The Florentine merchant Bernardo di Giovannbattista was imprisoned and beheaded. Isabella’s coach attendant was imprisoned, as was her gardener at Baroncelli. Even the votapozzo—the man who cleaned her cesspool—was whisked away. Gossips whispered that Isabella had delivered a baby conceived of Troilo’s seed. They said the baby was born dead, and the votapozzo had disposed of the tiny corpse—as he was now disposed of himself. Her surgeon, Maestro Paolo, was thrown in the dungeons, as was Signora Arditi, an occasional nanny to Isabella’s children.
In his fury to annihilate any trace of his sister, no one was safe. The granduca seized most of his sister’s possessions, selling them immediately.
Bianca Cappello fingered the pearl seeds embroidered into her camisole.
“That woman certainly had the finest seamstresses. This piece rivals anything I have in my own wardrobe. It is exquisite even by Venetian standards.”
The little maid blinked her eyes, holding back tears.
“The Principessa Isabella was meticulous about her clothes, my lady—”
“Oh, no! You mustn’t call her a principessa,” said Bianca. “Help me with my bodice, girl.”
The servant was grateful to stand behind her mistress, for a few tears had spilled from her eyes. She tightened the laces on Bianca’s bodice as her mistress chattered on.
“A damnatio memoriae is quite serious. You could be whipped for even referring to her, especially as a princess.”
“Sì, Madonna. I thank you for reminding me of my error,” the handmaiden said, closing her eyes tight. Her fingers trembled as she pulled on the laces of the bodice.
“Yes, well, I must remind all of my staff. I have heard her name uttered elsewhere. The granduca will not stand for it.”
Bianca moved to her looking glass, posing this way and that.
“Margherita, do I look too plump in this skirt? I think it does not flatter me at all.”
Margherita swallowed her tears. How she longed to stick a pin in the ever-englarging balloon that was Bianca Cappello.
“No, madam. I find the color enchanting. The gold brocade on peacock blue is quite stunning. It flatters your figure.”
Bianca glanced in the mirror to see her maid’s eyes. She knew she had fattened over the years. Her figure had become quite matronly, with a double chin that pouched downward, meeting her thickening neck.
“Your eyes,” said Bianca, picking up a painted fan that had been Isabella’s. She tapped her chin with it thoughtfully. “Your eyes appear quite red, Margherita.”
“Niente,” said the maid. Nothing. She picked up the comb to finish off her mistress’s coiffure. “Something in the air,” she said, blinking back a tear. “Lately, the climate has been torturing me.”
CHAPTER 52
Florence, Via de’ Pecori
APRIL 1578
The Viennese handmaiden lifted the Granduchessa Giovanna’s chin up toward the priest.
“I beg of you, Highness,” she said in German. “Open your mouth to take the holy sacrament.”
The granduchessa’s lips trembled as she opened her jaw just enough to accept the host. The priest gave the wafer a little shove, like a child launching a paper boat into the water.
Giovanna let the wafer dissolve on her tongue, accepting the blessing as the priest gave her last rites.
“But I cannot die now!” she said, her face crumpling in pain as another birth pang constricted her uterus. A gush of blood stained the sheets.
“I will bear a son, I know it!” she cried. “The granduca must have thought I would bear another daughter. He would never have wanted me to die—”
The Viennese maid tightened her lips in fury. She exchanged looks with the priest and the doctors gathered just beyond him.
“It was an accident, Serenissima. Lie back, good grandu-chessa. I will care for the baby myself. And you have already given Florence a young duca—your son Filippo.”
Giovanna had not the strength to stay upright without support. The maid lowered her back into the snowy white pillows. The doctors moved the priest out of the way to resume their position between the granduchessa’s legs.
“Filippo is so weak,” said the dying woman. “I must make sure . . . make certain! That . . . that the Venetian traitor never usurps my children’s right. A Habsburg-Medici shall rule Florence.”
“Rest, Giovanna. All is in God’s hands now,” said the maid, stroking her mistress’s long, thin forehead. The skin under her fingertips had turned clammy and as white as marble.
“You have been his faithful servant all the days of your life.”
While Giovanna de’ Medici, wife of Granduca Francesco, had not ever been comfortable or loved in the de’ Medici Court, her early death came as a great shock to the people of Florence. She was the sister of a Habsburg emperor and the aunt of Rudolf II, and Florence had taken great pride in their Habsburg princess.
“He pushed her down the stairs,” whispered the royal butcher to a palace kitchen maid, his current mistress. She lay exhausted on his bed. He leaned on his elbow, his head in his hand.
“Is that not the rumor in the Pitti Palace?” he said, teasing a strand of hair from her braid, loosened from lovemaking.
“The granduca?” she said, raising her head from the pillow. “No, not when the princess was about to deliver another male heir.”
“Dead, too, the baby boy. And Filippo, the other son, is such a weakling! He will never live to be an adult.”
“But it was not the granduca’s doing, these deaths. Why would he jeopardize the birth of a male heir?”
The butcher twisted the ends of his mustache. “That whore, Bianca Cappello. He did it for her, so the changeling Antonio could take the dukedom.”
“You are mad!” retorted the girl. She sat up in bed, kicking the twisted sheets from around her ankles. “No matter how much the granduca adores Donna Cappello, he would not murder his own blood.”
The butcher was not convinced, but he wanted to keep his pretty mistress in his bed that night. He did not pursue the point, even though the rumors ran rampant in the streets of Florence.
Granduca Francesco did himself no favors when he tipped his hat to Bianca Cappello as he passed her balcony in Giovanna’s funeral procession.
PART IV
The Heroine of Siena
ANNI 1579–1581
CHAPTER 53
Siena, Brunelli Stables, Vignano
JANUARY 1580
“Why does the presidente of Aquila ask you to join him, Papa?” asked Giorgio, saddling his father’s horse. “We belong to no contrada here in Vignano.”
“The meeting must have to do with horses,” said Brunelli. “Why else would they invite me?”
“Perhaps some new Florentine tax imposed on our horse trade,” said Giorgio, slipping the bridle’s throatlatch into the buckle.
“Son, I can tell you nothing. Only that the meeting is a secret.”
“Florence would not dare meddle with the Palio,” mused Giorgio. “Governor di Montauto—”
“Bah!” said Cesare Brunelli, adjusting his stirrup leather. “I did not raise my son to be a fool. The de’ Medici will meddle in any business they care to.” He tightened the girth with a quick grunt. “They don’t care about the Senese governor.”
He slapped down the iron stirrup on the leather, making a fierce crack. “Federigo Barbolani di Montauto may love Siena after living here all these years, but he will always be a Florentine and a servant of the de’ Medici. He has no choice.”
Giorgio cupped his hands to give his aging father a boost up into the saddle. Giorgio winced, noticing his father’s legs were like thin sticks rattling in his boots.
Simone Uccello, presidente of the Contrada dell’Aquila, had called the meeting with haste, hardly letting the scribe’s ink dry on parchment as he sent out the messages to the heads of the other sixteen contradas. Faithful Aquila messengers scurried through the streets, urgently imploring attendance the following morning.
Signor Uccello did not want the Florentine spies to hear of the contradas all meeting under one roof. His dream would be crushed if Francesco de’ Medici learned of it.
As the bell atop the Torre del Mangia struck nine, the presidenti of the contradas arrived by foot from all corners of the city, hurrying down the Casato di Sotto from the Piazza del Campo into Aquila’s narrow streets, festooned with hanging laundry, the snap of half-frozen clothes keeping the ever-present pigeons away. Glancing over their shoulders, the men slipped into the ancient Chiesa di San Pietro alle Scale.
The small brick church was modest and unremarkable with its single nave, but to the contradaioli, it was the beating heart of Aquila. The presidenti of the contradas removed their caps and genuflected before the Virgin, surrounded by candles of smoking tallow.
Brunelli entered the darkened church, the scent of incense prickling his nose. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dusky gloom. It had been years since he had set foot in a church.
He recognized the members of the seventeen contradas kneeling, heads inclined in prayer. There were no other worshippers in the church.
One by one, a priest gestured to the men. Each ended his prayers with a quick sign of the cross and followed the priest through a small door off the nave.
Finally, only Brunelli was left. The clergyman pressed his lips tight as he stood in front of the old horse witch. Unlike the others, Cesare Brunelli sat upright in the wooden pew, his arms folded stubbornly.
“Buongiorno, Cesare Brunelli,” whispered the priest.
“Buongiorno,” grunted Brunelli.
“I see I do not interrupt your prayers,” said the priest.
“I see you are not blind,” said Brunelli.
The priest tightened his lips, saying nothing.
“I do not pray, priest, because I was summoned to a meeting of the contradas, not an ecclesiastical affair,” snapped Brunelli. “You would do well to tend to God’s business, and keep your nose out of man’s.”
Cold air chilled Brunelli’s face as the priest led him to a winding passage and down the marble stairs to the crypt.
In the antechamber of the crypt, the men stood bundled against the cold. Arms folded tight around their cloaks, they hugged their bodies, stamping their feet.
“By God, how do the dead stand it?” said the presidente of Contrada del Nicchio. “You would think they would wake just to ask for a blanket.”
“Let us begin,” said Uccello of Aquila. “I will make my proposal brief.”
“Are we plotting a rebellion after all these years?” ventured the presidente of Torre, half-joking.
The expression on the faces of the contradaioli stiffened. Several shifted their weight, making their leather boots creak.
“A revolt of the spirit only,” said Signor Uccello. “To put it simply: we of the Contrada dell’Aquila will host a Palio.”
The men exchanged looks, astonished.
“We are Siena, heart and soul,” Signor Uccello continued. “We, the contradas, can show our unity, our independence, by racing one another. A race without the banners of d’Este, the de’ Medici, the Sforza, Piccolomini, and Pannocchieschi. Imagine our city without their banners obscuring the Senese. Only the fair flags of our contradas.”
Most of the men nodded.
“The nobili run their race on horseback through our city.” Uccello raised his voice in anger. “Then we have donkey races, and they laugh at our antics.”
“Signor Uccello is correct,” said Brunelli, leaning against a marble tomb. “I see the nobili from Cortona, Arezzo, and especially Florence heave belly laughs. They jeer at us on our donkeys, as we fight each other and drag the beasts across the finish line.”
“Davvero!” said Selva’s red-haired presidente, Signor Caretto. He scowled as he looked at his fellow Senese. “I hear them in the balconies above the piazza, drunk with our red wines. The terraces are raucous with insults and jeers. They love to see us pitted against each other, pummeling our neighbors’ faces. We are buffoons in their eyes.”
“Our young bucks enjoy it well enough,” argued the presidente of Pantera, Signor Manetti. “The youth yearn to fight in the piazza and prove their strength and bravery. It is in the Senese blood.”
“Bah,” said the presidente of Drago, Signor De’ Luca. “Pulling an ass across a finish line is not a noble fight.” His contrada was allied with Aquila, and he had a personal dislike for Manetti. “As long as the nobili can laugh at us, they regard us as unworthy rivals. But the glory of a horse race among contradas. That would unite us and celebrate the glory of Siena!”
“Yes! Signor De’ Luca is exactly right.” Signor Uccello pressed the point. “This is what I suggest: on the 15th of August, Day of the Assumption, Aquila, with the help of the other contradas, will stage a Palio on a course from Porta Romana at Santuccio, up Via di Pantera, and over Via di Città and Via del Capitano to the Duomo.”
Several contrada presidenti nodded.
“And,” continued Uccello, “this shall be exclusively for contradas, with no participation from nobili whatsoever unless they join us as equals, as contradaioli. Each contrada competes against the others, mortaring together the bond of brotherhood of Siena.”
“But what of horses?” said the man from Leocorno. “Our contrada does not have the lire to buy fine thoroughbreds as do the nobili families. We cannot afford such a luxury.”
“We will race what we have, what we can afford. This is about our hearts—not our horses.”
More heads nodded.
“The granduca will never permit it,” said Signor Manetti, a sour set to his jaw.
“On the contrary. I have spoken to our ally in these matters—”
“If you are referring to Governor di Montauto, he is a puppet of the de’ Medici,” snapped Manetti. “One grumble from Granduca Francesco, and di Montauto will run with his tail between his legs.”
“Manetti is right. I know of your friendship with di Montauto, but you can never trust a Florentine,” said Cesare Brunelli.
“On the contrary, the governor has offered to present the proposition to the granduca next month, if the contradas are willing,” said Uccello. “I believe he is a true Drago contradaiolo.”
Several men grudgingly nodded their heads. The Medici-appointed governor loved his contrada.
“The Contrada dell’Aquila will request permission from the Balia,” said Ucello, referring to the city’s autonomous governing council set up under Cosimo. “If the Balia approves our request—and why should they not, they are contradaioli of Siena—the Palio will have legal sanction.
“Then the governor will invite the granduca to attend as our honored guest.” Uccello allowed himself a sly smile. “It would be politically uncomfortable for him to turn down an invitation from the City of Siena to such a celebrated event.”
“You have thought this out quite carefully,” said the Civetta representative, Signor Nonne. He blinked his bulging eyes, looking very much like the owl for which his contrada was named. “All Europe eyes Tuscany, yearning for an excuse to attack. Francesco cannot afford even the slightest misstep. If he refuses an invitation to be our honored guest, he will look petty and fearful. If he overturns the Balia ruling that allows an event of civic pride, he will show his doubts in his own power as ruler of Tuscany.”
Nonne’s sly smile mirrored Uccello’s.
The men grunted their assent, knowing how all Europe despised the de’ Medici granduca, especially after the murders of the two de’ Medici princesses.
“The Day of the Assumption is dedicated to our city’s saint and protector, the most Holy Mary. The contradas’ Palio will be a sign of our pride in Siena,” said Signor De’ Luca. He didn’t add “and our glorious republic”—nor did he need to.
He clapped his hands together. The sound echoed in the cold air of the stony vault like a clap of thunder.
“Drago will join our brothers of Aquila in the first true Senese Palio.”
“What say y
ou then, men of the contradas?” asked Signor Uccello. “Will you of Siena accept Aquila’s invitation of a contrada Palio on the Day of the Assumption? A Palio for the contradas, and only the contradas?”
The chorus of “Sì!” filled the crypt, ringing in the ears of the frozen dead.
CHAPTER 54
Siena, Brunelli Stables, Vignano
APRIL 1581
“You must learn to ride the Palio by racing one,” said Brunelli. “It is one thing to control a horse in an open field. It is quite another in narrow streets with screaming mobs, neck and neck with other horses and fantinos. We will take you to race in the small-town Palio.”
I said nothing, excited at the thought. A Palio!
“I have made arrangements for you to race Signor De’ Luca’s Caramella at Monteroni d’Arbia,” said my padrino.
“Monteroni?” My zio had taken me to their market to sell our wool.
“It hosts a Palio,” he said. “And you can get the feel of the tight corners, compete against other racers, learn to maneuver—”
“I am going to race De’ Luca’s horse? Really?”
“He wants the horse trained for the Palio. I think she is too young to race, but Caramella is his property, not mine. And at least you will be only a feather on her back.”
I threw my arms around my padrino’s neck.
“You trust me? Signor De’ Luca trusts me?”
“I think his son might have some influence,” said my padrino, clearing his throat. He looked down at me solemnly.
“The blue-eyed one? Giorgio’s friend?” I said, running my thumbnail between the gap in my teeth.
My godfather smiled. “Ah, you have noticed his eyes, have you?”
“Per favore! He doesn’t even know I am alive,” I said.
The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany Page 20
