Giorgio blushed, then began to shake all over in anticipation. Trees went spinning before his eyes, the sky tilted, and the men's faces swam before him as if they were under water. He knew that out of respect he should dismount, but in his dizzy excitement he might fall sprawling at their feet.
"I am of the opinion," the Captain continued, "that you are a boy of good future and will fight earnestly to win. Unfortunately, we are not a contrada of great wealth. However, in the event of victory you will be rewarded in proportion to our limited means." He coughed apologetically. "You must realize, boy, that on our part this is a dangerous risk. Your ... ah ... smallness, while an advantage when riding in the provincial races, is no advantage at all on a cobblestone course where riders sit bareback."
Giorgio wanted to shout: "Capitano! Chief-of-the-Guards! I will take the risk. I will ride for no pay at all! I will pay you if I can! I will save my fare to Monticello!" Then suddenly came the remembrance of home—of the sausage hanging from the ceiling and the pieces of bread rubbed against it for flavor, and he gulped. He tried to say, "Signor de Santi, I am honored deeply to ride in the Palio for your contrada," but the words stuck in his throat.
The Captain took the silence for consent. "Good!" he said, "you shall be the fantino of the Shell for the Palio of July the second. You shall present yourself at my study on the morning when the horses are assigned." He reached up, grasping Giorgio's hand, wringing it until it hurt. Then the Chief did the same, and their eyes met in the complete understanding of one horseman for another.
For the first time in his life Giorgio galloped all the way back. He brought his mount in blowing and lathered, a thing he had never done before. Quickly he sloshed water over her. He scraped off the excess. He put a blanket on her. He walked her cool. Then he tried to walk himself cool, up and down the Via Fontebranda, but his feet barely touched the cobblestones. He could not walk; he paced, he ran, he galloped. He felt like some god of long ago, like Mercury skimming the clouds.
That evening when Signor Ramalli heard Giorgio's news, his face lighted in pleasure. "If this honor had come to my own flesh and blood," he said, "I could not be more glad. It is honor indeed that the Captain comes to you so long before the assignment of the horses. He must consider you able to handle any mount."
Later, in the stillness of night, Giorgio wrote to his father and mother. "Mamma and Babbo," he carefully formed the letters, "to you I will dedicate my first Palio. And to Farfalla."
Not for one instant did he doubt that Farfalla would be chosen to run. Nor that in the drawing when the horses are assigned to the various contradas, the Contrada of Nicchio, the Shell, would win her. "It has to be," he told himself.
A month later, at the trials, Giorgio watched without breathing as Farfalla nearly took a spill at the starting rope but caught stride and finished fourth. In Giorgio's mind his arch enemy, the groom who rode her, was entirely to blame for the bad start. But even so, she was among the ten chosen.
Giorgio sighed in relief. This, he felt, was the first step toward his goal, and certain proof that he would ride her in the Palio. Was she not Bianca's successor? Were not their life threads destined to come together?