Duel Between Horse and Man
The hours of night flowed over Giorgio's sleeping room. He and his guards were trying to settle down, but each heart was groping alone in the dark, wondering which contrada would win tomorrow's Palio.
Giorgio knew that somewhere in remote and quiet places throughout the city the captains were meeting in secret, making their agreements, planning their strategy. Overnight the whole aspect of the Palio could change. And tomorrow, he thought with a surge of hope, Captain de Santi will come to me and say: "We of Nicchio generally live in a state of neutrality. But last night we formed an alliance with Giraffa. Therefore, your precise order in today's joust is to hinder the others and help our ally to win. Since they have drawn Gaudenzia, you are fortunate, thus, to fight for your mare. No?"
Or, better still, the Captain might say: "Vittorino! In the dark watches of the night we changed our tactics. Our Rosella, it appears, could finish maybe second or third, but not first. Therefore, we release you to ride Gaudenzia for Giraffa, and we will engage a new fantino."
In Giorgio's mind the Captain's speech grew long and lofty. "You see, son," (he could even hear the tone of voice) "Giraffa has in the past done us favors. We therefore hold in high esteem their sacred friendship. It will be a beautiful sacrifice we make."
Hugging these hopes to him, he slept away what was left of the night.
August 16, 1954. The day is new. Sky murky. Sun trying to tear the clouds apart. Church bells tolling. Giorgio cannot run away now; does not want to run away. There is still the hope. He prays with the other fantinos, feels with them the pressure and the tension mounting. He rides in the Provaccia, the last rehearsal. Bodily he is on Rosella; heart and soul he rides Gaudenzia. Last night's hopes will come true; must come true! Perhaps at the last moment in the Hall of the Magistrate it will happen. Captain de Santi will lean over and whisper into his ear. He can do it easily. The hall is vast; two people can feel alone.
But when the time came, there was no whispering; only the bold pronouncement that Giorgio Terni, known as Vittorino, was official fantino for Nicchio.
At half past two in the afternoon the embers of his hope flickered again as the Captain strode into Giorgio's room.
"Vittorino!" the name slow-spoken as in the dream, and the syllables far apart, like drops of rain when the storm begins.
Now it comes. Now he will say: "You, Vittorino, must give help to Gaudenzia. The others you will block. With the nerbo you will fight them fiercely, hinder them." The boy holds his breath. He takes a step closer. He does not want even the guards to overhear. He cants his head like a dog, begging, awaiting directions ... listening ... eyes beseeching.
The Captain clips out his orders, wanting the guards to hear: "Break first from the rope! The hot bludgeons of the nerbo we wish you both to escape."
There is still the hope; it is not yet dead.
"And during the last meters of the race"—the voice is grim—"you will nerbo every opponent who threatens our victory. Every opponent who threatens...."
A wild sickness churns in the boy. He wants to escape and run and run and run, but where to go? Fate has trapped him. Fate, the Queen of the Palio.
Minutes and seconds wear themselves out. Numbly he puts on the long stockings, the high buskins, the deep blue doublet with the emblem of the white shell, the burnished sleeves of mail, the heavy helmet of mail with the chinstrap too tight. He thinks wistfully of the rabbit's fur he had once wrapped around Gaudenzia's chinstrap. How long ago that seems!
He is ready. He goes to the church of Nicchio with Rosella. He hears the priest invoke God's protection for horse and rider, hears the people shout: "Go, Rosella! Come back victorious!"
Then, mounted on his parade horse, he receives the general blessing of the Archbishop, his mind dazedly repeating the Captain's orders. He makes his way to Il Campo, awaits his turn to enter. The bell in the tower begins its tolling. His company moves forward. He enters the square, sees again the many-headed multitude in the shallow basin of the Piazza. He thinks: "So solid are they packed one could walk across their heads without having to leap."
His mind and body are far apart. No longer does he want to be a Sienese. He is an intruder, belonging neither to the present nor to the past, but suspended in time. Staring hopelessly, he watches the figures of the pageant move around the Piazza like wooden people on wooden horses on a merry-go-round. He sees the mare Gaudenzia, proud-headed. She is the only white one, the only Arabian. He feels a moment of pride.
Then the flags cut her off from sight and the numbness clutches him again, and the merry-go-round figures go on and on until his head dizzies with looking. At sight of the four great oxen pulling the gilded battle car, he sighs in welcome relief. The merry-go-round is at last coming to a stop.
The sun, too, is completing its orbit, shedding a soft light over Il Campo. The multitude waits. Inside the courtyard Giorgio wants an end to things. It seems a hundred hours, a hundred days, a hundred years since the fateful orders were imposed. All right, then, let's go. Change costumes! Put on the little jacket, the coarse pants. Eye your opponents. Swing up, bareback. Take the hard nerbo in your hard hand. Line up! Remember, it's war! Contrada against contrada! Not rider, not mount, not flesh and blood, but symbols.... Eagle against Owl, Dragon against Panther, Snail against Wave, Giraffe against me.
All right, then. Touch off the gunpowder! Let the flame belch! Let the deafening percussion jar the ancient stones loose. Let the starter spring the rope.
It is happening! Now!
Ten horses bursting into life, breaking from the ropes. Together! Ten horses like a sudden blast of wind. But look! The swirling gust is breaking apart, three horses striking through—two browns, one white. The browns are the Snail and the Wave, the white is Gaudenzia. Under a hail of blows the three in the lead round the easy curve beyond the Fonte Gaia, begin their drive to the death-jaws of San Martino.
Sixty thousand throats shriek in horror. The Snail and the Wave are heading crazedly for a crash. They collide! Two fantinos are spewed into the air, go rolling ahead like tumbleweeds. Gaudenzia's rider pulls her back, swerves her sharp around the bodies. She's in first place!
Coming up from behind, Giorgio snakes Rosella between the riderless horses, takes the curve, catches Gaudenzia on the straightaway, passes her.
Did her nostrils pull in his scent as he went by? Did her ears pull in his voice? If not, why is she jibbing her head; why is she weaving at the lesser curve of the Casato? Tiring? She can't be! Not on the first round with the whole width of the curve to herself.
For endless seconds she is unpredictable. Then she rears up, savagely rakes the air, deliberately tosses her fantino! She's free! With a wild spurt she tries to catch Giorgio. The duel between horse and man is on!
"Attento! Attento!" Nicchio fans are screaming in frenzy, imploring Giorgio: "Give it to us! Give us the Palio!"
But who knows the mind of a horse? Is some inner urge compelling Gaudenzia to spend all of her fleetness and blood? Is the thunder and ecstasy of the crowd like fierce music in her ears? Who can know?
For the entire second round she battles Giorgio for the lead, catching him on the straightaways, thundering alongside him, only to drop back when he blocks her at the curves.
"Forza, Gaudenzia! Forza!" Strangers and Sienese alike are yelling for Gaudenzia.
Only the Nicchio fans are her enemies. "Knock off her spennacchiera!" they cry to Giorgio. "Knock it off!"
Fifty meters to go! She is holding her own, pounding on, eye to eye with Rosella.
In sickening guilt Giorgio remembers his orders ... lifts his nerbo, aims at her spennacchiera. He misses! He feels the thud of his blow against her neck. She falls back a moment, but immediately comes up again. Desperately aiming higher, he strikes once more. The nerbo draws a line of blood close to her ear, but the spennacchiera holds fast. Again she falls back, and again she comes up, her strength intensified.
Doubled over, wincing, the boy strikes again, and then again, and sees the bloody trail grow. Tears spill down his cheeks. "Only a few meters left!" he cries inside. "Only one blow more." And before the screaming, cursing multitude he deals it.
Bleeding and bewildered, Gaudenzia tries to pass on the outside, but Giorgio blocks her. The flag of arrival is just ahead. He lifts his nerbo, this time in the sign of victory, but to the gasps of the multitude she cuts around behind him, knifes her body between Rosella and the fence, thrusts her nose under his upraised arm—to win! By the length of her red-scarred head she wins.
It is over. The duel is done. Giorgio falls sobbing into the waiting arms of the Chief-of-the-Guards. The big man is sobbing, too. "Don't cry, Giorgio. Don't look like that. You had to do it. You just had to!"
