After the trials the very air of the Piazza seemed charged with intolerable suspense. The drawing was at hand. The hour was ten-thirty, the sun striking hot on the cobblestones. Still rankling over the clumsiness of Farfalla's groom, Giorgio joined the throng gathering in front of the Palazzo Pubblico.
Everything was beginning to happen. Ten barbarescos or official grooms, in the brilliant costumes of their contradas, were taking their places before a raised platform. Ten trumpeters were mounting the steps, lining up at the front edge, ready to blow on their silver trumpets. The Mayor and the captains were seating themselves at a long table.
The stage was set. Two tall urns were already placed far apart on the table. Within their opaque beauty they held the fate of the drawing—in one the names of the contradas, in the other the numbers of the horses. And against the Palace wall two racks were hung, where everyone could plainly see them; they were empty, waiting for the matched names and numbers.
Seemingly the whole town was on hand, each person tense, each praying that his contrada would draw the best horse. Already the ten were rated ... this one for speed, that one for endurance. Giorgio listened to what people were saying.
"Ah, Belfiore is a veteran of many Palios. She knows those sharp curves like the corners of her stall!"
"Oh, ho! Do not overlook Ravi, the little black gelding."
"If Bruco, the Caterpillar, does not draw a good horse," said a man with a cracked voice, "I will go to the country."