A clatter of horse hooves and the creak of wooden wheels rushed into the dark quiet of Via di Città.
The great door behind him opened again, the heat spilling over the threshold. He could hear di Torreforte speaking to his coachman in gruff tones.
“Push past the other coaches, then! I expect you to be right here in front when I descend. The street is dusty, the street cleaner shirks his duty. It sullies my clothes to walk so far from the entrance of the palazzo.”
Di Torreforte entered the dark foyer. His eyes momentarily blinded, he stood blinking in the transition.
Giorgio studied his features, committing them to memory.
“Who’s there?” said di Torreforte, reaching to the sheath where his dagger should be.
“Do not fear,” chuckled Giorgio. “I have no weapon either.”
“Ah, it is you,” said di Torreforte. He pushed past Giorgio and up the travertine steps.
Giorgio called up to him, his voice echoing up the stairwell.
“Did you enjoy the Palio in Monteroni d’Arbia?”
Other art students above them stopped on the stairs, even coming from the open hall of the art studio. Heads hung over the railing, ears cocked to hear. Word of Virginia Tacci’s victory and di Torreforte’s defeat had spread quickly.
Di Torreforte stopped at the landing in front of a marble bust. He let out a disgusted grunt.
“Yes, I saw your ragazza-fantino race, Brunelli, if that is your meaning. Disgusting display.”
“Ah,” said Giorgio, crossing his arms. “Then you saw how she was victorious. Impressive, wouldn’t you say? A girl astride a horse.”
Voices echoed above in the stairwell. A low, approving whistle from a Senese floated down. Di Torreforte jerked his head up, searching in vain for the culprit.
The stairwell filled with laughter.
“Not a true victory!” said di Torreforte. “A fluke, entirely. My fantino said his horse’s tendons were swollen at the start of the race. Otherwise he assures me he would have beaten her by ten strides. She did not know how to rate her horse, she took the corners with dangerous imprecision—”
“Is that so?” said Giorgio, taking a step closer to the staircase to meet di Torreforte’s eyes in the dim light. “Because it certainly looked as if your fantino struggled at the end of the race. As if he couldn’t fend off Virginia’s whip to his ugly face.”
Di Torreforte’s nose pinched down, his entire countenance narrowing like water through a funnel.
“Monteroni is meaningless. The Siena Palio is a different race. A filly might win on a level course like Monteroni, but never in the ascent from the Porta Romana to the Duomo. A filly—”
“Are you referring to the filly Caramella or to Virginia?” taunted Giorgio. “Both would beat any match.”
“Damn you, Brunelli, you pezzo di merda!” Piece of shit.
Giorgio basked in the echoing curse. He heard shrill whistles of appreciation echo down the stairwell.
“You listen to me, bastardo,” said di Torreforte. “If you care about that girl, you will keep her from riding next month in your foolish contradas’ Palio. There is a distinct possibility she might get hurt. Or worse.”
The young nobile pivoted and continued up the stairs toward the painting hall. The students hurried away from the banisters to the easels overlooking Il Campo.
Giorgio suddenly felt the air chill his bones, despite the heat of a Tuscan summer.
Di Torreforte was not blind. He had seen Virginia Tacci’s shining dark hair fly out from under her racing cap, the gleam of determination in her eye. Those dark eyes against her skin tanned by the Tuscan sun had not escaped his notice.
But he did not see her as a beautiful girl.
She was the essence of Siena, descended from ancient bloodlines that were Roman, perhaps even Etruscan. As he watched her ride, he recognized the strength of a people raised from time immemorial on the grapes and grains of the ocher soils, a ferocity of spirit that was unmatched.
He knew how the surging Senese pride had enraged the granduca.
Di Torreforte would use that rage to his advantage.
Granduca Francesco was a distant relative—the di Torrefortes had married into the de’ Medici family during Lorenzo the Magnificent’s reign. Di Torreforte’s grandfather had distinguished himself, battling the Turks as a naval commander. He was richly rewarded with tracts of land in southern Tuscany as a result of his faithful service to Cosimo.
Di Torreforte’s father had done nothing to burnish the family’s military honor, but he had done quite well in Senese banking when the de’ Medici had seized Monte dei Paschi, Siena’s ancient financial institution.
His father’s financial triumph had enabled young di Torreforte to pursue painting. He would eventually inherit his father’s money and lands, so there was no need to seek his own fortunes.
It pleased him greatly to paint, to dine in Florence with art collectors and hold forth, discussing art. He sold canvases to Florentine merchants who wished to curry his family’s favor. He loved their flattery and their shiny florins for his artwork.
But one person—another artist—soured his joyful pursuit: that damned Senese horse trainer whose talent far outshone di Torreforte’s efforts.
And that was where Virginia Tacci entered his plans.
Di Torreforte had seen the gleam of pride in Giorgio Brunelli’s eyes when he watched Virginia Tacci ride. He had never seen Giorgio as proud of his art as he was of the Senese girl.
The key to Giorgio’s soul was this shepherdess. To destroy her would destroy his rival.
CHAPTER 57
Siena, Crete Hills
JUNE 1581
After the Palio at Monteroni d’Arbia, I felt I could fly. News of my victory reached Siena and Vignano before I did.
Riccardo De’ Luca accompanied us, never speaking to me but riding alongside as if he were a servant. When I turned to speak to Giorgio, I caught Riccardo’s eyes glowing.
“Did you want to say something?” I asked him.
“No. Sì—” he said. His flesh took on the color of a toad’s belly. His blue eyes blinked at me.
“Sì? What is it, Signor De’ Luca?”
“I want—I want you to call me Riccardo,” he said. His lips were rigid, as if a fish were talking to me.
“Va bene. Riccardo,” I said, finding the sound pleasant in my mouth.
“You—Virginia. You rode very well. My father was pleased. Caramella does well under you.”
He turned from white to red in a blink of an eye, and looked away toward Siena in the distance.
Giorgio shrugged, looking disgusted with his companion. He gestured toward the city on the high hills.
“Nearly home.”
“She is bella,” I said. The Duomo tower and the Torre del Mangia were visible, rising before us.
“Bella,” croaked Riccardo. “Bellissima!”
“But I love the Crete just as much,” I confided, looking at the fields of grain that had turned golden in the last few weeks. The undulations of gold and green comforted me.
My padrino was strangely silent during our ride. I considered this to be a sign of his advancing age, for it had been a long few days.
I was between sets of horses the next day when my padrino took me aside.
“Virginia, I want to talk to you,” he said. Because he did not call me ciccia, I suspected something.
“Did I not ride the new colt well today?”
“It is not that. It is about Monteroni d’Arbia.”
I relaxed, beaming at him. I could never get enough of praise.
“Sì?”
“You made a terrific error in the race.”
My smile fell.
“I won, Padrino! I won!”
“That is not enough. You were lucky,” he said. “You let your temper control you, and your horse was left abandoned.”
“What do you mean? When I whipped the jockey on the course?”
“Not
that. That was good, in fact. Brava! I’m referring to the start, at the mossa. You were more interested in emotions around you than in communicating a sense of calm to your horse. She felt it. When the rope dropped, she left you because she felt only a senseless weight on her back, like a sack of barley. You are lucky you had the strength to pull yourself up and stay mounted.
“That was a serious error in judgment, not worthy of a Palio fantino.”
Ugly words flooded my head, puckered my lips. I loved my padrino more than anyone else in the world.
“But—”
“No! Listen to me, Virginia Tacci. You listen to me, because what I say could be the determining point of the Palio. Before the race, there is only one thing to focus on: keeping calm. Your horse. And yourself.”
“But I must maneuver at the rope, find the right position.”
“That is second. First, you communicate with your horse—your legs, your seat, your hands—but most of all, your head, la testa. La testa is the most important part of a Palio for both the horse and the rider. If you keep a cool head, you will allow your horse to conserve his strength for the race.”
I listened. I listened as if I were back again in those first years of riding. That was what Giorgio always taught me. Then I thought again, for a moment, about la testa. My Padrino was using that word to refer to my head, my mind, that I had to think for both myself and the horse. But every time I thought about the Palio and la testa, I thought about the other meaning of that same word: the head of the race, the rider in the lead.
Yes, Padrino, I will be la testa—and I will be in la testa, too. I will be in the lead. I will win the Palio!
My padrino laid a hand on my shoulder. “Be the rider the horse can trust. Then the two will become one.”
“Yes, Padrino,” I said, my eyes lowered. “Forgive me. Until the rope dropped and the race started, I was no rider.”
I felt his strong arm around my back in a hug.
“Yes, remember this,” he said, pulling me close. He kissed the top of my head. “Then we will see a winner at the Palio.”
Riccardo could no longer sleep at night. He wandered the streets of Siena.
The de’ Medici guards nodded to him—at first suspiciously, but after several weeks of following him down Banchi di Sopra or Via Termini or Via Terme, they learned his routes and, more important, his destination.
Riccardo would ultimately make his way to the Piazza del Campo and stand gazing silently at the Torre del Mangia in the moonlight.
Lovesick, they said. Riccardo De’ Luca has the mal d’amore.
The night watchmen in Contrada del Drago would give a two-tone whistle to let the Contrada della Civetta guards further down the street know that Riccardo was approaching.
No danger, advised the whistle. Only the nightly visitor.
Riccardo leaned against the cool stone arch of Vicolo San Pietro that led into the piazza. He watched the moon ascend to the left of the Torre del Mangia.
Virginia.
Has there ever been a more beautiful girl?
Yes, she is young. Fourteen, perhaps. But not too young to ensnare my heart.
Her grace on a horse, her determined face. The iron of a shepherdess raised in the Crete, hard as flint. The essence of Siena.
And the gap between her two front teeth. Enchanting.
He had noticed more and more young men—and older signori—had made the journey from the city to watch Virginia ride. Indeed, Riccardo did not know it, but even the elderly Florentine governor, Federigo Barbolani De’ Conti di Montauto, had fallen a little in love with the girl. He had written letters to his friends in Florence, even to the granduca, praising her virtues of both beauty and horsemanship.
But as he stood at night, under the sparkling stars forming a dome over the piazza, Riccardo did not think of other suitors for the young Virginia. It was he, and he alone, who was her love, even if he found himself tongue-tied for the first time in his life when he watched her ride.
He stood babbling as she dismounted one colt and swung up like a boy from the wilds of Maremma onto the next.
She barely nodded to him; her focus was always on the horse. She ignored the growing throngs of spectators, the cheering, the popping of corks as her admirers toasted her skills. Peasants watched the shepherdess fling herself up on the backs of wild colts. Old men picked their teeth with their fingernails as they gaped in astonishment.
“Guarda! La villanella . . . guarda!”
Look at the villanella, look!
When Virginia galloped her horse out into the fields and hills surrounding Vignano, Riccardo felt as if she carried off his soul as hostage.
“Thinking of a ragazza?” asked a guard as Riccardo blinked up at the stars.
Riccardo pulled out abruptly from his reverie, straightened his posture. He composed himself, his face regaining a semblance of dignity.
But the Florentine guard only chuckled and clapped his hand on the younger man’s back. At first De’ Luca resisted, hating the touch of a Florentine. But the warmth of the gesture was genuine.
“You were far away, signore. Surely you are in love.”
Riccardo shrugged.
“How do you know?”
“It is obvious,” whispered the guard. “I have been in love quite a few times in my life.”
“I shall never be in love again as I am now. There is no other girl—”
“Ah, but that is what we all say. No one like this one.”
“No, you do not understand. Truly, there is no girl like this one. Davvero!”
“Arrivederci,” said the guard, moving on. “Do not drink up too much of the moonlight, or it will make you pazzo.”
CHAPTER 58
Florence, Pitti Palace
JUNE 1581
“Will we attend Siena’s Palio?” Bianca’s brocade dress rustled as she sashayed this way and that, admiring her velvet slippers, a gift from the Venetian Court. “I must have new dresses for my appearance on the balcony of the Palazzo Pubblico. I cannot let the Senesi see me in anything less than splendor—”
“What do you know of Siena’s Palio?” asked the granduca. He stroked her arm as if trying to erase her thoughts. “Why would you want to travel the dusty roads when you have Boboli Gardens and our country estates?
“It will be a grand festival,” she said. “Or so say our courtiers who bring news from Siena.” She smoothed his fingers under her own.
He dropped her hand, frowning.
He is in a foul mood. No matter.
Bianca’s white hand reached for a ripe fig on a blue ceramic fruit tray. As she bit into the fruit, the folds of her double chin trembled.
“I am told the contradas will race against each other as if they were nobili houses. And there is a twelve-year-old villanella riding! Delicious! This is a spectacle I must see, Francesco. Imagine, a little girl—”
“Who told you this?” he snapped.
Bianca pulled in a breath. She knew how to handle Francesco de’ Medici. Had she not managed to marry him secretly only months after Giovanna’s death?
“I heard it from Governor di Montauto at dinner last night. He praises this girl as if she were a goddess. He says she is given the most difficult colts and, despite their rearing and bucking, clings to their back—”
“Like a trick monkey!” said Francesco. “And she is fourteen, not twelve.”
Bianca swallowed the last juicy mouthful of fig. Basta! I am the Granduchessa of Tuscany now. I will not endure rudeness! She cocked her head at her husband.
“Francesco, why does this girl disturb you? I should think it is entertaining to see the best horsemen of Tuscany look like fools—racing against a shepherdess.”
“Because that shepherdess is a Senese!” said Francesco. “You do not understand the Senese, or you would not be so flippant! They will make her into some kind of symbol of rebellion.”
Bianca laughed, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin.
“Oh, really, Frances
co! She is not going to win the Palio. She is simply a delightful diversion. And I should like to see a girl race the streets of Siena in her skirts. Please?”
Francesco glared at the granduchessa as if she were mad.
“You do not understand politics, Bianca. This is not for your amusement. You cannot understand the significance of this for Siena and Florence.”
“Oh, really, Francesco—”
He snatched her linen napkin and threw it to the floor.
“And stop devouring everything in sight!”
CHAPTER 59
Siena, Pugna Hills
JUNE 1581
My zio Giovanni came as often as he could to watch me ride. He especially liked to watch the training of Orione. But I noticed his fits of coughing as he bent low over his knees in spasms.
At first I thought it was the dust that kicked up from the tufa in the arena. But then I saw that no one else was coughing, no one else bending over to spit, leaning against the post like an old man.
I rode up into the hills where we kept our flocks to visit him. I never went by our cottage, for I had vowed never to see Zia Claudia again as long as I lived.
Zio Giovanni and I developed a stronger bond than we ever had when I was a baby or young girl. I was nearly fourteen now, and though still considered a ragazza, I knew that other girls my age in the village had already married and were young mothers.
“Virginia!” cried my uncle. He was using his staff more and more to support his weight. “What beauty do you ride today?”
I was on a particularly skittish horse named Nero, who reared when I brought him closer to smell Zio’s hand.
I leaned forward to keep my seat. My skirt flew back, ballooning behind me. Nero heard the flap, rearing all the more.
“Tranquillo! Easy, boy. Easy, boy,” I called to him.
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