"And the contrada that wins makes nothing, but spends much. Is not that so?"
"It is."
"And at their banquets the rich and the poor, the rulers and the workers sit at table in happy contact, and no one feels diminished or humiliated. Is it not good?"
"It is."
"But if a contrada draws a poor horse, then it can try to help a friendly contrada? Is that so?"
Giorgio winced. "That is the part! That is it! What if I have to hinder Gaudenzia? She will not understand. A whole year now she trusts in me. On her open cuts I put salt and alum. Under her belly she lets me walk to sew her blanket in place. It is me who nursed and trained her."
The Monsignore knew he had touched the sore spot. He tried to put himself in the boy's place. "Can you get along without being a fantino? Can you live without taking part in this Palio, and the next, and...."
"No, no, Monsignore," Giorgio interrupted. "Ever since I was a little boy, there is no other world for me."
"Then, my son, what your captain tells you to do, that you must do. The Palio is war. Contradas form alliances as countries do, to help each other fight a common enemy."
Giorgio sat silent at the desolating words.