Victor of the Piazza
It was a moment that moved the Sienese to weeping. Giorgio had never been so confused in his life; nor so happy. Here were life and glory, past and present, all in one! Up in the judges' box Captain Tortorelli was lifting the golden Palio from its socket, reaching over the railing, placing the staff in the outstretched hands of a knight from the Onda. The crowd surged toward the victory banner, then back to Giorgio as the living symbol of it. They smothered him with embraces—young men, old men, young girls, old women—frenziedly showering him with their joy. Around the square they carried him aloft on strong shoulders, first to the church to show the Palio to the image of the Virgin, then on through the streets of Siena, cheering, shouting, laughing, singing.
The little narrow alleys were packed so tight they could scarce contain the winding human river. From balconies women and children tossed red carnations to Giorgio. Catching them he thought, "These would be nice to decorate Gaudenzia's bridle. I hope she is safe from the crowd." He tried to get a glimpse of her, but she was lost in the maelstrom.
Up and down the wavy streets of Onda the growing throng marched, four abreast, six abreast, eight abreast. Young people from friendly contradas joined them. Together they invaded enemy quarters, singing their victory song, drums throbbing, hearts throbbing, flags fluttering. In enemy territory the shouts of joy were speared by catcalls. Street fighting flared up in dark doorways; old people wept tears of bitterness. But the drums never ceased, nor the singing.
A wave of pleasant tiredness washed over Giorgio. He was a piece of drift, tossed hither and yon by the seething mob as it spilled out from the canyon of walls, and overflowed into the tiny green of Lizza Park. Then all the way back down into the city again, and into the streets of the Onda.
The contrada had become a whirlpool, drawing into it friends and strangers alike. Candles twinkled like a constellation of stars. Meat, bread, watermelons, and wine appeared by magic. Bands played in the streets. Dancers swooped Giorgio into their arms. Men and women both twirled him about like a pinwheel. He ate. He drank the ceremonial wine. All night long the celebration went on, with Gaudenzia making grand appearances, her plumes nodding, her hoofs painted with gold.
At last, when the candles were guttering and the morning stars beginning to wink out, Giorgio's bodyguards rescued him and took him to his room to sleep.
Safe in his cool bed, Giorgio wanted nothing but to lie quiet in the gray darkness and live it all over again. With his eyes closed, he saw the figure of Gaudenzia rise up before him. "Look at you!" he spoke to her. "In your yesterdays you were just a poor work horse, pulling the rickety cart. Today you are ... you are...." He tried to fight off sleep, to savor the deliciousness of victory, but his very bones seemed to melt into the mattress, and the shutters of his mind closed.
At eight o'clock on the morning of July third, General Barbarulli was already in the heart of the city, waiting for the news-stand to open up for business. The morning papers had just arrived, and the ancient vendor, an Ondaese, was flinging the rope-bound stacks up on the counter as if he were still giving vent to his joy. When the ropes were cut and everything was in order, he leaned toward the General, honored to have him as the first customer. "Which paper is it you would like?"
"Three of each," was the smiling reply. "One set is for the museum of Onda, one is for myself, and one for our fantino."
The transaction completed, the General stepped around the corner and went inside the post office to be less conspicuous in his enjoyment of the accounts of yesterday's victory. He stood in the light of the stained glass window and opened up the first paper. As he read, he had to hold it quite high to let his tears of happy pride fall unseen. He read all three journals, then left hurriedly to share the glowing reports with his fantino.
Giorgio was so deep in sleep that it took insistent knocking on his door to arouse him. The bodyguards, exhausted from the celebration, still lay bundled in their sheets, snoring softly. Giorgio quickly pulled on his shirt and trousers and stepped out into the hallway.
"My boy," the General smiled broadly, "you have a new name!" Tapping Giorgio lightly on the shoulder with the newspapers, he spoke in staccato excitement. "Read! Read, now! These stories you will want to send home to Monticello." He spread out the front pages of each paper on the hall table and stood waiting to see the effect they would have.
Giorgio read slowly, struggling over some of the longer words. "The fantino of the Onda," the first article said, "who last year found difficulty in securing a mount, this year has won everlasting recognition from the people of the Onda, who carried him aloft in triumph. The Palio, in the midst of a sea of flags, has already made its entrance into the museum of the contrada. The little hero of the Piazza...." He blushed, embarrassed to go on.
"Read more—read more," the General urged. "The Palio has christened you! You have a new name. Look! See for yourself."
Giorgio read faster now, skimming as best he could. What was wrong with the name he had? What was wrong with Giorgio Terni? The second paper said nothing about a name. He turned to the third and read, "Young Giorgio Terni, peasant boy from the Maremma, is now crowned with a new name. Sienese everywhere speak of him as Vittorino, the little victor of the Piazza."
Giorgio's heart quickened. Maybe some people would call "Vittorino" a nickname, he thought, but to me it seems a very nice title.
"The battle was not as fierce as expected," the article went on. "The fantinos did not use their nerbos, for Gaudenzia was first from beginning to end. The masterful performance of horse and rider together has given the youngest fantino in the Palio his new name. Henceforth he will be known as Vittorino."
"Vit-to-ri-no!" the boy tasted it on his tongue.
General Barbarulli beamed. "It pleases you? No?"
"Si, si! It is better than Professore or Dottore or even ..." the boy reddened.
"Better even than Generale?" the General's eyes twinkled. "I agree! It is a beautiful laurel, invisible, to wear with honor and pride. And now we have many weeks for rejoicing." He sighed happily as he folded his own newspapers. "Then in September, when nights are cool, we will hold our Victory Dinner right in the middle of Via Giovanni Du Pré. A thousand places will be set under the stars, and Gaudenzia will be the guest of honor. At the head table she will be served! And you, Vittorino, can feast your eyes and your stomach without even making a speech. It will be your and Gaudenzia's grand triumph. Now, then, I have much to see about and must be on my way."
He shook hands briskly, turned on his heel, and went lightly down the stairs.
