“So,” I said, “what would this kind of thing be worth? In terms of money?”
“Money?” The concept was foreign to Peppo, who looked at me as if I had asked what Jesus charged per hour. “But this is the prize! It is very special… a great honor. Ever since the Middle Ages, the winner of the Palio would get a beautiful silk banner lined with expensive fur; the Romans called it a pallium, and this is why our race is called the Palio. Look”-he pointed his cane at some of the banners hanging on the walls around us-“every time our contrada wins the Palio, we get a new cencio for our collection. The oldest ones we have are two hundred years old.”
“So, you don’t have any other cencios from the fourteenth century?”
“Oh, no!” Peppo shook his head vigorously. “This is very, very special. You see, in the old days, the man who won the Palio would take the cencio and turn it into clothes and wear it on his body in triumph. That is why they are all lost.”
“Then it must be worth something,” I insisted. “If it’s so rare, I mean.”
“Money-money-money!” he gibed. “Money is not everything. Don’t you understand? This is about Siena history!”
My cousin’s enthusiasm stood in sharp contrast to my own state of mind. Apparently, this morning, I had risked my life for a rusty old knife and a faded flag. Yes, it was a cencio, and as such it was an invaluable, almost magical artifact to the Sienese, but, unless I was mistaken, a completely worthless old rag if I ever took it beyond the walls of Siena.
“What about the knife?” I said. “Have you ever seen that before?”
Peppo turned back to the table and picked up the knife. “This,” he said, pulling the rusty blade out of the sheath and examining it underneath the chandelier, “is a dagger. A very handy weapon.” He inspected the engraving very closely, nodding to himself as the whole thing-apparently-began to make sense. “An eagle. Of course. And it was hidden together with the cencio from 1340. To think I should live to see this. Why did he never show me? I suppose he knew what I would say. These are treasures that belong to all of Siena, not just to the Tolomeis.”
“Peppo,” I said, rubbing my forehead, “what am I supposed to do with this?”
He looked at me, his eyes oddly distant, as if he was partly present, partly in 1340. “Remember I told you that your parents believed Romeo and Juliet lived here, in Siena? Well, in 1340 there was a much-disputed Palio. They say the cencio disappeared-this cencio right here-and that a rider died during the race. They also say that Romeo rode in that Palio, and I think this is his dagger.”
Now, finally, my curiosity got the better of my disappointment. “Did he win?”
“I am not sure. Some say he was the one who died. But mark my words”-Peppo looked at me with narrow eyes-“the Marescottis would do anything to get their hands on this.”
“You mean, the Marescottis living in Siena now?”
Peppo shrugged. “Whatever you believe about the cencio, the dagger belonged to Romeo. See the engraving of the eagle right here on the hilt? Can you imagine what a treasure this would be to them?”
“I suppose I could return it-”
“No!” The giddy glee in my cousin’s eyes now gave way to other emotions, far less charming. “You must leave it here! This is a treasure that now belongs to all of Siena, not just to the aquilini or the Marescottis. You did very well to bring it here. We must discuss it with all the magistrates of all the contrade. They know best. And meanwhile, I will put it in our safe, away from light and air.” He began eagerly folding up the cencio. “I promise you, I will take very good care of it. Our safe is very safe.”
“But my parents left it for me-” I dared to object.
“Yes-yes-yes, but this is not something that should belong to any one person. Don’t worry, the magistrates will know what to do.”
“How about-”
Peppo looked at me sternly. “I am your godfather. Do you not trust me?”
IV.II
What say you, can you love the gentleman?
This night you shall behold him at our feast
Siena , A.D. 1340
TO MAESTRO AMBROGIO THE NIGHT before Madonna Assunta was as holy as Christmas Eve. Over the course of the evening vigil, the otherwise dark Siena Cathedral would be filled with hundreds of colossal votive candles-some weighing more than fifty pounds-as a long procession of representatives from every contrada made their way up the nave towards the golden altar, to honor Siena’s protectress, the Virgin Mary, and celebrate her assumption into Heaven.
Tomorrow, on Madonna Assunta proper, the majestic cathedral would thus be illuminated by a forest of flickering flames when vassals from surrounding towns and villages arrived to pay their tributes. Every year on this day, August 15, they were required by law to donate a carefully calculated quantity of wax candles to the divine queen of Siena, and stern city officials would be posted inside the cathedral to ensure that each subordinate town and village paid their dues. The fact that the cathedral was already illuminated with an abundance of holy lights only confirmed what the foreigners knew welclass="underline" that Siena was a glorious place, blessed by an all-powerful goddess, and that membership was well worth the price.
Maestro Ambrogio much preferred the nightly vigil to the daylight procession. Something magical happened to people when they carried light into darkness; the fire spread to their souls, and if one looked carefully, the wonder could be observed in their eyes.
But tonight he could not participate in the procession as he usually did. Since he had commenced the large frescoes in Palazzo Pubblico, the Siena magistrates had been treating him like one of their own-undoubtedly because they wanted to ensure that he painted them in a flattering light-and so here he was, stuck on a podium with the Nine, the Biccherna magistrates, the Captain of War, and the Captain of the People. The only consolation was that the perch offered him a full view of the night’s spectacle; the musicians in their scarlet uniforms, the drummers and flag throwers with their insignia, the priests in flowing robes, and the candlelit procession that would go on until every contrada had paid its respects to the divine queen who held her protective cape over them all.
There was no mistaking the Tolomei family at the head of the procession from the contrada of San Cristoforo. Dressed in the red and gold of their coat of arms, Messer Tolomei and his wife had the demeanor of royalty approaching their thrones as they walked up the nave towards the main altar. Immediately behind them came a group of Tolomei family members, and it did not take Maestro Ambrogio long to spot Giulietta among them. Even though her hair was covered by blue silk-blue for the innocence and majesty of the Virgin Mary-and even though her face was illuminated solely by the small wax candle in her piously folded hands, her loveliness easily eclipsed everything around her, even the beautiful dowries of her cousins.
But Giulietta did not notice the admiring eyes following her all the way to the altar. Her thoughts were clearly for the Virgin Mary alone, and while everyone around her proceeded towards the high altar with the contentment of the gift giver, the girl had her eyes fixed on the floor until she was able to kneel with her cousins and hand her candle to the priests.
Getting up, she curtsied twice and turned to face the world. Only now did she seem to notice the grandeur surrounding her, and she swayed briefly underneath the vastness of the dome, regarding everything human with nervous curiosity. Maestro Ambrogio would have liked nothing more than to rush to her side to offer his humble assistance, but decency demanded that he stay where he was, and merely appreciate her beauty from a distance.