"Number six, Civetta, the Owl!
"Montone, the Ram, seven!"
The whistles and the shouts are strong. "Up with Montone! Up with Montone! Up with Ivan!"
"Istrice, the Porcupine, eight!
"Giraffa, nine!"
The nine wait tensely for the final call. Giorgio tries to conceal his joy. He will be number ten! He knows the rules, revels in them. The number ten horse starts behind the others. With a rush she will come up to the rope and trigger the race.
The starter raises his megaphone. His voice shrills: "Number ten, Onda! Come on!"
Giorgio's heart beats with a wild gladness. Now it is! The time for action! He lifts Gaudenzia's head; she leaps forward. The rope drops at the split instant she touches it. It rolls free, coiling up on itself, almost onto her pasterns. As it falls to the track, ten horses are off like gunshot, Gaudenzia in the lead!
With Montone hot on her heels, she travels fast in spite of the sticky track. Landmarks spin by—the Fonte Gaia, the casino of the nobles, the palaces of Saracini and Sansedoni. Giorgio sucks in all the air his lungs can hold. Ahead lies the sharp right-angle turn of San Martino, the waiting ambulance in plain sight.
From bleachers, from balconies, from all over the Piazza Gaudenzia's enemies are shrieking for blood. In full stride she goes up the incline. A moment of terror! She stumbles, breaks gait. Ivan, for Montone, tries to crowd her into the posts. But Giorgio grasps her mane, squeezes his right leg into her flanks. Squeezes tighter. It works! She recovers; she's safe!