The Daughter of Siena (4 page)
The door closed and a heartbeat later came the unmistakable turn of a key. To Pia, who had grown up with a morbid fear of being imprisoned, it was a dreadful sound. Perhaps it was because her famous ancestress, another Pia of the Tolomei, a woman who had been immortalized in Dante’s
Purgatory
, had spent her last days shut in a tower. Perhaps it was because Pia had grown up in a city encircled by walls and had barely left it, not even to see the sea. Either way, she had to clench her fists to stem the wave of panic and stuff one of them in her mouth to stop herself from crying out.
Purgatory
, had spent her last days shut in a tower. Perhaps it was because Pia had grown up in a city encircled by walls and had barely left it, not even to see the sea. Either way, she had to clench her fists to stem the wave of panic and stuff one of them in her mouth to stop herself from crying out.
Trying to be calm, Pia watched the day bleed to death outside her new chamber window. Alone except for the two gowns hanging in her wardrobe, their silks whispering a threat as they turned on their hooks.
Black for tomorrow, white the day after.
Black for tomorrow, white the day after.
The Eagle
T
he horseman of Siena had ridden under the eye of an eagle once before.
he horseman of Siena had ridden under the eye of an eagle once before.
He was seven and was already obsessed with horses. He used to ride out at dawn, be gone for the day in the Tuscan hills, and come back at night to the Tower
contrada
for dinner, touched with sun, dropping in his saddle and covered in white tufa dust like a little ghost.
contrada
for dinner, touched with sun, dropping in his saddle and covered in white tufa dust like a little ghost.
One morning he saw an incredible thing in those hills. As the sun rose, an eagle blotted out the light and dived like a stone, taking a lamb from a grazing flock in his great talons. With a giant beat of wings that stirred the boy’s hair, he took off over the hills, disappearing over the pink and gold towers of the city with his bleating burden, like a Bible illustration. The boy was still staring, open-mouthed, when there was another flutter of wings from a nearby cypress. A smaller bird burst forth and, as if it had witnessed the capture of the lamb, landed on the back
of the largest ram. There the foolish bird fluttered around with a whirr of wings, leaping and flapping and attempting to carry the ram off. Soon his claws became entangled in the ram’s wool and he could not free himself.
of the largest ram. There the foolish bird fluttered around with a whirr of wings, leaping and flapping and attempting to carry the ram off. Soon his claws became entangled in the ram’s wool and he could not free himself.
Laughing at the spectacle, which had shifted from drama to comedy in one short moment, the little horseman slid from his saddle and ran to the ram. He arrived at the same time as the shepherd, who took his knife and cut the bird free from the greasy wool. Seeing the boy hovering close, he spread and cut the prime feathers, clipping the wings. He handed the bird to the little horseman, figuring, rightly, that the boy would not mind the black blood.
‘He’s yours,’ said the shepherd, in thick Sienese. ‘Take him home for a pet.’
Boy and bird regarded each other, the boy’s eyes glittering with delight, the bird’s button eyes holding an expression that was at the same time foolish and free. The boy stroked the small blue-black head with nail-bitten fingers.
‘What kind of bird is he?’ he called, for the shepherd had already headed back down the hill to his flock, shaking his head over the loss of the lamb. The fellow turned at the question and half his mouth smiled.
‘To my certain knowledge he is a daw,’ he replied. ‘But he would like you to think him an eagle.’
The horseman of the Tower
contrada
had been so shaken by the events of the Palio that he slept in his father’s stable with Taccola, the stallion he had ridden that day.
He could not explain, even to himself, why he would feel more comforted here than in the house and he would have been better off in his bed, for in the warm close straw, hooves galloped through his dreams and the parched bedding, which tickled his nose, merely served to remind him of the racetrack and the flood of blood that had soaked the dust. The sweet-smelling warmth of the horse’s silky hide only brought back the events of a day he would rather forget. It was not the first time a man had died in his arms. But he had hoped that here, at home again after long years of absence, he would be spared such sights, such smells.
contrada
had been so shaken by the events of the Palio that he slept in his father’s stable with Taccola, the stallion he had ridden that day.
He could not explain, even to himself, why he would feel more comforted here than in the house and he would have been better off in his bed, for in the warm close straw, hooves galloped through his dreams and the parched bedding, which tickled his nose, merely served to remind him of the racetrack and the flood of blood that had soaked the dust. The sweet-smelling warmth of the horse’s silky hide only brought back the events of a day he would rather forget. It was not the first time a man had died in his arms. But he had hoped that here, at home again after long years of absence, he would be spared such sights, such smells.
When he was shaken awake he felt relief as he recognized the little face before him. It was Zebra, dressed in his familiar black-and-white garb. The boy was well known as a go-between, carrying messages for coin, crossing, without limit, the
contrada
lines in a way that others could not. This errand, so early in the day, must have been worth much; it was barely light outside the stable door. The horseman sat and blew straw from his lips, rubbing the back of his neck.
contrada
lines in a way that others could not. This errand, so early in the day, must have been worth much; it was barely light outside the stable door. The horseman sat and blew straw from his lips, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Zebra. What is it?’
Zebra spoke in the staccato rhythms of hoofbeats. ‘The Eagle. He wants you. At his house. Before daybreak.’
‘Me? Why?’
Zebra shrugged. He never needed details; his payment was reason enough.
The horseman knew well who the Eagle was. Faustino Caprimulgo, alone among all the captains, not only represented but had somehow
become
the emblem of his
contrada
. Perhaps it was the hawklike appearance; perhaps it was the ruthless predator’s dispatch of those who crossed him. Perhaps it was that he could, from his own eyrie of the towers of his
palazzo
, see everything that passed in his city.
become
the emblem of his
contrada
. Perhaps it was the hawklike appearance; perhaps it was the ruthless predator’s dispatch of those who crossed him. Perhaps it was that he could, from his own eyrie of the towers of his
palazzo
, see everything that passed in his city.
The horseman considered, his brain as slow as if stuffed with straw, as golden motes of dust drifted before his eyes in the first light of day. To refuse such a summons, even from the captain of a rival
contrada
, would be a direct insult. But to walk into the house of a man whose son had died under his hands seemed nothing but the greatest folly. What if Faustino wished to punish him for Vicenzo’s death? What if he found him culpable in some way? Could the
capitano
think, as the horseman did himself (
now
he knew the terrible theme that had marched through his dream), that he could somehow have saved Vicenzo?
contrada
, would be a direct insult. But to walk into the house of a man whose son had died under his hands seemed nothing but the greatest folly. What if Faustino wished to punish him for Vicenzo’s death? What if he found him culpable in some way? Could the
capitano
think, as the horseman did himself (
now
he knew the terrible theme that had marched through his dream), that he could somehow have saved Vicenzo?
The horseman eyed his messenger. Zebra had been no more than seven when the horseman had left two years ago, which made him no more than nine now. The boy looked as if he had had little sleep. The night of the Palio, even a tragic one such as yesterday’s, was his busiest night: missives from
fantini
or
capitani
to each other, payments to be made between syndicates, even messages between lovers of rival
contrade
. Zebra was dropping where he stood, his little beady eyes closing. The horseman hauled himself from his bed and pushed the boy down gently into the warm hollow of straw he had left. Zebra had barely bitten the coin the horseman proffered before he fell asleep, curled up like a babe. The horseman
took the coin from the boy’s mouth and placed it in the warm little palm, before he set out in the pre-dawn.
fantini
or
capitani
to each other, payments to be made between syndicates, even messages between lovers of rival
contrade
. Zebra was dropping where he stood, his little beady eyes closing. The horseman hauled himself from his bed and pushed the boy down gently into the warm hollow of straw he had left. Zebra had barely bitten the coin the horseman proffered before he fell asleep, curled up like a babe. The horseman
took the coin from the boy’s mouth and placed it in the warm little palm, before he set out in the pre-dawn.
If he had ridden the race to the finish, he would have won and the Torre
contrada
would have been delirious with joy, still celebrating into the daylight, yet he didn’t fear any repercussions, even though their hopes had been pinned to his colours and he had let them down in order to try to save a life. In fact the horseman didn’t remember a time when he had ever been afraid. His earliest memories of life with his father were of being placed on horseback, even as a babe: huge towering beasts from whose broad slippery backs he fell with astonishing regularity. He had cried, but not been fearful to clamber back up next time a stallion came for shoeing. There had been no mother to pick him up, to cover him with kisses, so he had hardened under his father’s watchful gaze. His mother was never a presence in their little house, for she was dead, or gone, before the child had begun to remember and his father never spoke of her.
contrada
would have been delirious with joy, still celebrating into the daylight, yet he didn’t fear any repercussions, even though their hopes had been pinned to his colours and he had let them down in order to try to save a life. In fact the horseman didn’t remember a time when he had ever been afraid. His earliest memories of life with his father were of being placed on horseback, even as a babe: huge towering beasts from whose broad slippery backs he fell with astonishing regularity. He had cried, but not been fearful to clamber back up next time a stallion came for shoeing. There had been no mother to pick him up, to cover him with kisses, so he had hardened under his father’s watchful gaze. His mother was never a presence in their little house, for she was dead, or gone, before the child had begun to remember and his father never spoke of her.
The horseman’s father, Domenico, was a man who loved horses more than he loved people. He was more than a blacksmith. As a farrier he would not only shoe the horses that came to him but he would care for their legs and feet, running his expert hands and eyes down their strong limbs with almost the same affection with which he touched or regarded his son. He would speak gently to the beasts so that even the most fearsome would stand still under the calming flow of words and gentle hands. He was well known as the man to visit for any equine ailments, from foot to fetlock.
His pride in his work would reach its peak every year at the Palio races of July and August. In fact, his demeanour changed with the seasons: in the summer, in the run-up to the races, he was happy, talkative, voluble and full of anticipation. In the winter he was withdrawn and morose, his mood black, his spirits depressed at the notion of so long to wait before his year reached its zenith. The day after the second Palio, the Palio dell’Assunta on the sixteenth day of August, was the worst, even if the Tower had been victorious.
Domenico loved his work, took pride in his horseshoes and, when it became clear that his son was a gifted rider, he began to take pride in the young horseman too. Domenico’s greatest pride, though, was that he had once shod the horse of the Grand Duke Cosimo III de’ Medici himself. He told, endlessly, the tale of the fabled day when he had been called to Florence to tend to the ducal stallion. This story reached its apogee when the old duke’s own daughter-in-law, Violante Beatrix of Bavaria, had entered Siena in triumph as the city’s new governess ten years ago. Then, as the duchess’s sheen slowly faded and the old rhythms of the city reasserted themselves, the story lost some of its currency and was now rarely told. Only the closest companions would be taken aside and told about the time, back in ’03, when the farrier of the Tower
contrada
, in a rare commission to Florence, had been chosen to shoe the horse of the grand duke.
contrada
, in a rare commission to Florence, had been chosen to shoe the horse of the grand duke.
The horseman trod quietly past his father’s door, knowing that, even though the next Palio was little more than a month away, the old man would keep to his bed
today, lying under a coverlet of depression. The horseman did not fear, as he left his house behind, that he might never see his father again; he did not bid his beloved streets farewell, nor cross himself more fervently than usual before the church of his
contrada
. The great Piazza del Campo, yawning and vast in the dawn light, was empty save for the watchmen in their tricornes and the
comune
’s servants sweeping up the dust track. Although he turned his eyes from the dark shadow of the bloodstain that still remained at the San Martino corner, he was not afraid as he approached the Caprimulgos’ ward. He was merely curious.
today, lying under a coverlet of depression. The horseman did not fear, as he left his house behind, that he might never see his father again; he did not bid his beloved streets farewell, nor cross himself more fervently than usual before the church of his
contrada
. The great Piazza del Campo, yawning and vast in the dawn light, was empty save for the watchmen in their tricornes and the
comune
’s servants sweeping up the dust track. Although he turned his eyes from the dark shadow of the bloodstain that still remained at the San Martino corner, he was not afraid as he approached the Caprimulgos’ ward. He was merely curious.
Curiosity had once made him seek a life outside the walls of the city and the quiet rhythms of his father’s life. Curiosity had made him follow a band of cavalry on the long road south to Milazzo, fired with a sudden desire to keep the Spanish out of their peninsula. There he had joined the Austrian cavalry and, as the fastest rider, was given the pennant to carry. The first day of the second battle of Milazzo, he rode down into the valley first of all the horse, with all the exhilaration of ignorance. Above his head streamed the banner of the Hapsburgs, the great black eagle seeming to flap its wings in anticipation. Riccardo had had no idea of what was to come. That day, he had been just another daw who thought himself an eagle.
With an effort, he wrenched his mind back to the present. Today he was curious to know what the captain of the Eagles wanted with him. The wakeful starlings, in their hundreds, screeched and whirled above as they had
done every day for millennia, restored to their noisy dominion once more. But the horseman read no soothsayer’s message in the curve of their flight, no harbingers of death nor portents of evil. After Milazzo he had vowed never to be afraid again.
done every day for millennia, restored to their noisy dominion once more. But the horseman read no soothsayer’s message in the curve of their flight, no harbingers of death nor portents of evil. After Milazzo he had vowed never to be afraid again.
Riccardo’s steps quickened down the steep rake of the piazza, then slowed again as he climbed the slope to the Eagle ward. The citizens of Siena were always going up a hill or down one: the city was a warren of houses and
palazzi
perched on vertiginous gradients in a town plan unchanged for centuries. Maps, yellowed at the edge for hundreds of years, still held true today. In fact, as the streets of the Eagle
contrada
closed around the horseman, and the tall and ancient houses gave respite from the rising sun, it was as if he had stepped back in time, to an earlier age. There was no one around to break the spell of old days; the alleys were silent. Above him, from every window, hung the banner of the Eagle, a black bird on a yellow ground, its beak in profile and talons outstretched to kill, like the standard he had once carried. Each flag hung still and straight from its pole like a hanged man and not a breath of breeze stirred.
palazzi
perched on vertiginous gradients in a town plan unchanged for centuries. Maps, yellowed at the edge for hundreds of years, still held true today. In fact, as the streets of the Eagle
contrada
closed around the horseman, and the tall and ancient houses gave respite from the rising sun, it was as if he had stepped back in time, to an earlier age. There was no one around to break the spell of old days; the alleys were silent. Above him, from every window, hung the banner of the Eagle, a black bird on a yellow ground, its beak in profile and talons outstretched to kill, like the standard he had once carried. Each flag hung still and straight from its pole like a hanged man and not a breath of breeze stirred.
Just as the horseman reached the fortified
palazzo
of the Caprimulgo family, the chapel bell tolled six. The great doors were open, and the horseman passed through. No one challenged him so he walked to the great hall of the house, the silence thick around him, settling after the fading bell like a pall, heavy and almost palpable. In the centre of the great chamber, at the very heart of the house, he saw a box, a young man lying in it, and an old
man bending close. The old man’s hair was white. The horseman stopped, waited.
palazzo
of the Caprimulgo family, the chapel bell tolled six. The great doors were open, and the horseman passed through. No one challenged him so he walked to the great hall of the house, the silence thick around him, settling after the fading bell like a pall, heavy and almost palpable. In the centre of the great chamber, at the very heart of the house, he saw a box, a young man lying in it, and an old
man bending close. The old man’s hair was white. The horseman stopped, waited.
At length, Faustino Caprimulgo raised his head a fraction. ‘What is your name?’
The horseman’s voice rang out like the bell. ‘Riccardo. Riccardo Bruni.’
‘Son of Domenico Bruni, the farrier of the Tower
contrada
?’
contrada
?’
‘Yes.’
Riccardo may have been fearless, but he was not without feeling. He had heard so many tales, since he was a boy, about the horrific crimes of this man. And yet today, Faustino was just a father grieving for his son, in the terrible distortion of nature that forced the old to bury the young.
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