Forty thousand throats cry "Forza! Forza!" as the bunched leaders pass the Fonte Gaia, pass the Casino of the Nobles, pass the scaffold where the judges sit. Now they are thundering toward the death curve of San Martino.
Behind him Giorgio hears the nerbos strike hollow against horseflesh and sharp against steel helmets, but he is still in the lead, free of the bludgeoning.
Out of the tail of his eye he sees the Wave, the Goose, the Panther fighting it out, and behind them Ivan-the-Terrible trying to drive Farfalla through. In the split second of his looking, a fantino catapults into the air like a rag doll shot from a cannon. It must be Ivan! It is Ivan! Farfalla is staggering on by herself. All this Giorgio senses rather than sees. He is at the curve now. Turbolento is leaning at a crazy angle; he seems to be tiring, faltering.
From every balcony and window, from all over the Piazza, the people of the Shell are shouting to Giorgio: "The nerbo! The nerbo! Use the nerbo on him!"
Giorgio feels icy terror. Turbolento is trying to wheel, to run the wrong way of the track. His left foreleg crosses his right. It is rooted! The pack is passing him! From both sides nerbos are raining blows on him, on Giorgio, beating them out of the way.
Giorgio lifts the horse's head, tries to get the weight on his hocks, but it is too late! Turbolento freezes, then buckles. His scream joins the shrieks of the crowd as he somersaults and slides across the track. Giorgio is pitched into the air, and hits with a thud on his back.
Hoofs go thundering past while he lies writhing, gasping, the wind knocked out of his body. As in a trance he sees the white-coated veterinarian rush out on the track. He hears the crack of the bullet that ends Turbolento's life, and sees the limping form of Farfalla come within an arm's length of the smoking pistol.