Anna stood twisting her braids, almost afraid to say. "You promise not to tell Babbo if I tell you?"
"I promise," he quickly agreed.
"Well, then," she began importantly, "to our house came some visitors. You see, it is sad, and Babbo already is sad. So you must not sadden him more. You promise?"
"Twice now I promise."
"Well, one man says to Babbo, 'Giorgio is too young for Palio battle,' and the other says, 'Giorgio is not only young, he is puny. And his hands....'" Anna caught her lips between her teeth and hesitated.
"Go on! Go on!"
"They say, 'His hands are ... girl's hands. They cannot whack with the nerbo and hold the reins too.'"
Blood climbed hot in Giorgio's cheeks. "Girl's hands!" Was that it? He would show the Giraffe! He would show the Panther! He would show all the contradas! Because his hands were small, did this make them weak? Because he had less beard than other fantinos, did this make him green in the handling of horses? No! A thousand times no! Some boys are old before their time. "I was born old," he thought. He could never remember when he had not worked, nor when in the sweat of his work he had not dreamed of doing great things, of proving himself big for his size.
The day that was to have been all shining glory turned to ashes. In dull numbness Giorgio lived out the Palio of July second. As the sound of shields rattling and drums beating and battle cries came to him, he bridled Lubiana and rode far outside the city walls. She was not good enough for the Palio; neither was he. He rode for hours. He could almost have reached Monticello, but purposely he went the opposite way. How could he face the unasked questions of Mamma and Babbo? How could he face Emilio wearing a spennacchiera in his thatch of hair, daring his little friends to knock it off?
It was long past dark when he returned to the city. From within the walls he heard music coming toward him. The Wolves were chanting their victory song, loud in celebration.