Half-bred
Tuesday, June 29. Morning. The whole city seething in warlike impatience. Il Campo in battle array. Everything ready for the trial of the horses. The stout railing around the shell to keep the people from spilling onto cobblestones. The mattresses, upright, lining the treacherous curves. The tiers of seats rising in front of the palaces and shops. The high platforms for the judges and dignitaries. The bomb cage on stilts, looking like an oversized parrot cage, ready for the charge of gunpowder.
And people converging from all directions, talking excitedly with their hands, their voices. Which horses will be chosen to run? Surely not the old one who has twelve years! Surely not the little one with the ewe neck? Surely not Gaudenzia with the hot blood in her veins?
The lone hand on the clock of the Mangia Tower points to nine. Within the courtyard of the Palazzo Pubblico seventeen horses and riders are ready. Giorgio is ready. He has done everything the Chief asked. And more. He has plastered sculptor's clay on Gaudenzia's legs to make them look coarse, like those of any cold-blooded hack. But there is nothing he can do to coarsen her fine, intelligent head.
Out in the shell, a little insect of a man, known as the Spider, climbs his ladder, touches a match to the gunpowder in the cage, and with a thundering bang the trials have begun! Four horses prance out of the palace courtyard. At the starter's signal they take off, leaping over the rope before it touches the earth. At the very first curve one horse falls, skids across the track like a slab of ice. The crowd screams as the horse scrambles to his feet. He will be rejected. It is Fate.
Another group is called. No falls this time, but the horses are not evenly matched. They straggle along like knots on a string.
And still another group, while Gaudenzia waits. She listens to the hoofbeats. Flecks of foam come out on her body. Her whole being asks: Why are we not out there with the others? She whinnies out after them. Giorgio lays quieting hands on her, soothes them along her neck and withers. He is glad her mantle is gray so the sudsy foam does not show.
At last she is called with the remaining five. Her long-reaching legs are ready. Her heart and lungs are ready. Giorgio mounts. His heart tightens in sudden doubt. Is speed her only virtue? Has she learned obedience? He wets his parched lips, prays fiercely. "O Holy One, let her be in the middle! Don't let her run away and set the pace. Let her just be middling!"
The starter steps on the lever. The rope, set free, snakes crazily to earth. Five horses leap over it. They're away! Evenly! Past the scaffold of the judges, past the Fonte Gaia. One horse tries to wing out at the incoming street of San Pietro, but the others are moving in a bunch. "Oh, Mamma mia! Don't let her win! Don't let her!"
She is third at the curve of San Martino, and third at the Casato. Suddenly she asks to arrow out in front, but she feels the bit pulling up into her mouth, exerting more and more pressure on her tongue. She slows. She lets Giorgio hold her. She obeys!
Out of the first realization, like the first glint of sunlight from behind a cloud, Giorgio feels an unutterable joy. Twice around, and three times around, she lets him hold her! In third place she finishes, all her fire inheld. The trials are over!
While the judges pondered and debated their decisions, Giorgio rode into the cool courtyard of the Palazzo. Here were only the sweating horses and the men, all of them bound together in the misery of waiting.
The Chief-of-the-Guards, immaculate in his starched white uniform, looked in and strode over to Giorgio. There was a smile of incredulity on his face.
"I salute you!" he said. "Gaudenzia's disguise was bellissima! When first I saw her at the starting rope, it seemed I dreamt with open eyes. Even a sculptor, I think, could not have done a better work on living skin."
He made no effort to hide his happiness, for already he knew the results of the trials. Already a deputy was fastening a disc numbered 10 to Gaudenzia's cheek strap to show that she had been chosen.
The Chief led Giorgio and the mare out into the Piazza, into a corral where the ten horses would be on display as at an auction. The big difference was that here a horse could not be bought; not for any price. It was assigned to a contrada as irrevocably as a child is born to certain parents. Here all was luck. A minuscule slip of paper in a tiny capsule would tell which contrada would win the best horse.
Suspense was growing intolerable. There was wild shouting for the favorites. Voices came piercing and crashing around Giorgio.
"We want Ravu!"
"We want Uganda!"
"We want Rosetta!"
An official groom shoved Giorgio to one side, took hold of Gaudenzia. There was now no need for Giorgio. And then, in a flash, he realized there was no need for him anywhere! The awfulness struck him. For nine months he had been blindly running up a dead-end street. Feeling sick and bereft, he went back into the empty courtyard. He picked up Gaudenzia's rub rag, hung it on a peg. He made meaningless motions of tidying up. But even here, away from the crowd, he saw the whole scene in his mind—the Mayor and the captains at the long table, the urns containing the capsules, the pages and trumpeters waiting. And then, as in a storm, when thunder rumbles and ricochets from rock to rock, the voices came booming against the Palazzo wall and into the very courtyard:
"Number seven, Ravu, to the Ram!"
He could hear the Rams roaring with joy for the favorite.
"Number nine, Pinocchio, to the Giraffe!"
Men and boys howled in derision, "Long Neck gets Long Nose! Long Neck gets Long Nose."
The roaring was uncontrolled; it subsided only while the capsules were being opened.
"Number one to the Wolf!"
"Number five to the Dragon!"
"Number two to the Tower!"
"Number ten to Onda, the Wave!"
Giorgio shot out of the courtyard, but the way to the corral was blocked. By the time he could wriggle through, the drawing was over! And, suddenly, there was trumpet music, and drums beating wild, and the barbaresco of the Onda was leading Gaudenzia to their stable. In an agony of emptiness Giorgio melted into the throng, went tagging along like some outsider. With no halter or bridle to hold, his hands felt awkward, useless. A piece of his heart was going away with Gaudenzia.
Should he catch up with the barbaresco and tell him about the crib-biting? Should he offer his belt? Should he offer to clean Gaudenzia's stable tomorrow, and tomorrow?
No, everything was out of his control now. In the next moments he lived a lifetime. No contrada had asked him to be their fantino. Why should they? In two Palios he had not won.
A fight started in the crowd. A young boy from the Dragon and one from the Tower began with friendly roughness, yanking each other's caps, then grabbing contrada scarves, then arms swinging, and fists pummeling. Giorgio wanted to join in, to throw one and then the other flat on the ground. Anything would be better than having nothing to do. Someone in the crowd recognized Giorgio, pointed a finger at him. "Hey, fantino! Afoot now? Ha! Ha!"
Giorgio leaped at the lanky fellow, ready to land a left jab, when suddenly his arm was wrenched behind him. A strange, deep voice commanded: "Hold there, Giorgio! Let up! Street fighting is for boys. You face the real battle, the battle of the Palio."
Giorgio looked into the eyes of a gentleman. At once he recognized the man. He had just seen him on the platform with all the officials. "You!" he gulped for air. "You are General Barbarulli, leader of the Onda!"
The General smiled. Then he linked his arm into Giorgio's, and above the din spoke into his ear: "The Chief-of-the-Town-Guards tells me it is you who trained Gaudenzia."
Giorgio nodded, scarcely breathing.
"A stroke of chance has given her to the Onda, but," the General slowed his words, emphasizing each one, "but with Giorgio Terni as her fantino, that is not luck. That is destiny."
