And Now....
With all of his heart Giorgio Terni believed that Gaudenzia's first victories were only a beginning. And so they were. Proving herself queen, she went on to win the Extraordinary Palio that fall, held in honor of the Marian Year. Giorgio was again her fantino. Thousands of people shuddered as she flung herself at the starting rope, then leaped over it before it touched the ground. From that moment on she won the race majestically, unchallenged. It was her third victory in succession. In all of Palio history no horse had ever done this before!
Strangely enough, Gaudenzia is famed, too, for not racing. Because of her spectacular record she was excluded from both Palios in the following year. She was too great a threat to the other contenders. But the next year, in deference to the will of the people, they allowed her to race again. And again she won.
Where is Gaudenzia now? As befitting a queen, she lives in a medieval castle near Siena, one with a history longer than the Palio. In this eventful place where pacts were made and wars were plotted, she has her stable-home. It is big and high-ceilinged, with windows that open wide upon the sweeping hills of Tuscany.
Is she lonely there? Perhaps. But in the months to come there may be a colt for her to nurse, and to teach to race. Meanwhile, she has a hunting dog for company, a groom to exercise her, and visitors from near and far—as far away as America. Most of them she eyes in an aloof and regal manner, permitting none to touch her. She seems always to be looking through and beyond them, looking for a familiar slight-built figure. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon her looking is rewarded, for among the visitors comes Giorgio, man-grown now.
Nostrils fluttering, she sifts the mixture of scents, sorting and discarding until she finds the right one. Then with a small whicker of remembering, she reaches out to welcome him.
Always their reunion is the same. Giorgio extends his open hand, and after she has licked the salt from it, she playfully nips his shirtsleeve and snuffs his hair. Always it is like this. Never any demanding, "Where were you last Sunday?" Only her eyes holding his, and her ears flicked for the tone of his voice.
"Gaudenzia," he tells her, "the others cannot hold the candle to you. You are still the pride of the Palio, and I'll be back to see you again, maybe in the time of the little fingernail moon or when the moon is full. Maybe both times!"
And usually he is.