The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 63

  Siena, Contrada del Drago

  AUGUST 1581

  Orione was led to the Drago stall behind a chanting crowd. The stallion, having been confined to a stable in recent weeks, was unaccustomed to the city and to the shouting people who surrounded him.

  Orione reared and snorted, nearly pulling the rider who led him from his horse.

  “Get back, Drago!” he shouted, spurring his gelding around to face the stallion. He yanked hard on the lead.

  The rider behind him flicked a whip at the stallion.

  “Get up there, devil,” he said. His horse pranced and spun around, spooked by the whip.

  They had galloped the streets, despite the hard cobblestone, to keep the stallion moving. From the Piazza del Duomo to the heart of Drago was only a matter of minutes—descending the hill, crossing in front of the blessed home of Santa Caterina, and climbing up through the little streets near San Domenico.

  Drago banners waved, their green, red, and yellow the most intense colors of any contrada. The cheering roused the rest of Siena, robbing them of the few hours’ sleep before Palio day.

  Orione jumped sideways at each wave of a flag, each shout of a Drago contradaiolo.

  “The girl is sure to break her neck riding this stallion!” said the lead rider.

  The grooms ran out to Via della Sapienza to take Orione.

  “Get him into the stall,” said di Montauto’s groom. “He is going to kill himself or a Senese in the street.”

  “No!”

  Virginia Tacci raced out.

  “He must learn the Palio course. We have only a few hours.”

  Orione roared, smelling her. She held Stella’s collo di cavallo in her hand. Instead of the rosettes of Oca, the browband and cheekstraps were woven with the green, red, and yellow of Drago.

  She gave a pulsing whistle. Orione pricked his ears and gave a violent jerk of his head, breaking free of the handler. He trotted to Virginia, whinnying.

  “I will take him now,” she said.

  The stallion tossed his massive head. He lowered his muzzle into her arms, sheltering his eyes from the riotous scene.

  “Orione,” she murmured, pressing her lips against his blaze.

  The crowd quieted. Di Montauto’s men withdrew their horses, looking over their shoulder at the girl and the horse.

  “You have a lot to learn in the
next few hours,” she said. “You will run the Palio, as we have always dreamed.”

  Brunelli limped over to her. He pulled her close. For the moment, it was just the three of them: the man, the girl, and the stallion.

  “Do not ride him now, Virginia.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He cannot be accustomed to the streets of Siena in the few hours remaining. It is impossible.”

  “But, Padrino! He will balk at everything. The banners, the shouting crowds, the flag bearers, the children—”

  “It would take months to acquaint him with the kind of turmoil he will face today. Think of the training you have done with Caramella. You do not have that luxury of time.”

  “But—”

  “Listen, ciccia. There is only one way to ride him in the Palio. Ride him as wild and as free as his spirit. He was bred to run. Do not hold him back, let him burn bright.”

  He stared fiercely into Virginia’s eyes.

  “He will feel your urgency through your legs, your hands, your seat. Through your being, Virginia. Ah! Via di Sotto and Via di Città. Via dei Pelligrini and Via di Città. Madonna! Via del Capitano—”

  He stopped himself and closed his eyes. When he spoke again, he said, “Virginia. Urge him to run as fast as he can. Then he will see and feel nothing but you.”

  An old man with firewood strapped to his back entered the crowded street.

  The stallion reared high on his back legs at the sight, pulling the halter out of Virginia’s hands, scattering the contradaioli like pigeons in the piazza.

  Signor De’ Luca rushed over to Virginia and her padrino. “He will be a disaster on the Palio course. I cannot permit you to ride him, Virginia.”

  Her heart sank. But then Orione returned to her and nuzzled her again.

  “He will quiet down with me, you will see.”

  “And he was quiet just now—until that woodcutter walked by. How do you expect to control him in the pack? How will you control him in the streets, in the noise, the flags? How?”

  Virginia swallowed, stroking Orione’s muzzle.

  “Signore, I do not know how. But I will.”

  I put Stella’s collo di cavallo on Orione myself, after the Drago barbaresco fastened the spennacchiera on the halter.

  The barbaresco’s face was sour, his mouth drawn up in a crooked line. He tied the ends of a long leather band under Orione’s chin.

  “Stand, you gruesome devil,” he said, snapping the collo hard to test the knot. “The least we can do is give you reins.”

  “Leave him alone. What is wrong with you?” I said. “A barbaresco on the day of the Palio should rejoice, not wear an ugly face—”

  His hand sliced the air with a disgusted gesture.

  “Our first chance to race against the contradas of Siena,” he said. “And we throw it away on a girl. A girl and an untamed horse!”

  He spat on the stone floor. “Drago will be a laughingstock,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know nothing of a true Palio. There are dozens of others who have experience. You rob us of victory, you skinny little shepherdess!”

  I opened my mouth to curse him. The ugly words formed deep in my throat, bubbling to my lips like venom to be spat.

  “Figlio di troia maiale.”

  “Virginia!” shouted my padrino. “We must ride to the mossa now!”

  “Give him to me!” I said. “You are not fit to touch this horse.”

  I yanked the reins from the barbaresco. “Orione and I will make Drago proud, you mean bastard son of a whore!”

  The crowd surged forward as we descended Via di Pantaneto to Via Roma, then out through the Porta Romana. As we passed through the city walls, I looked up at the emblem of the de’ Medici palle above.

  I swallowed back spit and hatred. I cleared my head.

  La testa! La testa!

  The mossa was set in front of the ancient Santuccio church—one rope clear across the street at a horse’s chest level and one shorter rope behind, leaving the gap where the rincorsa would enter at a gallop, officially starting the race.

  Governor di Montauto had assigned a representative to draw the starting positions. The crowd was silent in anticipation of the drawing, although with the confusion of the mossa—horses and fantini fighting for space and control—the actual starting positions would be far from exact. Except for the rincorsa, who would stay clear of the struggle until he charged through the opening and started the race. The governor’s representative turned an iron and crystal vessel with a crank handle, withdrawing a little tube containing a name of a contrada.

  “L’Oca! Posizione UNO!”

  The Geese roared. Orione pranced under me. We watched as the fantino in green, white, and red took his position.

  “Leofante. Posizione due!”

  “Lupa. Posizione tre!”

  I watched Padrino wipe the sweat from his eyes. He exchanged a worried look with Giorgio.

  “Drago. Posizione quattro!”

  I heard the dragaioli groan. I was in the middle of the pack.

  If I were on the inside. Or even the outside. But squeezed between two horses—

  “Take your position, Virginia. Do not lose your head. Don’t worry too much about where you start. There is a long race ahead. Focus on your horse, you and Orione as one. Remember! La testa!”

  “Sì, Padrino,” I said, moving Orione past the attendant, who handed me my nerbo, my whip. I urged Orione forward through the opening and into the lineup at the front rope.

  “Onda. Posizione cinque.”

  “Montone. Posizione sei.”

  The contradaioli from Giraffa roared. Giraffa was left as the rincorsa, the rider who would control the start of the race.

  As the other horses jostled near us, Orione snorted, making short bolts under me as I tightened my legs and seat.

  “Stop it!” I said.

  The fantino from Onda said, “Get that horse under control.” He waved his nerbo at us.

  Orione reared, his nostrils flared. I wove my fingers deep into his mane with my legs clamped around him.

  He smells a mare in the pack.

  “Here!” said the Lupa fantino, moving his horse to make room. “Turn him toward me, villanella.”

  I dipped my head to acknowledge his kindness.

  I maneuvered Orione sideways, his head toward the Lupa gelding. His flank brushed the taut rope, and he balked.

  “It is all right,” said Lupa. “Keep him sideways. The rope is too much for him.”

  “Grazie,” I said. Orione skittered sideways. As I worked to control him, I saw an arched gate, framing the hills beyond Siena, a flash of green and brown—

  Testa, Virginia, testa!

  “Get that stallion out of my way!” shouted the Onda fantino. He smacked Orione’s flank, making him jump under me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a movement of Giraffa, the rincorsa, felt the subtle charge shuddering through all the horses.

  I swung Orione around and pressed him into the rope just as it dropped.

  We catapulted into a full gallop up the hill toward the Porta Romana. Onda was left behind in a moment.

  In the wild confusion of the charge, I narrowed my focus. For the moment, there was nothing but Orione and me. Flying. I pumped my hands with the movement of his neck. Then I raised my eyes to the Porta Romana. The first test would be the shadows of the thick city walls as we raced through the gate and into Siena.

  Santa Caterina!

  Orione did not falter. His heart told him he must lead the pack, and there were other horses in front. He could not allow that. We tore through the archway, through the darkness, into the light of the city.

  The uphill was to our advantage. The street curved to the left, giving me room to slip past Lupa. I glimpsed a flash of white marble on my right: the Refugio di Santa Chiara.

  Orione surged ahead, his strength forged from running the hills of Vignano. We passed Leofante.

  The green-and-white tuni
c of L’Oca’s fantino was just ahead on my right. We were nearing the gate through the original city walls from centuries ago. The street narrowed there, and L’Oca would have to crowd closer to me as we raced through the arches.

  I let Orione have his head, depending on my legs and seat to control him. No strategy now, just speed. The hill crested at the ancient gate, and once we plunged into the mottled shadows of the downhill stretch toward the church of San Giorgio, there would be no place to pass.

  I felt Orione under me. I was galloping too fast to talk to him. Everything was feeling, pressure, and touch. I did not see anything now except L’Oca close on my right and Giraffa and Montone on my left.

  We reached the crest, racing past the statue of the she-wolf and the two human children she suckled. I knew that statue. I saw it. I didn’t see it. I sensed it fly past, Orione still pounding below me.

  Tranquillo, Orione, tranquillo.

  And down we plunged. I tucked my seat under me, sitting down hard on Orione’s back and pulling the reins in short tugs, hoping he would recognize the movement.

  His stride shortened, but his pace did not. He hammered out a faster staccato. I could do nothing to control his speed.

  L’Oca had pulled ahead, his horse accustomed to the transition onto the downhill course. The road narrowed, barely allowing our pack to pass. Squeezed together with Giraffa and Montone, I fell behind, but we were still in the race.

  Now came more dark shadows and the Church of San Giorgio at the bottom of the hill. Just beyond that, the street narrowed sharply, and then the course would begin to climb again.

  “Attenzione!” shouted L’Oca.

  He swerved left to avoid the buildings jutting out onto the course ahead. Now Orione and I were trapped to his right on the outside, close to the buildings lining the edge of the street.

  Orione hated being behind. He was born to race, born to win. I felt him surge toward the opening L’Oca had left.

  The other riders knew I would have to give way to get through the narrow section. But Orione didn’t want to slow down, and I didn’t want to force him. For the last few strides before the narrows, there was a widening at the entrance to San Giorgio. If we did not get back into place, Orione and I would ride straight into the wall to our death.