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."