Siena: the Palio.
Although the tiers of seats erected for knights and pages below the Palazzo Comunale already looked like a bed of tropical flowers, more banners came fluttering down the Via Casato—the comparse of the seven other contrade who were not to take a part in the race. They fluttered round the course to gay mediaeval music, and joined the parterre of colour below the Palazzo beside the great carroccio.
And now everything was ready. Two ropes were stretched across the course at the starting-point—one the whole width of the track, the other leaving a gap through which the horses could pass into line so as to get as fair a start as possible; though every one knows, and the fantino as much as any one, that the start has little to do with the race. His great object is to try and place himself out of reach of the nerbate of his special enemies, but even this is hopeless if two or three have come to an arrangement to hold a mutual enemy back until some outsider has carried off the prize.
Down in the crowded square the man who was to give the signal of gun-fire had his fuse already lighted. In the dark courtyard of the Palazzo we could see the fantini, no longer in their bravery of velvet and silk and burnished steel, but clad in the colours of their contrade, and wearing on their heads painted wooden caps to guard their skulls from the blows of the nerbi.
Bang! There was a rattle of drums. Out came the fantini. They moved slowly to the starting-point, and a great shout rent the air as Siena with one voice acclaimed them. In the crowded square, on the housetops, from the windows and the balconies, men waved their hats, and women their scarves and handkerchiefs. Even little children forgot their toy balloons, clapping their hands and shouting while their erstwhile treasures floated away unnoticed.
They edged their horses between the ropes. Some blows were exchanged; a horse reared, and one fantino almost lost his seat. Bang! went the mortaletto. Down went the ropes.
They were off!