers draped over the quiet heart. I felt the foal’s chest expand and lift with the air that gushed from my lungs.
I tasted the saltiness of newborn life on my lips, the moisture of the mare’s womb. The foal was so close to life, still struggling for the world as he dipped under the waves of death. The umbilical cord still united mare and foal. I felt myself a part of them both.
The three of us, hovering between life and death.
My eyes were closed tight. I imagined the flicker of life in the darkness, if I could just reach down far enough.
We shared the same breath, the same life, all three of us. My lungs ached—ached as they did running for help on the night a wolf carried away a lamb when I was alone with the flock.
I coughed, sputtering. But I did not stop breathing, breathing for all of us. Until at last I felt the air, my own breath, whispering back to me—mixed with the scent of horse and new life.
“You can stop,” whispered my padrino, his hand gentle on my shoulder. “Rest, Virginia.”
“Dio mio! He breathes!” I heard the duchessa cry.
Only then did I pull my mouth away from the colt. My cheeks aching, my lips still slick with the colt’s snot.
The foal lifted his head. His brown eyes flickered, unfocused, soft with wonderment.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the duchessa rise with the help of her attendants, escorting her out of the lambing shed. I heard their footsteps crunch on the frozen mud outside.
“Just a few minutes, ciccia,” said my padrino quietly. “Then we must leave the mare to break the umbilical cord.”
I nodded, looking at the colt. His white blaze reminded me of a constellation, one of my favorites in the winter sky. My finger reached out to trace the jagged outline on his wet face.
“Orione,” I whispered. “The hunter.”
The lanterns threw buttery light across the straw, casting our silhouettes large and black against the timbers of the lambing shed.
The wind ceased. All that could be heard were the gurgles of the mare’s insides, and the soft puffs of her breath scattering the straw.
The colt tossed his head, regarding me. His soft brown eyes slowly focused, never moving from my face.
“You shall run the Palio some day, little one,” I said.
I whistled the ancient song of Siena.
Nella la Piazza del Campo, ci nasce la verbena
Viva la nostra Siena . . .
La più bella delle città!
The colt watched me, his head wobbling slightly as he listened to my soft hymn, hummed to him only.
Padrino Brunelli said I blew my heart into the foal that day.
CHAPTER 8
Siena
JANUARY 1573
Dawn filtered slowly through the narrow streets of Siena. Giorgio hurried on foot, winding his way from Pispini Gate through Contrada del Nicchio, Contrada del Leocorno, and Contrada della Civetta to Contrada della Selva and the heart of the city. He had slept little, arriving home long after midnight. Yet before sunrise, he had ridden his horse to a stable just beyond the city walls, and now he strode along Banchi di Sotto to Via di Città, where the richest merchants and nobili lived. The cobblestones were swept clean each day, with the rubbish carted away by the municipality, the wandering dogs, and private trashmongers.
A washerwoman was stooped over with a yellow-stained cloth, soaking up the street puddles from the night chamber pots in front of Palazzo Lombardi. She twisted her cloth mercilessly, wringing out the urine into a bucket. Her sons threw the rest of the slops into a rickety donkey-drawn cart with splintered wood.
Despite the cold, flies buzzed lazily around the cargo.
“Buongiorno, Giorgio,” she said.
“Buongiorno.”
“I hear your father saved Duchessa d’Elci’s mare and foal last night. And a little shepherdess performed a miracle!”
Giorgio whistled in amazement. How quickly the news spread, servant to
servant and mouth to mouth within the walls of Siena.
He nodded, dodging a splash of urine from a chamber pot above.
“Ah, a good haul today!” laughed the washerwoman, seeing him jump.
“Arrivederci!” said Giorgio, dodging past the stinking barrel and trying to hurry, for he was late for his art lesson.
“The tanner pays extra if he knows my goods are from Via di Città!” called the washerwoman. “No better piss, not even from the de’ Medici chamber pots!”
“Certo,” laughed Giorgio. He stopped and winked at the laundress. A Senese is never in too much of a hurry to join in a joke. “De’ Medici piss? Their sheer meanness sets stains,” he whispered as loud as he dared.
Giorgio brushed his cloak vigorously, then swept his fingers through his hair. He swung his head left to right, looking for any trace of hay, straw, or barley husk that might provoke a jeer from the wealthier students, especially the Florentines. He took a deep breath and cast a glance at the horse-drawn carriages blocking the entrance of Palazzo d’Elci. Young men descended onto the gray pietra serena cobblestones of the Via di Città.
The noble class and merchant sons arrived on horseback or in carriages, servants toting their paints and easels, their soft soles scuffling behind the hard clicks of their masters’ heels.
The caped attendant at Palazzo d’Elci took the gleaming swords, daggers, and even the dining knives from around the necks of the art students as they filed into the ancient palazzo. The Duca d’Elci, patron of the Accademia d’Arte Senese, permitted maestro Antonio Lungo to use the great white marble hall overlooking the piazza for his art classes, but only under strict conditions. The duca believed in the cultivation of Siena’s new generation of artists, but he also recognized artists’ fiery nature. He required everyone to surrender their weapons before crossing the threshold into Palazzo d’Elci.
“Pace,” he said. “There shall be peace within the walls of my palazzo—only art shall thrive.”
Giorgio stamped his feet against the cold. Despite the woolen rags he had stuffed in his boots, the sepulchral cold of the marble floor permeated the thin leather soles. The brass braziers had not defeated the brutal chill of the great hall so early in the morning.
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