Duel Between Horse and Man
The hours of night flowed over Giorgio's sleeping room. He and his
guards were trying to settle down, but each heart was groping alone in
the dark, wondering which contrada would win tomorrow's Palio.
Giorgio knew that somewhere in remote and quiet places throughout the
city the captains were meeting in secret, making their agreements,
planning their strategy. Overnight the whole aspect of the Palio
could change. And tomorrow, he thought with a surge of hope, Captain
de Santi will come to me and say: "We of Nicchio generally live in a
state of neutrality. But last night we formed an alliance with Giraffa.
Therefore, your precise order in today's joust is to hinder the others
and help our ally to win. Since they have drawn Gaudenzia, you are
fortunate, thus, to fight for your mare. No?"
Or, better still, the Captain might say: "Vittorino! In the dark
watches of the night we changed our tactics. Our Rosella, it appears,
could finish maybe second or third, but not first. Therefore, we
release you to ride Gaudenzia for Giraffa, and we will engage a new
fantino."
In Giorgio's mind the Captain's speech grew long and lofty. "You see,
son," (he could even hear the tone of voice) "Giraffa has in the
past done us favors. We therefore hold in high esteem their sacred
friendship. It will be a beautiful sacrifice we make."
Hugging these hopes to him, he slept away what was left of the night.
* * * * *
August 16, 1954. The day is new. Sky murky. Sun trying to tear the
clouds apart. Church bells tolling. Giorgio cannot run away now; does
not want to run away. There is still the hope. He prays with the other
fantinos, feels with them the pressure and the tension mounting. He
rides in the _Provaccia_, the last rehearsal. Bodily he is on Rosella;
heart and soul he rides Gaudenzia. Last night's hopes will come true;
_must_ come true! Perhaps at the last moment in the Hall of the
Magistrate it will happen. Captain de Santi will lean over and whisper
into his ear. He can do it easily. The hall is vast; two people can
feel alone.
But when the time came, there was no whispering; only the bold
pronouncement that Giorgio Terni, known as _Vittorino_, was official
fantino for Nicchio.
At half past two in the afternoon the embers of his hope flickered
again as the Captain strode into Giorgio's room.
"Vittorino!" the name slow-spoken as in the dream, and the syllables
far apart, like drops of rain when the storm begins.
Now it comes. Now he will say: "You, Vittorino, must give help to
Gaudenzia. The others you will block. With the nerbo you will fight
them fiercely, hinder them." The boy holds his breath. He takes a step
closer. He does not want even the guards to overhear. He cants his
head like a dog, begging, awaiting directions ... listening ... eyes
beseeching.
The Captain clips out his orders, _wanting_ the guards to hear: "Break
first from the rope! The hot bludgeons of the nerbo we wish you both to
escape."
There is still the hope; it is not yet dead.
"And during the last meters of the race"--the voice is grim--"you will
nerbo every opponent who threatens our victory. _Every_ opponent who
threatens...."
A wild sickness churns in the boy. He wants to escape and run and run
and run, but where to go? Fate has trapped him. Fate, the Queen of the
Palio.
Minutes and seconds wear themselves out. Numbly he puts on the long
stockings, the high buskins, the deep blue doublet with the emblem of
the white shell, the burnished sleeves of mail, the heavy helmet of
mail with the chinstrap too tight. He thinks wistfully of the rabbit's
fur he had once wrapped around Gaudenzia's chinstrap. How long ago that
seems!
He is ready. He goes to the church of Nicchio with Rosella. He hears
the priest invoke God's protection for horse and rider, hears the
people shout: "Go, Rosella! Come back victorious!"
Then, mounted on his parade horse, he receives the general blessing of
the Archbishop, his mind dazedly repeating the Captain's orders. He
makes his way to Il Campo, awaits his turn to enter. The bell in the
tower begins its tolling. His company moves forward. He enters the
square, sees again the many-headed multitude in the shallow basin of
the Piazza. He thinks: "So solid are they packed one could walk across
their heads without having to leap."
His mind and body are far apart. No longer does he want to be a
Sienese. He is an intruder, belonging neither to the present nor to the
past, but suspended in time. Staring hopelessly, he watches the figures
of the pageant move around the Piazza like wooden people on wooden
horses on a merry-go-round. He sees the mare Gaudenzia, proud-headed.
She is the only white one, the only Arabian. He feels a moment of pride.
Then the flags cut her off from sight and the numbness clutches him
again, and the merry-go-round figures go on and on until his head
dizzies with looking. At sight of the four great oxen pulling the
gilded battle car, he sighs in welcome relief. The merry-go-round is at
last coming to a stop.
The sun, too, is completing its orbit, shedding a soft light over Il
Campo. The multitude waits. Inside the courtyard Giorgio wants an end
to things. It seems a hundred hours, a hundred days, a hundred years
since the fateful orders were imposed. All right, then, let's go.
Change costumes! Put on the little jacket, the coarse pants. Eye your
opponents. Swing up, bareback. Take the hard nerbo in your hard hand.
Line up! Remember, it's war! Contrada against contrada! Not rider, not
mount, not flesh and blood, but symbols.... Eagle against Owl, Dragon
against Panther, Snail against Wave, Giraffe against me.
All right, then. Touch off the gunpowder! Let the flame belch! Let the
deafening percussion jar the ancient stones loose. Let the starter
spring the rope.
It is happening! Now!
Ten horses bursting into life, breaking from the ropes. Together! Ten
horses like a sudden blast of wind. But look! The swirling gust is
breaking apart, three horses striking through--two browns, one white.
The browns are the Snail and the Wave, the white is Gaudenzia. Under
a hail of blows the three in the lead round the easy curve beyond the
Fonte Gaia, begin their drive to the death-jaws of San Martino.
Sixty thousand throats shriek in horror. The Snail and the Wave are
heading crazedly for a crash. They collide! Two fantinos are spewed
into the air, go rolling ahead like tumbleweeds. Gaudenzia's rider
pulls her back, swerves her sharp around the bodies. She's in first
place!
Coming up from behind, Giorgio snakes Rosella between the riderless
horses, takes the curve, catches Gaudenzia on the straightaway, passes
her.
Did her nostrils pull in his scent as he went by? Did her ears pull in
his voice? If not, why is she jibbing her head; why is she weaving at
the lesser curve of the Casato? Tiring? She can't be! Not on the first
round with the whole width of the curve to herself.
For endless seconds she is unpredictable. Then she rears up, savagely
rakes the air, deliberately tosses her fantino! She's free! With a wild
spurt she tries to catch Giorgio. The duel between horse and man is on!
"_Attento! Attento!_" Nicchio fans are screaming in frenzy, imploring
Giorgio: "Give it to us! Give us the Palio!"
But who knows the mind of a horse? Is some inner urge compelling
Gaudenzia to spend all of her fleetness and blood? Is the thunder and
ecstasy of the crowd like fierce music in her ears? Who can know?
For the entire second round she battles Giorgio for the lead,
catching him on the straightaways, thundering alongside him, only to
drop back when he blocks her at the curves.
"_Forza_, Gaudenzia! _Forza!_" Strangers and Sienese alike are yelling
for Gaudenzia.
Only the Nicchio fans are her enemies. "Knock off her spennacchiera!"
they cry to Giorgio. "Knock it off!"
Fifty meters to go! She is holding her own, pounding on, eye to eye
with Rosella.
In sickening guilt Giorgio remembers his orders ... lifts his nerbo,
aims at her spennacchiera. He misses! He feels the thud of his blow
against her neck. She falls back a moment, but immediately comes up
again. Desperately aiming higher, he strikes once more. The nerbo draws
a line of blood close to her ear, but the spennacchiera holds fast.
Again she falls back, and again she comes up, her strength intensified.
Doubled over, wincing, the boy strikes again, and then again, and sees
the bloody trail grow. Tears spill down his cheeks. "Only a few meters
left!" he cries inside. "Only one blow more." And before the screaming,
cursing multitude he deals it.
Bleeding and bewildered, Gaudenzia tries to pass on the outside, but
Giorgio blocks her. The flag of arrival is just ahead. He lifts his
nerbo, this time in the sign of victory, but to the gasps of the
multitude she cuts around behind him, knifes her body between Rosella
and the fence, thrusts her nose under his upraised arm--to win! By the
length of her red-scarred head she wins.
It is over. The duel is done. Giorgio falls sobbing into the waiting
arms of the Chief-of-the-Guards. The big man is sobbing, too. "Don't
cry, Giorgio. Don't look like that. You _had_ to do it. You just had
to!"