The Chief took a breath. For the boy's sake he wanted to sound matter-of-fact, to ease him gently into disappointment. "The news of Gaudenzia's win at Casole d'Elsa has spread to Siena. All at once she is known as the get of Sans Souci, a full-blood Arab. And the full-bloods are not wanted."
"But, Signore, she is only half-bred. Her dam was a farm horse."
"I know, I know," the Chief answered in irritation. "But because she is now too beautiful, too well-trained, the rejection may come."
Giorgio waited in numbness.
"High-mettled Arabians have caprices, the judges say. Besides, the turns of the course are too perilous and the layer of earth over the cobblestones too thin for a full-blood with the delicate toothpick legs."
There was a momentary pause as the Chief's daughter brought in two small cups of coffee.
"You see, Giorgio, we Sienese are like moles burrowing, always digging into our past. I have heard the judges say, as if only yesterday it happened, how in the year 1500 Cesare Borgio's big stallion reared on his hind legs and in coming back to earth hit the starting rope so hard he could not run in the Palio. And in 1885, the purebred La Gorgona cracked up in the last Prova, her legs brittle like eggshell. And you, Giorgio, you must remember Habana? You remember when she flew into the fence, and broke the boards to splinters!"
"But Signore! It happens with the mixed blood, too. Have they forgot Turbolento?"
"He fell, Giorgio. But the others? One might say they destroyed themselves."
Anger lit Giorgio's eyes. "Signore! This you should have told me before! Why did you send for Gaudenzia and me? Why did you let me nourish all the hopes to win?"