Behold, the Palio!
Seven o'clock. Time spinning itself out. Time throwing its shadows up and up the tower. Excitement mounting with the shadows. The knights and nobles, having completed the turn of the track, seat themselves on the benches in front of the Palazzo. The rich colors of their costumes make a dazzling design, like jewels in a crown—rubies and emeralds, sapphires and amethysts.
With the other fantinos Giorgio guides his charger into the big courtyard of the Palazzo. He takes a quick look back. The track is empty now except for the flag twirlers of all the contradas. His eyes are glued to them. They look like gnomes playing with sheets of fire, flinging their furled staffs thirty feet into the air until each one bursts in a blaze of crackling color.
Before he has looked enough, the groom prods him along. "Come! Do you forget the race?"
Within the high-vaulted court all is disciplined order. Ten pages are leading the war chargers away. Ten grooms are tying their race horses to iron rings around the walls. Ten fantinos, with the help of their costume boys, are changing clothes—from suede buskins to rubber-soled shoes, from velvet tunics to cotton jackets, from plumed headgear to steel helmets. Giorgio runs his finger inside the rim of his helmet. Yes! It has been padded to fit. He sees that his hands are trembling. He wipes their dampness on a rag which the groom tosses him. He casts sidelong glances at the other fantinos. Ivan-the-Terrible glares at him, carrying on the feud from last year.
The starter picks up his megaphone, barks out rules and warnings: "Attenzione! It is permissible to ward off your enemy with the nerbo, but never grasp the bridle of an enemy horse. The eyes of the world are upon you. Represent well the spirit of Siena, and of your contrada. Be brave!"
Only a few minutes to go. The barbaresco of Onda carries out his final duties—checks the bridle of Gaudenzia, her cheek-strap, her chinstrap, her reins; last of all her spennacchiera ... is it anchored solidly in case her fantino should fall? He dips his hands in a basin of water and solemnly, as if he were performing a sacred rite, uses the flat of his hands to wet the mare's withers, her back, her barrel, her flanks.
"Giorgio—" His voice sounds winded, like a run-out dog. He tries again. "Giorgio, I have made her coat damp. It will help you stick on. Now, run the best race of your life." He unties her from the iron ring. "Here, she is yours. I have done all I can. Now rules Fate, the Queen of the Palio."
Giorgio takes the reins and studies the mare from pricked ears to tail. Her neck is frosted with foam, her nostrils distended, her eyes darkly intent. He does not answer the groom. He has just himself to answer. "No! No! Not Fate!"
Only a few seconds to go.
A squad of guards marches in, surrounds the starter to escort him to his box beneath the judges' scaffold. The man walks out slowly, his face showing worry; he knows full well that if he releases the starting rope an instant too late, ten horses may fall, and his own life be threatened by angry throngs.
The Chief-of-the-Town-Guards takes his post at the entrance of the Palazzo. In one hand he holds a white flag, in the other, ten nerbos. He looks out into the square, watches the starter mount his box, watches the ragno, the little spider-man, climb up to his cage, ready to touch off the gunpowder. He turns his head back to the courtyard. The horses and fantinos are ready.
Now! He lifts the white flag, waving it on high to alert the ragno. Bang! The air quivers as the bomb bursts in a deafening percussion. It is the signal for the fantinos to ride out. The roaring in the amphitheater stops as if cut off by a sharp knife. The silence is full of mystery, almost of pain. Then sixty thousand throats cry out:
"A cavallo! A cavallo! To horse! To horse!"
As each jockey in turn rides out, the Chief presents him with the nerbo. Instinctively, the horses who have been in a Palio before shy in fright.
Giorgio's breath catches in his throat. His right hand, still tingling from gripping the lance, now accepts the nerbo from the firm hands of the Chief. "Will I have to use it?" he asks himself.
Out from the maw of the courtyard the cavalcade moves forward toward the starting rope. Through his legs and thighs he can feel the mare's heart pounding against him. He hears the starter call out the horses in order. He prays for first position—or last.
"Number one, Lupa, the Wolf!" A thunder of applause goes up, boos and cheers mingling.
"Number two, the Tower!
"Aquila, the Eagle, number three!
"Tartuca, the Turtle, four!"
As they are called, the horses prance up, take their positions between the ropes. Eagle and Wolf are jumpy, move about, change positions. The starter sternly sends all four horses back, recalls them again one by one, then goes on:
"Number five, Drago, the Dragon!
"Number six, Civetta, the Owl!
"Montone, the Ram, seven!"
The whistles and the shouts are strong. "Up with Montone! Up with Montone! Up with Ivan!"
"Istrice, the Porcupine, eight!
"Giraffa, nine!"
The nine wait tensely for the final call. Giorgio tries to conceal his joy. He will be number ten! He knows the rules, revels in them. The number ten horse starts behind the others. With a rush she will come up to the rope and trigger the race.
The starter raises his megaphone. His voice shrills: "Number ten, Onda! Come on!"
Giorgio's heart beats with a wild gladness. Now it is! The time for action! He lifts Gaudenzia's head; she leaps forward. The rope drops at the split instant she touches it. It rolls free, coiling up on itself, almost onto her pasterns. As it falls to the track, ten horses are off like gunshot, Gaudenzia in the lead!
With Montone hot on her heels, she travels fast in spite of the sticky track. Landmarks spin by—the Fonte Gaia, the casino of the nobles, the palaces of Saracini and Sansedoni. Giorgio sucks in all the air his lungs can hold. Ahead lies the sharp right-angle turn of San Martino, the waiting ambulance in plain sight.
From bleachers, from balconies, from all over the Piazza Gaudenzia's enemies are shrieking for blood. In full stride she goes up the incline. A moment of terror! She stumbles, breaks gait. Ivan, for Montone, tries to crowd her into the posts. But Giorgio grasps her mane, squeezes his right leg into her flanks. Squeezes tighter. It works! She recovers; she's safe!
"Bravo.... Bravissimo!" The crowd is crazed with emotion.
Only the red jacket of Montone is anywhere near as Gaudenzia flies along the straightaway to the narrows of the Casato, and uphill for the strangles of that curve. Using her tail as a rudder, she veers around the curve, gallops down the stretch to pass the starter's box, still holding the lead.
The blood sings in Giorgio's ears. He clucks to Gaudenzia for the second lap, forgets he has a nerbo. The piston legs of Montone pound on relentlessly, press forward, gain on her at the fountain, gain going around San Martino. Almost to the Casato again, Giorgio tenses, deliberately cuts in front of Ivan. He has to, to get to the rail, to shorten the distance! This is battle! All in a split second Ivan's horse is forced to prop, to brake. In turn Lupa is blocked; she swerves, careens, hurtles to the ground, dragging the oncoming Giraffa and Tartuca with her. The track is a mad scramble of horses and riders! Gaudenzia for Onda is still streaking on.
"Forza! Forza!" the voices shriek. "Give it to us, Giorgio! Give us the Palio!"
And around for the third time she battles Montone, who is making one last desperate effort to catch up. But he is no match for Gaudenzia. Not weaving, not wobbling, moving at a terrific pace, she goes the whole lap. As she flashes by the flag of arrival, Giorgio wildly waves his nerbo in victory. He has not used it before!
With roars of triumph, the Onda victors spill out upon the track, hug their hero, lift him up, carry him on their shoulders. Angry losers close in, to pinch and pull and buffet him. A corps of howling, happy men of Onda try to force them back, but it is the Chief-of-the-Guards who succeeds. He makes himself a one-man shield and his voice bellows like a bull. "Lift him high! Higher!" he commands. "Before they murder him!" Then, eyes brimming in pride, he salutes Giorgio on both cheeks, and kisses his white mare full on the mouth.
The cart horse of Casalino has won the 536th running of the Palio.
