The Daughter of Siena (13 page)
Domenico’s gnarled finger circled the glossy hoof, indicating the coronet, his lesson done.
It was suddenly borne in upon Riccardo that his father’s life was bounded in a horseshoe: the grand amphitheatre of the Piazza del Campo and the smaller, horned foot of the animals that raced there. His world was no greater than that. It struck him too, with the singing clarity of the hammer blow, that the hoof was the map he had seen that morning in the palace: Siena with her boundary walls and her regional thirds. For a moment the revelation seemed hugely significant, a key to unlock the future of the city. He did not know quite what to do with the concept, so he recounted all of it to the horse, which nodded sagely. Riccardo was jolted from his warm,
golden Sienese reverie by his father’s voice as the fourth foot was placed, ringing, on the floor.
golden Sienese reverie by his father’s voice as the fourth foot was placed, ringing, on the floor.
‘Now, that’s enough schooling, Zebra. Get you to the fountain for me – fill this bucket.’
Riccardo was so drowsy that for a moment he did not register what his father had said. Slowly, the significance of the command penetrated. Domenico had sent Zebra for water from the Piazza del Campo, from the fountain where the Panther’s carrion rotted as the sun rose high.
He dropped the horse’s head and ran, not heeding his father’s shout. Zebra was swift and as the great square opened out before him he saw the boy ahead of him, running to the well, under the shadow of the palace and the great tower, swinging his bucket. Before he could stop him, Zebra had pushed his way through the knot of people by the fountain. Riccardo slowed, defeated. He was too late. He looked up as a black cloud of starlings passed overhead. As the boy’s scream pierced the air, they checked and turned as one, changing direction back to the tower. Riccardo ran to the boy’s side, dropped to his knees and turned Zebra’s head into his shoulder, away from the terrible sight. The constables were here now and a physician whose presence was twelve hours too late. Zebra vomited, suddenly, and Riccardo held the back of his clammy little neck over a drain. He doused his own kerchief in the fountain and wiped the boy’s forehead and mouth. Zebra’s lips were soft, his skin tender. He did not deserve this.
Riccardo realized that all of this morning had been a dream. A dream of Siena not as it was, but as it could be.
As he stood the boy wrapped his arms round his leg, tight, not letting go. Riccardo gently loosened Zebra’s grip. He kneeled again and looked into the boy’s face, a face that would never again see a world that had no evil in it. The face of innocence lost.
Enough.
‘Zebra, do you want to stop this? Do you want us all to live in peace?’
An old woman, a middling one and a young man
, the duchess had said. To that, add,
a boy
. Useless, she might say, but Zebra could go anywhere, was tolerated by all, questioned by none. Zebra nodded and Riccardo knew he was done with holding his tongue.
, the duchess had said. To that, add,
a boy
. Useless, she might say, but Zebra could go anywhere, was tolerated by all, questioned by none. Zebra nodded and Riccardo knew he was done with holding his tongue.
‘Then help me. Find out when Pia of the Tolomei takes her shrift in the Aquila church.’
The Goose
P
ia lifted the little bottle that Nello had handed her to the dying light of the pantry window and read the white apothecary’s label. ‘Mullein’: she spelled out the writing inscribed in a neatly inked hand. ‘Birch bark, myrrh, indigo, mulberry, rock alum, black sulphur.’ Above the black characters was a tiny picture of a white goose with an orange beak and a black bead of an eye, and, above him, the green-and-white pennant of the Oca, the Goose
contrada.
ia lifted the little bottle that Nello had handed her to the dying light of the pantry window and read the white apothecary’s label. ‘Mullein’: she spelled out the writing inscribed in a neatly inked hand. ‘Birch bark, myrrh, indigo, mulberry, rock alum, black sulphur.’ Above the black characters was a tiny picture of a white goose with an orange beak and a black bead of an eye, and, above him, the green-and-white pennant of the Oca, the Goose
contrada.
Pia looked down at her husband, sitting, shirtless; his white hairless flesh and scooped chest luminous in the sunset. ‘What is this?’
Nello took the ribbon from his white hair and shook it free. ‘Dye,’ he said briefly. ‘I did not ask you to question me. I told you to apply the pigment. Begin.’
He dipped his head over the sinkhole of the stone basin. Pia could see the bones of his spine protruding from his pearly skin.
She did not know what he intended by dyeing his hair – perhaps he was, at last, tired of his strange colouring; perhaps he had some shred of vanity in his barren soul and wanted to resemble normality in time for the Palio dell’Assunta in August when every eye in the city would be upon him. Whatever his reasons she would not argue. Not after last night.
She did not know what he intended by dyeing his hair – perhaps he was, at last, tired of his strange colouring; perhaps he had some shred of vanity in his barren soul and wanted to resemble normality in time for the Palio dell’Assunta in August when every eye in the city would be upon him. Whatever his reasons she would not argue. Not after last night.
Wordlessly, she poured water over Nello’s head to wet the hair as directed on the bottle. The water was cold and she had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. It seemed wrong that his hair was longer than hers. She applied the inky mixture to his scalp, rubbing it in, reluctant even to touch his flesh, until all the white was subsumed under the pitch-dark pigment. The harsh mixture stung her palms as she rinsed the excess away from his head, the black swirling away like a long inky serpent. She imagined the mixture draining and spreading into the
bottini
aqueducts far below the city, poisoning the waters just as Nello had poisoned this house.
bottini
aqueducts far below the city, poisoning the waters just as Nello had poisoned this house.
When all was done, she wrapped his head in a cloth, the hair now as dark as her own shorn locks. Nello flung from the pantry without a word of thanks. Pia tried to rinse her palms, washing them over and over again in the stained basin, even applying a tough little pig-bristle brush until her flesh felt raw. But no amount of scrubbing helped: they remained as black as sin.
As the bells tolled three times, Pia of the Tolomei stepped out into the Eagle
contrada
from her new palace. She had pulled a lace veil high over her head. She might have worn a wig, as older ladies did, but the wounds in her
scalp hurt too much, so she covered her shame, assuming that she was now hideous to behold. In this she was quite wrong. Her hair, neatened with the shears, swung in a shining black bell. Her face, under the little cuts and scratches, was still perfection, her extraordinary eyes still undefeated. With her lustrous hair short, the resemblance to Cleopatra was even stronger. In his misguided attempt to blight Pia’s beauty, Nello had given it new potency.
contrada
from her new palace. She had pulled a lace veil high over her head. She might have worn a wig, as older ladies did, but the wounds in her
scalp hurt too much, so she covered her shame, assuming that she was now hideous to behold. In this she was quite wrong. Her hair, neatened with the shears, swung in a shining black bell. Her face, under the little cuts and scratches, was still perfection, her extraordinary eyes still undefeated. With her lustrous hair short, the resemblance to Cleopatra was even stronger. In his misguided attempt to blight Pia’s beauty, Nello had given it new potency.
Pia, knowing none of this, quickened her step. She was a little late for shrift. She went without erring through the now-familiar streets. It gave her no pleasure that she had changed one
contrada
for another and now knew the ways of the Eagle by rote. Back in the Civetta
contrada
there was a quiet little square called the Piazza Tolomei. She’d always felt safe there; now she wondered if she would ever see it again.
contrada
for another and now knew the ways of the Eagle by rote. Back in the Civetta
contrada
there was a quiet little square called the Piazza Tolomei. She’d always felt safe there; now she wondered if she would ever see it again.
Pia heard Nicoletta, her constant millstone, puffing behind her in the heat and was glad she was in discomfort. For the past two days Pia had taken to going to shrift. The maid could not come with her into the confessional so Pia was able to talk to the priest uninterrupted, or just to sit in peace. Her faith had been shaken by what had befallen her of late. She had no great wish to talk to God and placed more faith in the little heathen coin around her neck, but the chance to escape from her life – even for a quarter of an hour – was too tempting to miss.
She thought of the first Pia, languishing in Dante’s
Purgatorio
, and envied her the comfortable limbo the poet
had constructed, where boredom and sameness and regret were the only ills that could befall her. For this Pia, the purgatory in which she lived was never free from fear. First Nello had shorn her hair, then he had forced her to dye his – her hands were still stained black – and every night she had to contend with the very real fear that he would come to her bed and claim what was his as her husband. At least, as she knew from Faustino’s instruction to the cook, her husband and his father would be away from home tonight at some convocation in the duomo. At least tonight she would be spared.
Purgatorio
, and envied her the comfortable limbo the poet
had constructed, where boredom and sameness and regret were the only ills that could befall her. For this Pia, the purgatory in which she lived was never free from fear. First Nello had shorn her hair, then he had forced her to dye his – her hands were still stained black – and every night she had to contend with the very real fear that he would come to her bed and claim what was his as her husband. At least, as she knew from Faustino’s instruction to the cook, her husband and his father would be away from home tonight at some convocation in the duomo. At least tonight she would be spared.
The
contrada
was sleepy as the sun reached its height. Most of the Aquileia would be asleep at this time. Pia skirted some children playing on the warm cobbles. Three days ago she would have smiled at them. Three days ago she would have dreamed of what her own children would look like. Now their little limbs and glossy curls hurt her too much and she avoided them as if they were curs. Pia dodged a bucket of slops flung from a doorway, but the filthy water doused Nicoletta, cheering Pia considerably. The maid, cursing, set about the perpetrator’s shoulders with her fan, chasing the goodwife back inside.
contrada
was sleepy as the sun reached its height. Most of the Aquileia would be asleep at this time. Pia skirted some children playing on the warm cobbles. Three days ago she would have smiled at them. Three days ago she would have dreamed of what her own children would look like. Now their little limbs and glossy curls hurt her too much and she avoided them as if they were curs. Pia dodged a bucket of slops flung from a doorway, but the filthy water doused Nicoletta, cheering Pia considerably. The maid, cursing, set about the perpetrator’s shoulders with her fan, chasing the goodwife back inside.
There was a minor commotion going on outside the church. A little boy in black and white was engaging an elderly priest in a conversation about the Devil. The boy had seen him, he insisted, in the Piazza del Campo. The Devil was lying in a cross like Jesus but was hideously ugly and covered in blood. The boy pulled at the old priest’s robes.
Come and see, come and see, come and see!
Pia recognized the boy – it was Zebra: messenger, water-carrier
and the boy who had given her the duchess’s purse of alms. Pia was surprised. She had always thought him a level-headed boy. And yet she still crossed herself. She had never before believed in the Devil; now she knew she was married to him.
Come and see, come and see, come and see!
Pia recognized the boy – it was Zebra: messenger, water-carrier
and the boy who had given her the duchess’s purse of alms. Pia was surprised. She had always thought him a level-headed boy. And yet she still crossed herself. She had never before believed in the Devil; now she knew she was married to him.
As Zebra pulled the priest around the corner, Pia slipped inside the church on silent feet. It was dark now, and cold. As her skin cooled she quickened her steps up the nave, leaving Nicoletta puffing in the back pews. Pia seated herself in the blessed, walnut-scented dimness. She drew the curtain, dark red as arterial blood, across the box. It fell almost to the floor, but was not quite long enough to cover the toes of her silver slippers. It was enough, though. She was alone at last.
She heard the priest climb into the confessional box and the creak as he sat. Someone had blown out the candle on his side of the grille, so Pia could not see him, but like everyone else in this city he smelled of horses. His step was lighter than the usual priest; he must be new: a younger man. What would he say when he heard her guilty secret?
She began to speak as he took his seat, the familiar patter of the confessional, rehearsed, familiar.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one day since my last confession.’ She paused. ‘The truth is, Father, I prayed for someone to die, and they did. I killed a man.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
She leaned forward, abruptly. ‘What?’ she hissed.
‘If you mean Vicenzo, the guilt for that lies elsewhere.
It was the Panther who whipped his face and made him fall. You can set that burden down. But you may take up another, if only you will.’ It was the horseman.
It was the Panther who whipped his face and made him fall. You can set that burden down. But you may take up another, if only you will.’ It was the horseman.
Pia had an ear for accents. This man’s Sienese was not as broad as Nicoletta’s, but he had the same slightly long A. He pronounced the word ‘can’ just as he had in ‘Can you ride?’, the question that had set her mind to work.
She was suddenly angry, and with relief felt her rage rush and rise in her. She’d been so afraid, it felt good to feel this.
‘Then try this for a confessional,’ she spat. ‘I have angered my husband. He found me disobedient and he punished me.’
‘How did he punish you?’ It was a whisper.
‘He cut off my hair. Look at what he did.’
Pia pulled down her veil with a swish of lace on hair. She heard a creak as the horseman craned forward. Her candle was lit, his was not; she knew he could see clearly the dark tresses chopped close and dense around her head, curling around her chin, the shorter chunks sitting choppily on her forehead.
‘Can
you
pay the penance for these locks, the tax on that one smile bestowed and unreturned, on the one question asked and answered? Leave me alone.’
you
pay the penance for these locks, the tax on that one smile bestowed and unreturned, on the one question asked and answered? Leave me alone.’
The voice came again, angry too, but not at her.
‘I will. Forgive me. I should not have come.’
‘Why
did
you come? What have you to ask me?’ She did not even know his name. ‘Who are you?’
did
you come? What have you to ask me?’ She did not even know his name. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Riccardo Bruni.’
Bruni
. Out in the Tuscan Maremma, halfway to the coast she had never seen, there was a castle where the first Pia, Dante’s Pia, had been imprisoned. According to legend, there was a bridge near by called Pia’s bridge. It crossed the river Bruni. It seemed too much of a coincidence. Was fate leading her to trust him? The omen bought him a moment longer.
. Out in the Tuscan Maremma, halfway to the coast she had never seen, there was a castle where the first Pia, Dante’s Pia, had been imprisoned. According to legend, there was a bridge near by called Pia’s bridge. It crossed the river Bruni. It seemed too much of a coincidence. Was fate leading her to trust him? The omen bought him a moment longer.
‘What do you want of me?’
‘I came to you to ask you for help. Our duchess, the governess of Siena, wants to move against the Eagle
contrada
. But having seen you like this, I cannot ask.’
contrada
. But having seen you like this, I cannot ask.’
‘Why?’
Signor Bruni hesitated. ‘If your husband did this for a look, what would he do if you betrayed him? I cannot ask you.’
‘My life is over anyway,’ Pia said. ‘I am languishing in purgatory.’ She pressed her fingers to the grille so hard that tiny bumps of flesh bulged through the filigree. She quoted the words of Dante’s Pia: ‘Ah, when you return to the world, remember me, the one who is Pia.’
The words were a farewell. She heard him rise and begin to draw back the curtain. She suddenly could not bear the thought of being left alone in her personal limbo, waiting for more outrages to be visited upon her.
‘Don’t go.’
It was her own voice now, modern, insistent. This man, the duchess: could they help her? She needed to know more.
‘Are you not my husband’s creature?’
‘I am no such thing. But I must give you a warning, before I go. The Panther was a man called Egidio Albani. He whipped Vicenzo’s face in the Palio and he paid for it with his life. Your father-in-law beat him to death, in your own house, and last night I carried the guts to the piazza with your husband, to be spread out as a message.’
Pia grew cold with horror. While she sat in misery in her chamber, while Nello was visiting his petty abuses upon her, a greater atrocity had already taken place in the cellars. The horseman had taken a risk in telling her this, making an assumption about the sort of person she was. And he’d been right. Now that she knew this, she could not retreat.
‘Now I know about the Panther, about what they did, about what Nello had you do, you have me, don’t you? I know what kind of man he is, he and his father. You’d better tell me the rest.’
She heard him sit again. ‘Faustino Caprimulgo plans to rebuild the Nine, to make Siena a republic again, to take the city back from the Medici duchy. The duchess asked me to help her, and at first I refused, but after last night I agreed. Here is her seal.’
Pia peered at the gold Medici arms painted on the plaque that he pressed against the grille. They matched the purse she had been given when Vicenzo died. Mistrust crept back.
‘Anyone may carry these arms,’ she said scornfully. ‘I have them myself.’ But she relented as the seal was drawn back again into the dark beyond the grille. ‘The duchess is a good woman, by repute. Learned too.’ She paused for a
moment to marshal her thoughts. ‘If I am to believe you, who else stands with her in this alliance?’
moment to marshal her thoughts. ‘If I am to believe you, who else stands with her in this alliance?’
‘She has writ to her brother-in-law, heir to the grand duchy.’
It sounded plausible. ‘And on the other side, my father-in-law Faustino, and … who?’
Signor Bruni said carefully, ‘There must be eight more, to rebuild the council of Nine. We think that he also has your father in harness.’
Her father, Salvatore, in an alliance with the Eagle to rebuild the Nine. She knew it at once to be absolutely true. It all fitted.
She said slowly, ‘Have you heard of the Priory of Siena?’
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