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!