Unfortunately, during the Palio on the following day, the jockey from Pantera-the rival contrada-got hold of that very giubbetto, and was able to slow down the Aquila jockey and horse so much that they lost the race.
At this point in the story, I could not help but twist around and look at Alessandro. “Don’t tell me you thought it was your fault.”
He shrugged. “What could I think? I had brought bad luck to our giubbetto, and we lost. Even my uncle said so. And we haven’t won a Palio since.”
“Honestly-!” I began.
“Shh!” He put his hand over my mouth lightly. “Just listen. After that, I was gone for a long period, and I only came back to Siena a few years ago. Just in time. My grandfather was very tired. I remember he was sitting on a bench, looking out over the vineyard, and he didn’t hear me until I put my hand on his shoulder. Then he turned his head and took one look at my face, and started crying, he was so happy. That was a good day. We had a big dinner, and my uncle said they would never let me leave again. At first, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay. I had never lived in Siena before, and I had many bad memories. Also, I knew that people would gossip about me if they knew who I was. People don’t forget the past, you know. So, I started by just taking a leave. But then something happened. Aquila ran in the July Palio, and for us, it was the worst race of all times. In the whole history of the Palio, I don’t think any contrada has ever lost in such a bad way before. We were leading the whole race, but then in the very last curve, Pantera passes us and wins instead.” He sighed, reliving the moment. “There is no worse way to lose a Palio. It was a shock to us. And then later, we had to defend our honor in the August Palio, and our fantino-our jockey-was punished. We were all punished. We had no right to run the next year, and the year after that: We were sanctioned. Call it politics if you like, but in my family, we felt it was more than that.
“My grandfather was so upset, he had a heart attack when he realized that it could be two years before Aquila would run in the Palio again. He was eighty-seven. Three days later, he died.” Alessandro paused and looked away. “I sat with him those three days. He was so angry with himself for wasting all this time; now he wanted to look at my face as much as possible. At first, I thought he was upset with me for bringing bad luck again, but then he told me that it was not my fault. It was his fault for not understanding earlier.”
I had to ask. “Understanding what exactly?”
“My mother. He understood that what had happened to her had to happen. My uncle has five girls, no boys. I am the only grandchild who carries the family name. Because my mother was not married when I was born, and I was baptized with her name. You see?”
I sat up straight. “What kind of sick, chauvinist-”
“Giulietta, please!” He pulled me back to lean against his shoulder again. “You will never understand this if you don’t listen. What my grandfather realized was that there was an old evil that had woken up after many generations, and it had chosen me, because of my name.”
I felt the little hairs on my arms stand up. “Chosen you… for what?”
“This…” said Alessandro, filling my glass again, “is when we get to Charlemagne.”
VII.II
The ape is dead and I must conjure him.
I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,
By her high forehead and her scarlet lip
THE PLAGUE AND THE RING
Siena , A.D. 1340-1370
THE MARESCOTTIS ARE ONE of the oldest noble families in Siena. It is believed that the name was derived from Marius Scotus, a Scottish general in Charlemagne’s army. Most of the Marescottis settled in Bologna, but the family spread its wings far and wide, and the Siena branch was particularly renowned for courage and leadership in times of crisis.
But, as we know, nothing great is great forever, and the fame of the Marescottis is no exception. Hardly anyone remembers their glorious past in Siena nowadays, but then history was always more concerned with those who live to destroy than with those devoted to protection and preservation.
Romeo was born when the family was still illustrious. His father, Comandante Marescotti, was much admired for his moderation and decorum, and his deposits on that account were so plentiful that not even his son-whose greed and sloth were always outstanding-could squander his savings.
However, even the Comandante’s virtues were taxed to the bone when, early in the year 1340, Romeo encountered the woman Rosalina. She was the wife of a butcher, but everyone knew they were not happy together. In Shakespeare’s version, Rosalina is a young beauty who torments Romeo with her vow of chastity; the truth is quite the opposite. Rosalina was ten years older than he, and she became his mistress. For months, Romeo tried to persuade her to run away with him, but she was too wise to trust him.
Just after Christmas of 1340-not long after Romeo and Giulietta died here at Rocca di Tentennano-Rosalina gave birth to a son, and everyone could see the butcher was not the father. It was a great scandal, and Rosalina was afraid her husband would learn the truth and kill the baby. So, she took the newborn to Comandante Marescotti and asked if he would raise the boy in his own house.
But the Comandante said no. He did not believe her story, and turned her away. Before she left, however, Rosalina said to him, “One day you will be sorry for what you have done to me and to this child. One day, God will punish you for the justice you are denying me!”
The Comandante forgot all about this until, in 1348, the Black Death came through Siena. More than a third of the population died within months, and the mortality was worst inside the city. Bodies were piled in the streets, sons abandoned fathers, wives abandoned husbands; everyone was too afraid to remember what it means to be a human and not an animal.
In one week, Comandante Marescotti lost his mother, his wife, and all his five children; only he alone was left to survive. He washed them and dressed them, and he put them all on a cart and brought them to the cathedral to find a priest who could perform a funeral. But there were no priests. Those priests who were still alive were too busy taking care of the sick in the hospital next to the cathedral, the Santa Maria della Scala. Even there, they had too many dead bodies to be able to bury them all, and what they did was build a hollow wall inside the hospital and put all the bodies inside and seal it off.
When the Comandante arrived at the Siena Cathedral, there were Misericordia Brothers outside in the piazza digging a big hole for a mass grave, and he bribed them to admit his family into this holy ground. He told them that this was his mother, and his wife, and he told them the names and ages of all his children, and explained that they were dressed in their finest church clothes. But the men didn’t care. They took his gold and tipped the cart, and the Comandante saw all his loved ones-his future-tumble into the hole with no prayers, no blessings, and no speranza… no hope.
When he walked back through town, he did not know where he went. He did not see anything around him. To him, it was the end of the world, and he began yelling at God, asking why he had been left alive to witness this misery, and to bury his own children. He even fell to his knees, and scooped up the dirty water from the gutter running with rot and death, and poured it over himself, and drank it, hoping to finally get sick and die like everyone else.
While he was there, kneeling in the mud, he suddenly heard the voice of a boy say to him, “I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work.”