"A cavallo! A cavallo! To horse! To horse!"
As each jockey in turn rides out, the Chief presents him with the nerbo. Instinctively, the horses who have been in a Palio before shy in fright.
Giorgio's breath catches in his throat. His right hand, still tingling from gripping the lance, now accepts the nerbo from the firm hands of the Chief. "Will I have to use it?" he asks himself.
Out from the maw of the courtyard the cavalcade moves forward toward the starting rope. Through his legs and thighs he can feel the mare's heart pounding against him. He hears the starter call out the horses in order. He prays for first position—or last.
"Number one, Lupa, the Wolf!" A thunder of applause goes up, boos and cheers mingling.
"Number two, the Tower!
"Aquila, the Eagle, number three!
"Tartuca, the Turtle, four!"
As they are called, the horses prance up, take their positions between the ropes. Eagle and Wolf are jumpy, move about, change positions. The starter sternly sends all four horses back, recalls them again one by one, then goes on:
"Number five, Drago, the Dragon!