The Daughter of Siena (8 page)
‘Do you know the horseman of the Tower
contrada
? Do you know who he is, where to find him?’
contrada
? Do you know who he is, where to find him?’
Zebra ducked his head in a nod, his mouth stuffed with bread and milk.
Violante was relieved. She had half expected the horseman to have left Siena by now.
‘Go to him in my name, with this seal.’ She passed him a small plaque bearing the Medici shield. A glance at her family arms gave her courage. ‘Bid him come here to the palace at his earliest convenience.’
As Zebra bowed, she noted his black-and-white clothes, the same colours as the banner that she still held around her shoulders. She had a sudden notion. She folded the flag respectfully, warm from her body, and gave it to the boy.
‘And on your way, take this to the Caprimulgo house.’
The boy looked up, startled.
‘Put it in the hands of Faustino Caprimulgo and tell him …’ She hardened her tone with the timbre of resolve. ‘Tell him Violante Beatrix de’ Medici, no—’ She corrected herself. ‘The governess of Siena sends him this, with her condolences.’
Black and white were the colours of the chessboard too. She had made her first move.
The Panther
T
he Panther, the young man who lay dead in the Eagle’s dungeons, was once young and whole and happy, growing up in his father’s house. His father, captain of the Panthers, was an apothecary who had amassed a small fortune and bought a fine new house in the Pantera
contrada
in the west of the city. The
capitano
decided to bring objects to his house that befitted his new class, filling it with paintings.
he Panther, the young man who lay dead in the Eagle’s dungeons, was once young and whole and happy, growing up in his father’s house. His father, captain of the Panthers, was an apothecary who had amassed a small fortune and bought a fine new house in the Pantera
contrada
in the west of the city. The
capitano
decided to bring objects to his house that befitted his new class, filling it with paintings.
The young Panther had a favourite – a painting by the Sienese master Sassetta. He passed it every day in the parlour, where it hung over the armoire. It depicted a panther at bay, trapped in a deep pit, magnificent, sitting back on the bunched black muscles of his haunches, snarling with pin-sharp ivory teeth. On the lip of the pit were gathered a group of rustic shepherds, some pelting the beast with sticks and stones, some throwing him food. The young Panther was struck by the nobility of the beast: doomed to die, but still defiant. The boy was
struck, too, by the attitude of the shepherds, good and bad, offering both death and life. He asked his father what the painting meant.
struck, too, by the attitude of the shepherds, good and bad, offering both death and life. He asked his father what the painting meant.
His father, looking down at his son and considering his tender age, told the tale simply. The panther had fallen into the pit by some mischance, he said. The shepherds discovered him and were sure he was going to die. Some tortured him for his last hours, but others chose to relieve his final moments with food.
‘Did he die?’ asked the boy.
‘He did not,’ answered the father. ‘The food revived him, and he leaped from his trap and sought out the shepherds. He slaughtered the ones who had taunted him, but, seeing the good shepherds cowering, he reassured them, saying: “I remember those who sought my death with stones, and I remember those who gave me succour. Set aside your fears. I return as an enemy only to those who injured me.”’
The boy seemed satisfied. There was plenty of time, his father thought, to apprise his son of the deeper meanings of the painting, of the Panthers’ position in Siena, their relative relationships, their alliances with the Tower, their rivalry with the Eagles, the implications for trade and politics. Time enough for that.
He never got a chance.
Riccardo Bruni woke convinced that the dying Panther was with him. He blinked enough times to convince himself that the stable was empty of any soul save his, and
scratched his skin in the places where the straw had printed its shapes into his flesh. He closed his eyes and listened as the bells rang seven.
scratched his skin in the places where the straw had printed its shapes into his flesh. He closed his eyes and listened as the bells rang seven.
He opened them again to see Zebra ducking under the half-door and handing him the duchess’s seal.
‘You are summoned to the palace,’ said the boy, eyes round.
Riccardo turned the seal over in his hands, saying nothing, studying the Medici cognizance of the circle of red balls on a gold shield. He imagined what it would be like to be part of a family so exalted that they had their own arms. He supposed the duchess wished to acknowledge his chivalry yesterday, although it had seemed a small enough gesture among the surly captains.
Uncharacteristically, he took a moment to consider his appearance. His stockings were less than white, his jerkin was covered in straw; one of his cuffs was missing a button, one of his shoes a buckle. Riccardo retied his hair and crammed his tricorne on his head. Sighing inwardly, he cuffed Zebra gently about the head, smiled to mitigate the offence and flipped him a
ruspo
, the coin spinning in the air.
ruspo
, the coin spinning in the air.
‘Am I to spend this day too doing your bidding? My pockets will be empty.’
He walked the short distance to the
palazzo
. He had lived under the shadow of its tower all his life, the tower that had numbered his hours and days as he grew up like the gnomon of a sundial. This was the very tower that gave his
contrada
its name, for it stood sentinel at the edge of his ward, yet he had never been within the palace. The
curiosity that he had felt the day before, when summoned to Faustino, returned.
palazzo
. He had lived under the shadow of its tower all his life, the tower that had numbered his hours and days as he grew up like the gnomon of a sundial. This was the very tower that gave his
contrada
its name, for it stood sentinel at the edge of his ward, yet he had never been within the palace. The
curiosity that he had felt the day before, when summoned to Faustino, returned.
After giving his name at the great doors, Riccardo was shown into a vast chamber where paintings crawled over every inch of the walls – paintings of places he knew well, so cunningly rendered it was as if he looked through a window. There was the duomo, the Chigi palace, the Loggia del Papa. There was the Colle Malamerenda – the Hill of Bad Meals – just outside the city, where twenty people were killed in a brawl between the Salimbeni and Tolomei families when there were too few thrushes brought to a feast. Raised to think of nothing but horses, he picked out a great horseback procession and saw, among the noblemen, a noble lady riding astride, her robes falling either side of her horse’s back, almost down to his hocks. As he stood, gazing at her unmoving figure, the double doors at the end of the hall opened.
The duchess was dressed from head to toe in violet, just as she had been yesterday. It was a strange colour for a woman of her years. But when Riccardo looked into her round caper-green eyes with their short stubby lashes, and at the array of wrinkles radiating from them as she smiled, he felt oddly comforted. He took in the wide sympathetic mouth, the soft jaw below, saw the ample bosom and waist that her corsets could not hide. She was not handsome and likely never had been, but there was something essentially motherly about her. It was not at all what he thought he would feel in the presence of a duchess.
Nor did he expect what she went on to say. In her gentle, Germanic accent she explained that the frescoes
showed good and bad government, that she wanted to bring back the happy, peaceful times and end the needless rivalries between
contrade
that ended in deaths like Vicenzo’s. She had seen him help the dying man during the race. She asked for his help.
showed good and bad government, that she wanted to bring back the happy, peaceful times and end the needless rivalries between
contrade
that ended in deaths like Vicenzo’s. She had seen him help the dying man during the race. She asked for his help.
His refusal was gentle and civil, but decided. It was not that he didn’t agree with her. He did. She argued well, held her hands wide and told him that this place where he now stood, the Palazzo Pubblico, was and always had been the focus of the city – a civic, not a religious centre. She told him that the stony finger of the Torre del Mangia, which crowned the concave curve of the crenellations, was the highest tower in the land, that you could almost see it reaching into the sky with civic pride. Riccardo could see all this. But he had to refuse. She was an outsider. He didn’t doubt that she loved her adopted city. But Faustino, monster that he was, was Sienese born and bred. The Caprimulgo countenance was there before him in the very frescoes that she had shown him. He couldn’t take sides against a Sienese, against his own people.
‘I am sorry, Madam.’
He bowed and took his leave before he could read the disappointment in her eyes.
White for the day after.
Pia, having revealed herself as a bird that wished to fly, had had her wings clipped. She was not allowed any of Vicenzo’s funeral wake-meats in the great hall. She had
been locked in her chamber all day. She dared not look in the garderobe at the dress that terrified her so much, but she knew it was there. Sometimes, in a trick of the draught, the beaded skirts would slither on the wood, or the hanger would knock on the door.
been locked in her chamber all day. She dared not look in the garderobe at the dress that terrified her so much, but she knew it was there. Sometimes, in a trick of the draught, the beaded skirts would slither on the wood, or the hanger would knock on the door.
She slept eventually, woke again, tried to recite her favourite verses or remember extracts of her favourite legends. It was not a cheering exercise. All her heroines – Guinevere, Iseult, or Cleopatra as conjured by William Shakespeare – made sorry ends. She determinedly tried not to recall her ancestor, the first Pia of the Tolomei, tragic heroine of Dante, who was freed from her tower only by her death at the hands of her jealous husband.
During the night that followed, Pia tried to find hope. She tried to believe that her father, Civetta to the bone, would not wed her to an unknown groom of another
contrada
. But as the dawn paled, she knew that all hope was gone. It was White Dress Day.
contrada
. But as the dawn paled, she knew that all hope was gone. It was White Dress Day.
Perhaps she had misjudged Nello – perhaps the marks on her arm were an accident. Perhaps he was a kind man; perhaps someone who struggled under the affliction of such an appearance, under the daily shadow of an older, handsomer brother, would have developed a tender soul? At least
he
had not violated the twelve-year-old heiress of the Benedetti and led her to hang herself from a ham-hook.
he
had not violated the twelve-year-old heiress of the Benedetti and led her to hang herself from a ham-hook.
Chin high, Pia opened the door of the garderobe at last and, shaking, took out the white dress. She silently suffered the indignity of being stripped and dressed by Nicoletta. The maid then began to dress her hair, clucking
and smiling as if Pia were her own daughter, but pinning the pearls in a little too firmly so blood beaded on the girl’s forehead, and scraping the diamond combs across her tender scalp. When Nicoletta held up a looking-glass at last, Pia gazed on a face of beauteous perfection, and a stranger looked back at her. In defiance, she pulled Cleopatra’s coin from her bodice to hang outside the beautiful, terrible, dreaded white dress. It was the only thing left of Pia of the Tolomei.
and smiling as if Pia were her own daughter, but pinning the pearls in a little too firmly so blood beaded on the girl’s forehead, and scraping the diamond combs across her tender scalp. When Nicoletta held up a looking-glass at last, Pia gazed on a face of beauteous perfection, and a stranger looked back at her. In defiance, she pulled Cleopatra’s coin from her bodice to hang outside the beautiful, terrible, dreaded white dress. It was the only thing left of Pia of the Tolomei.
Today’s procession was a little different from yesterday’s. This time they walked, not to the Eagles’ church, but up the stony streets to the basilica, the bells bawling out across the towers. The formidable Nicoletta, in her best fustian, was Pia’s bridesmaid, and behind her straggled a company of minstrels, actors and jugglers in bright motley. Tuneless trumpets and accordions anticipated the discord to come as they followed her up the Via del Capitano.
In the Piazza del Duomo, huddled in the sheltering shadow cast by the vast black-and-white building, a crowd gathered. All
contrade
, in their different colours, had come to witness this strange mixed marriage: an Owlet wed to an Eagle.
contrade
, in their different colours, had come to witness this strange mixed marriage: an Owlet wed to an Eagle.
Inside, in the dimness of plainsong and frankincense, the families of the Civetta and the Aquila flanked the nave. Pia’s father, standing at the altar, could spare her a nod, but not a smile, as he took her hand for the fasting. Salvatore had found himself a shaft of light to stand in, but he shared it with another – Nello Caprimulgo – her intended, turned to a wraith of light. His pale hair and
skin glowed, he wore silks as white as her malign dress, but his red eyes were demonic. Pia’s fantasy of a kindly man crumbled. Salvatore put her hand into Nello’s, and the Eagles’ heir grasped it as brutally as he had held her arm after the Palio. Those bruises were fading to yellow under the sleeve of her white dress, but there would be more.
skin glowed, he wore silks as white as her malign dress, but his red eyes were demonic. Pia’s fantasy of a kindly man crumbled. Salvatore put her hand into Nello’s, and the Eagles’ heir grasped it as brutally as he had held her arm after the Palio. Those bruises were fading to yellow under the sleeve of her white dress, but there would be more.
Pia listened to the marriage mass as if it were happening to someone else. Unable to look at her groom, she slid her dry eyes east to the
facciatone
, the huge unfinished wall of the nave, begun in the days of the Nine and abandoned when they ran out of money. It was a monument to waste, built in stone. She herself was the human embodiment of waste. Nineteen years of promise, reared and schooled and protected as the daughter of the Civetta, ended here, unfinished, on the day of the white dress.
facciatone
, the huge unfinished wall of the nave, begun in the days of the Nine and abandoned when they ran out of money. It was a monument to waste, built in stone. She herself was the human embodiment of waste. Nineteen years of promise, reared and schooled and protected as the daughter of the Civetta, ended here, unfinished, on the day of the white dress.
She began to panic. Trembling, she kept her lips tight for all the responses. And when it came to the vows, she refused to speak. A dreadful scene ensued, her father and Nicoletta cajoling, threatening, trying to prise her lips apart with fingers and nails, as the spittle ran down her chin, as if she were an animal.
Finally, Nello leaned close and whispered in her ear, his breath warming her as his brother’s had. ‘Vicenzo said you were frighted by the story of the Benedetto slut.’
She was so shocked, she stilled herself to listen. The girl had not been thirteen years old.
‘I cannot besmirch his memory. It was I who hung her from the butcher’s hook. We shared everything, you see, Vicenzo and I. Everything.’
Pia lurched backwards and searched his awful eyes for a jest. But he merely nodded.
‘Ah yes, you understand me now, don’t you? We could not have her blabbing, you see. But there is a time to stay silent, and a time to speak.’
After that Pia did as she was bidden. She let Nello put his ring upon her finger: an eagle bearing a bloody jewel in his mouth. She suffered his kiss, for the applauding congregation. She threw coins for the cheering crowds in the square. She even took her new husband’s hand as they walked back to the Caprimulgo house.
She was given leave to return to her chamber to prepare for the feast, and there she collapsed. Her knees buckled and sobs racked her, shook her to the very core, frightening her with their violence. After a time she pressed her hands to her mouth, calming herself. She sought the looking-glass. If she appeared dishevelled at dinner she knew she would suffer for it. But Nicoletta had taken the mirror, perhaps in case her mistress smashed the glass and damaged herself with the shards. This gave Pia an idea.
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