"But they got to!" the young men answered in chorus, and they turned on him in a torrent of explanation.
"It is a law from year seventeen hundred," the Number One guard said. "If an animal is lamed or dies in a Prova, it is not permitted to replace him."
Another guard broke in excitedly. "Why, I myself saw one killed in a Prova, and the contrada remained horseless."
"I too saw it!" the first one said. "And in the parade before the race the long black tail and the severed hoof of the dead one were carried on a platter of silver."
Now thoroughly roused, the guards were irrepressible. "And the flags of that contrada were tightly furled in mourning and even the strongest men wept like small children and cried aloud."
Giorgio felt his stomach turn over. Almost pleading, he looked from face to face. "But Farfalla is crippled! There could be a stumble, a fatal...."
"Then it will be her time to die," the Number One bodyguard said flatly. "She too is only mortal." There was no coldness in his voice. He was merely repeating words said to him long ago.
Giorgio tried to shut out thoughts of Farfalla. He made his mind go forward. He began counting. Three hours until the blessing of the horses in the churches of their contradas. Then the long historical parade, and at last, at sundown, the Palio!
He went with Turbolento into the stable of the Shell and watched the barbaresco go to work, sponging him off, making him comfortable and cool with especial attention to his head, eyes, and nostrils. Giorgio stood by as long as he could. Then from sheer habit he fell to his knees and hand-rubbed Turbolento's legs. Unconsciously he worked for a long time on the left hind, as if in some remote way he were helping Farfalla.
Giorgio usually had the mind of a camera. Events registered sharply with him. But that afternoon, during the long parade in which he wore the martial costume of the Middle Ages and rode a heavy warhorse, he felt himself an actor in a play, an actor who did not know his part. He was bewildered by the vast sea of faces in the center of the Piazza, and the kaleidoscope of color in costumes and flags, and the drums beating out a somber rhythm. Through it all he rode woodenly, like a toy soldier.