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.
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,” sai
d 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 th
e 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.
CHAPTER 62
Siena, Contrada del Drago
MIDNIGHT, AUGUST 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.
The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany Page 24
