The Daughter of Siena (37 page)
She caught here the silver head of Faustino Caprimulgo
in the crowd, bowed under the loss of his sons and the loss of his fortune.
in the crowd, bowed under the loss of his sons and the loss of his fortune.
‘Therefore,’ Violante went on, ‘it is my task today, as part of my continuing office as your governess, a role that I intend to fulfil for many years yet,’ she was gratified to hear the scattered cheers this elicited, ‘to regulate the rules of the Palio. Some are old; some are new; all will be codified here and immutable from this day. Thus we may move forward in amity and safety to the years ahead, with myself as your sole ruler and duchess. This I have done. I hereby declare that, item one: each
contrada
must sign up for the drawing. Ten and only ten will be drawn by chance to run in the Palio.’
contrada
must sign up for the drawing. Ten and only ten will be drawn by chance to run in the Palio.’
Violante was aware of the mildly curious eyes of Anna Maria Luisa. She carried on regardless.
‘Item two: the
contrada
must deposit a sum that will go to the owners of the horses. Item three: the jockeys must use only “an ordinary riding crop” and go to the starting rope after the
mortaretto
cannon is fired. Item four: no one from the ground may hit or incite the horses at the starting rope. Item five: no one may help a fallen jockey to remount a horse.’
contrada
must deposit a sum that will go to the owners of the horses. Item three: the jockeys must use only “an ordinary riding crop” and go to the starting rope after the
mortaretto
cannon is fired. Item four: no one from the ground may hit or incite the horses at the starting rope. Item five: no one may help a fallen jockey to remount a horse.’
Here she looked at Riccardo in the shadows and made a tiny, imperceptible movement with her head:
go.
go.
‘Item six: the first horse to complete three circuits and to reach the judges’ stand wins. Item seven: the Palio will be claimed by official representatives of the winning
contrada
.’
contrada
.’
Violante went on to declare the new rules of the Palio, rules that would outlive her, and Riccardo too, and stand for the next two hundred years.
Behind her in the shadows, Riccardo Bruni began to unbutton his frock coat. He laid it gently on a golden chair and stole quietly down the stairs. No one challenged the last Medici as he walked into the sun. He was just a man now, an ordinary man, a son of Siena, and the crowd were too busy to notice when a girl, just a girl, a daughter of Siena, ran to meet him and fell into his arms.
‘Thank you.’
Dawn had broken on a new day: fresh, golden and full of promise, the air smelling new and innocent. Violante was in the Giraffa church of San Francesco, praying before the icon of the Madonna del Latte. This time she felt no need to sneak into the
contrada
, for she was now welcomed wherever she went: the people of Siena had finally realized how fortunate they were in her governorship. Gian Gastone’s men were even now boxing up his possessions; he was to return to Florence to assume his dukedom this very day. Violante did not think he would rule long, for his heart and his health were broken.
contrada
, for she was now welcomed wherever she went: the people of Siena had finally realized how fortunate they were in her governorship. Gian Gastone’s men were even now boxing up his possessions; he was to return to Florence to assume his dukedom this very day. Violante did not think he would rule long, for his heart and his health were broken.
Now, kneeling on the cold pavings before the sacred mother feeding her child, she had so much to be thankful for. And the Madonna looked on her kindly from her almond eyes, with fellow feeling. She knew what Violante was most grateful for: her son.
‘Thank you.’
It was noon, and the three of them, Pia, Riccardo and
Violante, had met at the Camollia gate as arranged. They stood on the very spot where a dead donkey had dried to bleached bones, to be collected piecemeal by the curs of the city. Pia and Riccardo, twined about each other like ivy, were standing in the shadow of the gate from which the donkey had fallen.
Violante, had met at the Camollia gate as arranged. They stood on the very spot where a dead donkey had dried to bleached bones, to be collected piecemeal by the curs of the city. Pia and Riccardo, twined about each other like ivy, were standing in the shadow of the gate from which the donkey had fallen.
It was the first time Pia had met the duchess face to face, and she liked what she saw. She smiled at her. ‘You have given us our lives.’
‘Then I charge you to spend them together, my dear.’
‘And we are safe?’ Riccardo asked.
The duchess did not trouble to look about her. ‘No one else knows your true identity beyond we three and your father,’ she said soothingly, ‘and he, I am sure, is happy to keep his peace.’
Pia knew this to be true. Yesterday when Riccardo had left behind his birthright and come out into the square, Pia had broken their kiss to bring him to his father. Domenico had enfolded his son in an embrace even harder and longer than the one the lovers had shared. Pia had watched as Riccardo closed his eyes and leaned into his father, his knees almost buckling under the weight of the love he felt for this man who was no blood nor kin, but far, far more.
‘What of the Electress Palatine?’ It was Pia who asked the question.
Her intelligence pleased the duchess even more than her beauty and she smiled on her again.
‘I did not tell her the exact nature of the proclamation
I would make. I merely said that I would make an announcement about the future of the city, and asked if she would agree to stand by it and the laws of Tuscany, whatever the ramifications may be. She said she would always be found on the side of right and law and Tuscany, and that I may rely upon her. She will make a good grand duchess one day. On that day, women will rule in both Siena and Florence.’
I would make. I merely said that I would make an announcement about the future of the city, and asked if she would agree to stand by it and the laws of Tuscany, whatever the ramifications may be. She said she would always be found on the side of right and law and Tuscany, and that I may rely upon her. She will make a good grand duchess one day. On that day, women will rule in both Siena and Florence.’
The thought seemed pleasing to the duchess and it pleased Pia too.
‘And Gian Gastone?’ This from Riccardo.
‘He is set to return to Florence,’ replied his mother. ‘He will take his father’s place, but I think he will not rule long. He is not well in body. This has been so for a while. But when we are sick at heart too, we are not long for the world. I think the Electress will not have long to wait.’
Pia registered the pang of pity in the words, and knew that the duchess had freed her son so that he need not follow in the footsteps of his uncle to corruption, to excess, to decadence.
‘And you?’ Pia asked, filled with a sharp regret that the duchess might leave this place. ‘Will you stay now?’
‘I think so, there is still much to do. After all, I am still governess of Siena. The grand duke has stated that he has no wish ever to set foot in the place again.’
She could not disguise the relief she felt that Gian Gastone would soon be gone from her house, from her city.
‘And you two, what will you do? Marry, I suppose?’ It was said with a smile.
‘Yes, we are to live with my father,’ replied Riccardo.
‘And
your
father, Pia? He has agreed to this?’
your
father, Pia? He has agreed to this?’
Pia nodded. ‘He was given advice from an unexpected quarter.’
The duchess raised her pale brows.
‘Faustino Caprimulgo,’ said Pia, almost not believing it herself. ‘He vouched for Riccardo and said he was a good man. Moreover, my father is now ruined too and cannot provide me a dowry. Riccardo will take me without one.’
She took hold of his hand and with the other she touched, briefly, the coin of Cleopatra at her throat. It did not matter that this was now all the dowry she possessed. Pia had all the riches that she could hold, not in the hand that held the coin, but in the hand that held Riccardo’s.
‘I will settle some money on you both to begin your life,’ said the duchess.
Pia knew as she said it that Riccardo would refuse, and he did. But the duchess was ready with another suggestion.
‘Then perhaps you will let me pay you for honest work,’ she said. ‘I’d like you to be the palace ostler, as my current man is in his dotage and in need of rest. There are rooms, in the servants’ quarters, that come with the job. I have a notion,’ she said, smiling, ‘that you will like them much more than you would have done the duke’s salon.’
‘It feels wrong to take from someone who has given us so much,’ said Riccardo, ‘but to work with horses for a wage is something I would enjoy. Thank you.’
Pia took her cue. ‘And now, I would like to give
you
a gift.’
you
a gift.’
She held out a parcel, wrapped in canvas. When the duchess parted the rough cloth she found finer threads beneath, a bale of dark-red samite, the colour of blood. The duchess shook it out. It was a dress, cut for a woman of her girth and height, the material dark and glowing like carnelians. She held it to herself, and Pia noted that she had chosen well.
Somehow Zebra had managed to rescue her mother’s gowns from the Eagles’ palace and had brought them to Domenico’s house. There Pia had laid them out in the little parlour. In the folds of the leather garde-corps she had found her copy of the
Morte d’Arthur
, a volume she thought she would never see again, and she blessed Zebra with every saint she could remember. She had walked up and down, looking at the rainbow of gowns, considering. Before this day she would have sworn she would never part with a single one, but she had not hesitated. In this city where colour was so loaded, had such meaning, she did not let any of these considerations of heraldry and
contrade
enter her mind. She did not avoid yellow because it meant the Goose, or green because it meant the Caterpillar. She just picked a colour that she thought would warm the duchess’s skin.
Morte d’Arthur
, a volume she thought she would never see again, and she blessed Zebra with every saint she could remember. She had walked up and down, looking at the rainbow of gowns, considering. Before this day she would have sworn she would never part with a single one, but she had not hesitated. In this city where colour was so loaded, had such meaning, she did not let any of these considerations of heraldry and
contrade
enter her mind. She did not avoid yellow because it meant the Goose, or green because it meant the Caterpillar. She just picked a colour that she thought would warm the duchess’s skin.
The duchess smiled. ‘
Red
,’ she said, looking almost pretty.
Red
,’ she said, looking almost pretty.
Pia nodded, adding shyly, ‘It belonged to
my
mother. I thought it would become you.’
my
mother. I thought it would become you.’
Violante heard that stress on the word
my
, almost imperceptible.
The dress belonged to
my
mother.
You
are Riccardo’s.
my
, almost imperceptible.
The dress belonged to
my
mother.
You
are Riccardo’s.
It was an invitation. Pia wanted the duchess to know that even though Riccardo had not accepted his heritage, his mother should not consign their bond to the dust. The duchess folded the gown tenderly, clearly touched by the gesture. Then she took her son’s hand and led them through the Camollia gate.
Outside the gateway Zebra was ready, holding Berio’s leading rein. Given in bad faith under another name, he was now Pia’s in the eyes of the law, as the property of her dead husband. The horse lifted his head and whickered when he saw her, the dull black beginning to grow out of his coat and the shining bay beneath revealed like a new skin. Pia had no need of Riccardo’s hand to help her up to the horse in front of him. Zebra looked at the colour of the coin Riccardo gave him and bit it in delight.
As Violante clutched the dress with one hand and waved with the other, the couple rode away across the plain. She looked down at Zebra, wistfully watching his friend ride away, and suddenly it all fell into place.
The child was the missing piece in a puzzle or the last counter of a game. She had not been allowed to raise her son. Here was a boy with no home or family, who had spent his nine years of life carrying water, relaying messages or holding horses for coin.
She said quickly, before she thought better of it, ‘Zebra, how would you like to sleep in the same bed every night? Your
own
bed?’
own
bed?’
The boy squinted up at her and smiled, screwing up his eyes and his freckled nose against the sun. He slotted his little hand into hers and she had her answer. She returned the squeeze.
‘If you are to live in the palace with me, I cannot call you Zebra,’ said she. ‘What is your given name?’
‘Pietro.’
Pietro, Peter, Petrus. The holder of the crossed keys. The patron saint of Rome, of Romulus, of the Rock.
Violante smiled down at him. ‘Well, Pietro, let’s go home.’
Pia and Riccardo rode out for the rest of the day. They had two very important tasks to fulfil. Firstly, they rode into the hills to that beautiful western aspect of the city, where Leocorno had once ridden against the peerless view. Here, under the cover of night, the duchess’s men had brought Leocorno’s body, no boon too great for her to grant her secret son, who could not bear his valiant mount to be fed to the city’s hounds. There, in the hills, the horse was rolled from the sheepcart that carried him and buried in the soft earth. No one but the duchess’s most trusted guards knew that the horse’s body was wrapped in the Palio banner that he’d won, and even now the Bruco silkmakers of the Caterpillar
contrada
were busily making a new one.
contrada
were busily making a new one.
As the sun soared the couple stopped by the great mound of soil. Pia watched Riccardo as he laid his hand on the heaped earth and finally marked the place with a
great stone so that he might find it again, when the mound had fallen in and flattened, and when Leocorno’s bones were as dry as the bones of the little donkey who had been thrown over the Camollia gate six weeks ago. For an instant Pia felt a connection between the two beasts, the humble ass who had died outside the walls and was buried within, the noble horse who had died inside the walls and was buried without.
great stone so that he might find it again, when the mound had fallen in and flattened, and when Leocorno’s bones were as dry as the bones of the little donkey who had been thrown over the Camollia gate six weeks ago. For an instant Pia felt a connection between the two beasts, the humble ass who had died outside the walls and was buried within, the noble horse who had died inside the walls and was buried without.
When he was done Pia paid her own respects. She took Cleopatra’s coin from her neck, made a deep divot in the soft earth with her finger and dropped the pendant in. As she covered it over Riccardo caught her wrist. The green eyes of the Medici looked into the black eyes of the Tolomei.
‘Are you sure?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Quite sure. You see, I’ve been Pia of the Tolomei, I’ve been Pia of the Caprimulgo. But I’m not any more. I’m not Cleopatra, or the first Pia. I’m not Guinevere. I’m not Minerva. I’m not a long-dead empress, or my tragic ancestress, a faithless queen, or a goddess. I’m not even Pia of the Bruni, even when we wed.’
She held his dear face in her hands, to mitigate any hurt he might feel that she would not take his name.
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