Romeo looked at his father. “What do you make of that?”
“The same as you do,” said Comandante Marescotti. “This is no surprise, I was expecting it. But thanks to the Maestro, we now have certainty. Romeo, you must start ahead of the field and stay in front. Do not spare the horse, just go. Once you reach Porta Camollia, you must let them pass you, one by one, until you are in the fourth position.”
“But-”
“Do not interrupt me! I want you to stay in the fourth position until you are clear of Santo Stefano. Then you may climb up to the third or second position. But not the first. Not until you have passed Palazzo Salimbeni, do you understand?”
“It is too close to the finishing line! I can’t pass!”
“But you will.”
“It is too close! Nobody has ever done that before!”
“Since when,” said Comandante Marescotti, more softly, “did that ever stop my son?”
A clarion signal from the starting line ended all conversation, and the eagle helmet was placed over Romeo’s head, its visor closed. The family priest quickly executed the-very likely last-blessing of the young man, and the Maestro found himself extending the wishes to the nervous horse; after that it was up to the Virgin alone to protect her champion.
As the fifteen horses lined up at the rope, the crowd began chanting the names of favorites as well as foes. Every noble family had its supporters and its antagonists; no one household was universally loved, or despised. Even the Salimbenis had their throng of devoted clients, and it was on occasions such as these that great, ambitious men expected to see their year-round generosity rewarded with a lavish show of public support.
Among the horsemen themselves, few had thoughts for much except the road ahead. Eye contact was sought and avoided, patron saints were mobilized like locusts onto Egypt, and last-minute insults were hurled like missiles at a closing city gate. The time for prayers had passed, advice was no longer heard, and no deals could now be undone. Whatever demons, evil or good, had been conjured from the collective soul of the people of Siena, they had been given life, and only the battle itself, the race, could execute justice. There was no law but fate, no rights but the favors of chance; victory was the only truth worth knowing.
“So, let this be the day,” thought Maestro Ambrogio, “where you, divine Virgin, celebrate your coronation in Heaven by leniency towards us poor sinners, old as young. I beg you to take pity on Romeo Marescotti and protect him against the forces of evil that are about to eat up this city from within its own bowels. And I promise you, if you let him live, I shall devote the rest of my life to your beauty. But if he dies today, he has perished by my hand, and for sorrow and shame, that hand shall never paint again.”
AS ROMEO RODE UP to the starting area with the eagle banner, he felt the sticky web of a conspiracy closing around him. Everyone had heard of his brash challenge to Salimbeni, and knew that a family battle must ensue. Knowing the contestants, the question in most people’s minds was not so much who would win the race, but who would be alive at the end of it.
Romeo looked around at the other riders, trying to guess his odds. The Crescent Moon-Tolomei’s son, Tebaldo-was clearly in alliance with the Diamond-Salimbeni’s son, Nino-and even the Rooster and the Bull looked at him with eyes full of treason. Only the Owl nodded at him with the stern sympathy of a friend, but then, the Owl had many friends.
When the rope dropped, Romeo was not even fully inside the official starting area. He had been too busy looking at the other riders and judging their game to keep an eye on the magistrate in charge. Besides, the Palio always began with many false starts, and the starter had no qualms about bringing everyone back and starting over a dozen or so times-in fact, it was all part of the game.
But not today. For the first time in Palio history, the clarions did not sound a cancellation after the first start: Despite the confusion and the one horse left behind, the fourteen other riders were allowed to continue, and the race was on. Too shocked to feel more than a flash of fury at the foul play, Romeo tilted the lance forward until it sat tightly under his arm, dug his heels into the horse, and took up the pursuit.
The field was so far ahead that it was impossible to say who was in the lead; all he could see through the eye slit of the helmet was dust and incredulous faces turning towards him, faces of bystanders who had expected to see the young lover already far ahead of his rivals. Ignoring their cries and gestures-some encouraging, others anything but-Romeo rode right through the fray, giving the horse full rein and praying that it would return the favor.
Comandante Marescotti had run a calculated risk by giving his son a stallion; with a mare or a gelding Romeo had a fair chance, but a fair chance is not enough when your life is at stake. At least with a stallion it was all or nothing. Yes, it was possible that Cesare would get into a fight, pursue a mare, or even throw his rider to show the boy who was in charge, but on the other hand, he had the extra power needed to pull away from a dangerous situation, and, most important, he had the winning spirit.
Cesare also had another quality, something that was, under normal circumstances, entirely irrelevant to the Palio, but which now occurred to Romeo as being the only possible way in which he could ever hope to catch up with the field: The horse was an uncommonly powerful jumper.
The rules of the Palio said nothing about staying on the road. As long as a rider started at Fontebecci and ended up at the Siena Cathedral he was eligible to win the prize. It had never been necessary to stipulate the exact route, for no one had ever been foolish enough not to follow the road. The fields on either side of it were bumpy, filled with livestock or heaps of drying hay, as well as being crisscrossed by numerous fences and gates. To attempt a shortcut through the fields, in other words, meant facing an army of obstacles, obstacles that might be fun for a rider wearing a tunic, but which were murder for a horse carrying a knight with plate armor and a lance.
Romeo did not hesitate for long. The fourteen other riders were heading southwest, following a two-mile-long curve in the road that would eventually bring them to Porta Camollia. This was his chance.
Spotting an opening in the screaming crowd, he steered Cesare right off the road, into a recently harvested grain field, and beelined for the city gate.
The horse relished the challenge and tore through the field with more energy than it had displayed on the road, and when Romeo saw the first wooden fence coming up ahead, he pulled off the eagle helmet and tossed it into a passing haystack. There were no rules outlining a rider’s wear apart from the lance with the family colors; riders wore their battle dress and helmets exclusively in the interest of self-protection. In throwing away his helmet, Romeo knew he would be vulnerable to punches from the other riders as well as to objects deliberately dropped from the tower-houses of the city, but he also knew that if he did not lighten its load, the horse-strong as it was-would never make it into town.
Flying over the first fence, Cesare came down heavily on the other side, and Romeo wasted no time in stripping the breastplate from his shoulders and tossing it into the middle of the pigsty he was riding through. The next two fences were lower than the first, and the horse jumped them with ease as Romeo held the lance high above his head to avoid getting it caught on the rails. Losing the lance with the Marescotti colors meant losing the race, even if he came in as number one.
Everyone who saw him that day would have sworn that Romeo was attempting the impossible. The distance saved by the shortcut was easily nullified by the many jumps, and once back on the road, he would-at best-be as far behind the other riders as he had been before. To say nothing of the harm done to the horse from galloping across heaps and holes and jumping like a mad dog under the August sun.