All Roads Lead to Rome
Two days later, back in Siena, Giorgio dressed at dawn and went to say
good-bye to Gaudenzia. She gazed steadfastly at him as if he had made
the morning sunbeams slant westward for the day, as if he had made the
grain she ate, and the air she breathed. "Do not have fear," he told
her. "I return _presto, pronto, subito_. I return this night."
Already he felt better. The mere prospect that today he could unburden
his worries was like strength in his blood. He filled Gaudenzia's
hayrack and water pail. He stripped her stall of bedding and swept the
floor. He brought in sheaves of bright straw and shook them and padded
them and banked them around the walls.
A friendly groom came in as he was putting the fork away. The man was
big and brawny with sad, red-rimmed eyes like a hound dog's. He clapped
Giorgio on the back.
"_Ah, Roma! Bella, bella Roma!_" he sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward
and kissing his fingertips. "My favorite of cities! You will see the
catacombs and the Colosseum and the Castle of San Angelo. But why," he
puzzled, "do you go _now_ when the manifestation of the Palio already
makes the air crackle?"
"I cannot explain. I must hurry. Soon my train leaves. Please, Signore,
kindly do me the favor to look in on Gaudenzia twice before nightfall."
* * * * *
The seven o'clock train chugged out of the station at the exact stroke
of seven. Giorgio, his hair combed so carefully the teeth marks showed,
sat in a second-class compartment filled with soldiers sleeping. They
paid him less attention than if he had been a fly. He was glad. He
could read again the exciting note in his pocket.
"The Right Reverend Monsignor Tardini," it said, "will see you at
the Vatican at twelve-thirty on Thursday next." And it was signed,
"Angelina Ciambellotti, leader of work with children, Siena."
Having nothing to do, he read the few words again and admired the
signature of this woman he hardly knew. The pen strokes were strong
and sure. Did she ever worry about things, he wondered; or was her
path laid out straight as a piece of string? Maybe working for orphans
as she and the Monsignore did was like holding a compass in the hand;
always you knew the way. He folded the letter and put it back in his
pocket, alongside the light race shoe of Gaudenzia which he was taking
as a gift for the Monsignore. His fingers closed about it for comfort.
The soldiers were still sleeping, grunting and twitching as if they
fought imaginary battles. Giorgio wished he could sleep, too, but he
had never before been to Rome and he might miss the junction at Chiusi
where he had to change to an express. When he finally reached it he was
in a panic for fear he would get on the wrong train. He asked a dozen
people to make sure.
"You have much time," they laughed. "Why not have a coffee?"
Remembering now that he had forgotten to eat breakfast, he gulped a
tiny cup of coffee and bought a sugared roll. When at last the express
to Rome roared into the station, he crowded in with the others and
found a seat beside a gangling American student.
The rest of the trip was a succession of dark tunnels and hairpin
curves, of haystacks and strawstacks, and boys herding sheep, and oxen
pulling plows between rows of grain.
Calmer now, Giorgio leaned back against the high cane seat. The train
went no farther than Rome, so he closed his eyes and let the flowing
countryside and the warm August air lull him to sleep.
It was the young American who, tugging at Giorgio's sleeve, woke him
up. "All roads lead to Rome!" he said in Italian with a strong American
accent. "We are here!"
Giorgio thanked him and burst out of the train. He hadn't meant to
sleep. Suppose he had overslept and missed his appointment with the
Monsignore! He ran through the station, skirting a big bed of pansies,
darting his way through the surge of people, past the food and drink
vendors, past porters trundling mountains of baggage. Out in the street
he stopped a policeman.
"The Vatican!" he gasped. "Monsignor Tardini, he awaits me!"
The policeman smiled, then laughed. "Is it _urgente_?"
"Si, si! _Urgente!_"
The white-gloved hand made a wide circle in the air. "My boy," he
bowed, "to go by carriage is best. Then the sights you see, and quickly
you get there, too."
Nearby, the driver of a carriage, a sparrowy man with a tall hat,
dropped his newspaper and was at Giorgio's side in an instant. "For one
thousand lire I take you to the Vatican," he offered.
"One thousand lire!"
Suddenly the driver saw in the young boy a pilgrim come to the Holy
City, a boy all alone with trouble. A strange resemblance to his
own grandson made him say, "Jump up! You sit here beside me. We fly
together." He waved Giorgio onto the high front seat, slapped the lines
over the rump of a bony mare, cracked his whip, and the cart took off
with Giorgio sitting alongside the grinning driver.
Up and down the streets of the great city the gaunt creature clattered
at a lively pace. The time clock in her head told her it was almost
time for the nosebag. The sooner she delivered her passenger, the
sooner she could plunge her muzzle into a bagful of cut-up greens.
Onlookers laughed and cheered them on as if they were in a race.
Nearing St. Peter's Square, the driver tried to pull her down to a
sedate walk, but she was no respecter of religion. And so, lathered and
blowing, she swung at break-neck speed through the gates of the Holy
City.
The wide piazza of St. Peter's with its obelisk and gushing fountains
was alive with movement--nuns sailing in their starchy wimples, priests
billowing in black robes, sailors and soldiers and pilgrims from
everywhere clicking cameras, feeding the pigeons, gazing up at the
great dome of the church.
The driver pulled up in front of the basilica. He shook hands with
Giorgio as with an old friend. "Boy," he directed, "that way you go!
No, not up the center to the church. To the right wing! Up the steps
and through the bronze portal. To you I wish best luck; and now,
_arrivederci_, my son."
Inside the grilled door two Swiss Guards, resplendent in striped
livery, blocked Giorgio's entrance with their halberds.
"I--I--" Giorgio stuttered miserably. He was no longer Vittorino,
the brave fantino who had won the July Palio. He was only Giorgio,
shrinking in size, getting littler and littler until once again he was
the runt of Monticello. Suddenly he thought of the letter in his pocket
and presented it to the imposing guard, wrong side up.
Unsmiling, the man turned it around, read the single sentence
carefully, and with a formal nod motioned him inside the Papal palace.
Afterward Giorgio never remembered how many footmen in gray and how
many officials in black and how many Palatine guards read the letter
and said, "Come this way," or "Go that way." Nor did he remember how
many frescoed passages he walked, nor how many glass-enclosed elevators
he rode, nor how many grand staircases and minor staircases he climbed.
He moved as one in a dream, through marble halls, and around and
around, and up and up and up, until he found himself in a magnificent
courtyard open to the sky. He crossed its immensity, feeling antlike
beside the gigantic statues of the apostles towering above him. Then he
was ushered into an empty chamber that seemed a trinket in size, yet
was more beautiful than any he had ever known.
"You may be seated," the guide said, and disappeared.
Perching gingerly on the edge of a settee, Giorgio felt less secure
than if he were riding bareback on a runaway horse. He mopped his brow
and folded his handkerchief. He looked about him. The room was all red
and gold. The gold chairs were covered in a rosy red, like the colors
worn by the Ram in the Palio. And the walls were the same rosy red.
Everything was quiet. Occasional wisps of conversation drifted in, but
these only emphasized the stillness. For a moment he wanted to bolt. He
knew now how Gaudenzia felt when left all alone, with no familiar hands
or voice.
And just when the silence grew terrifying, a young clerk beckoned him
across the hall and into a room with half-closed shutters. It was
pleasantly dark and cool. "The Monsignore will see you now," the young
man said.
And there, coming to meet Giorgio, was Monsignor Domenico Tardini,
Pro-secretary of State for Extraordinary Affairs.
Giorgio looked up at him, tongue-tied. The face was all faces in
one--kindly and penetrating, old and very young, smiling and
stern--and the eyes, dark and deep-set behind the thick glasses, were
both fiery and serene.
Seeing the worry in Giorgio's face, the Monsignore waved him kindly to
a row of chairs against the wall, and he himself pulled one out and sat
facing the boy.
"I congratulate you," he began with a gentle smile. "Signora
Ciambellotti has informed me about you. It is a happy occasion to
salute a new star of the Palio."
Giorgio could not answer; he only gulped.
The Monsignore went on, talking more to himself than to the boy.
"Vittorino," he spoke the name slowly, elegantly, precisely. "'Victory
of the Small One,' it means. I have many boys at Villa Nazareth who
look upon you as their hero. To ride in the Palio is to them like
riding through the gates of heaven.
"Now," he said, running his hands through his short-cropped hair, "I am
truly glad you came. You see, today there are affairs of state which
prevent me from going out to visit those boys. But you have come to
see me in their stead. Even in their sheltered life they have many
problems. Do you, too, have a problem?"
"Monsignore?"
"Yes, my son."
Giorgio plunged one hand into his pocket and his fingers clutched the
thin horseshoe. "Do you have enough time for me? With affairs of state
and all?"
"As much as you need. You see," he smiled, "I am in charge of
extraordinary affairs, and this just might be an extraordinary affair."
"It is!" Giorgio sat up straighter, and suddenly the flood-gates
opened. "Monsignore! In the Palio of August the Contrada of Nicchio
might not draw Gaudenzia."
"And why is it you wish Nicchio to draw her?"
"Because they asked me last year to ride for them."
"Then why did you ride for Onda in July?"
"Because then Nicchio was one of the seven contradas that did not run."
"Ah, yes. Of course. So it is one chance in ten that your mare should
be assigned to Nicchio?"
The boy nodded. And again his questions flew like arrows to a target.
"Monsignore! the Palio is a religious festival. Why then is it right
for the captains to make the secret agreements? Why is it right for the
fantinos to help other horses win and hold back their own? Why is it?"
The voices out in the halls faded away. The room seemed to contract.
There were just the two of them--the man thinking, and the boy with the
eager hope in him, sitting ... watching ... waiting out his answer.
"It is an honest question, Vittorino"--the words came slowly--"and only
half the answer do I know."
"Yes?"
"Suppose we turn back some pages into history. Suppose we remember that
before the year 1721 all seventeen contradas were allowed to race. Is
not that true?"
"Si, si."
"The course is very narrow, is it not, Giorgio?"
"Si."
"When all seventeen raced, how was the departure from the starting
rope?"
"Monsignore! How could they all get away at once?"
"They couldn't! Some fell and were trampled. So now the contradas draw
lots for the honor of competing, and only ten horses run. Is not that
better for the horse?"
"Oh, si."
"And the people do not wager any money on the race. That is good, no?"
Giorgio nodded, wishing the Monsignore would get to the core.
"And now mattresses are placed upright about the dangerous curves to
protect horses and fantinos both. Is that not better than in days of
old when heads of man and beast cracked against the walls?"
"Si!"
"And the contrada that wins makes nothing, but spends much. Is not that
so?"
"It is."
"And at their banquets the rich and the poor, the rulers and the
workers sit at table in happy contact, and no one feels diminished or
humiliated. Is it not good?"
"It is."
"But if a contrada draws a poor horse, then it can try to help a
friendly contrada? Is that so?"
Giorgio winced. "That is the part! That is it! What if I have to hinder
Gaudenzia? She will not understand. A whole year now she trusts in me.
On her open cuts I put salt and alum. Under her belly she lets me walk
to sew her blanket in place. It is me who nursed and trained her."
The Monsignore knew he had touched the sore spot. He tried to put
himself in the boy's place. "Can you get along without being a fantino?
Can you live without taking part in this Palio, and the next, and...."
"No, no, Monsignore," Giorgio interrupted. "Ever since I was a little
boy, there is no other world for me."
"Then, my son, what your captain tells you to do, that you must do.
The Palio is war. Contradas form alliances as countries do, to help
each other fight a common enemy."
Giorgio sat silent at the desolating words.
"But of course"--the Monsignore took off his spectacles, and now
he spoke eagerly, earnestly--"the unforeseen can happen! Have you
forgotten," he asked, "the grand element of uncertainty? The horse
knows nothing of the clouds of intrigue gathering while he eats happily
his grain. He knows only that he is the servant of man, who sometimes
betrays him."
The Monsignore had not finished. His gaze went past the boy's head,
through the walls and beyond. "Perhaps that is why the humble St.
Francis of Assisi wished to be Protector to Animals."
His eyes then came back to Giorgio and flashed warmly. "As fantino, you
must know that the probability of winning the Palio is based on the
speed of the horse, the skill of the fantino, and the diplomacy of the
captain. But it cannot be said that even with all these favorable, the
victory is secure. Man tries to fix and arrange, but ah, the horse ...
he knows only the one law, and that is to win. It is the most beautiful
and bittersweet lesson of the Palio."
A young clerk came into the room and placed a sheaf of papers on the
desk. Giorgio sensed that affairs of state were piling up.
"It is not a whole answer, my son," the Monsignore concluded, "but it
is the best I can do."
Giorgio stood up to go. Already he began to breathe more easily, as
if something of the great man's spirit had passed over into him.
"Thank you," he said quietly. Then he pressed the horseshoe into the
blue-veined hands, kissed them both and fled from the room.