Chapter 45
CHAPTER 45
S IENA , I TALY
W EDNESDAY , J ULY 2
6:45 P.M.
C OTTON FOLLOWED THE OTHER JOCKEYS INSIDE THE P ALAZZO Pubblico. He’d spent the day with the Golden Oak’s horse, trying to develop something of a rapport with the animal.
“ There are three types of horses ,” his grandfather said. “ A gelding, a neutered male. Real cooperative and friendly. A stallion. A fearless male who can do almost anything. Then there are mares. Everything has to be a suggestion to her, since she will do whatever she wants. But the most difficult of all is the chestnut mare. A hardheaded animal, bred to be cantankerous. A real powerhouse. ”
Golden Oak drew a chestnut mare with the unlikely name of Leone.
The groomer had recommended he talk to the animal in Italian and call her by name. Luckily, thanks to his eidetic memory, languages were easy for him, Italian being one of several he spoke. So he’d talked to Leone and was rewarded by a flare of the nostrils and a desire to smell her new friend.
“A horse’s way of saying hello.”
Last night he’d roamed the streets and tried for over an hour to locate the man from the train, but to no avail. He’d then attempted to make contact with Richter, but the cardinal had left a message that he would be back later, saying, Going to see our guardian angel . He hadn’t heard from Richter since then other than a text that said he was back in Siena and had something for him.
Earlier, inside town hall, far from the clamor of the day, the mayor, captains, and jockeys all met to go over the race rules. Each jockey was then registered. Camilla had shocked everyone when she announced their jockey would be replaced. Most of the capitanos had been puzzled. And for good reason. During the morning’s sixth, and final, trial heat the Sardinian had ridden Leone. But he’d noticed that the Porcupines had not seemed surprised at the change.
As if they’d known it was coming.
There’d been more pomp and circumstance through the day.
At 3:00 P.M . the city bells had tolled and he’d been present in the Golden Oak chapel for the blessing of the horse. Richter had explained that animals were generally not allowed within a Catholic church, but the Vatican waived that rule for the Palio. The church itself was specially outfitted with no pews, few stairs, and large wooden doors so a horse could easily move in and out. Interestingly, the horse was blessed before the jockey, which showed which of the two was more important. After the service he’d participated in another parade through the city center, which eventually made its way to the Duomo for a spectacular flag-throwing performance.
That had definitely been a first for him.
From there he joined the other jockeys and made his way to the campo, where each was given a special riding crop. A nerbo . Made from a stretched, dried ox penis. Unusual to say the least. He’d inquired as to why such a thing had ever been created, but Camilla had no idea, telling him, “ It is just the way it has always been .”
“You can use that on the other jockey,” Camilla said in a whisper. “Rules say that is about all you can do with it. It is never used on the horse. But of course, those rules do not apply to you.”
He got the message. Do whatever.
She motioned. “They are drawing the ten lots now that will determine how the horses line up for the first start. That happens in secret. Your position on the starting line is important. Remember, somebody always false-starts on the first attempt. That way we all know the order for the next start. Between those two starts is when the deals are made. What happens then is another unpredictable element to the race. Sadly, a jockey’s loyalty is never guaranteed, no matter what they are paid.”
“That include me?”
She smiled. “It depends on how bad you want inside Santa Maria di Castello.”
Good point.
“I have confidence in you,” she said. “But keep an eye on the Porcupine. He will be buying allies to get you.”
That advice did little to quell the anxiety swirling in his gut. But he was here to make sure someone else lost, and lose they would.
“Time to mount your horses,” a man announced.
“Good luck,” Camilla said to him and she offered her hand to shake.
Which he did.
Then he donned his metal helmet, snapped the chin strap in place, and headed outside where Leone waited with the other horses, the Golden Oak groomer holding the reins. Cotton took a moment and brought the back of his hand close to the horse’s nose to allow her to savor the scent. He felt the warmth of the mare’s breath. Cotton returned the favor and breathed onto the animal.
“You ready?” he whispered to Leone. “It’s you and me now.”
He stroked the animal. This had to be stressful, since the horse had developed an attachment to the other jockey. Now a new rider, out of nowhere? The groomer offered a treat. Some gummy bears and Skittles, which Leone lapped up from an open palm. One by one they all mounted their horses and entered the campo, gathering behind the starting rope. The crowd erupted in cheers as each contrada emerged. What would Stephanie Nelle say about all this? And Cassiopeia? Neither woman would be pleased. This was a bit above and beyond the call of duty.
But he was in it now. Time to get the job done.
Clarions played in a single cadence.
The great bell atop the Mangia tower began to clang.
Then all the bells in Siena joined in.
The multitudes of people inside the campo roared their approval. This had to be what it felt like to be on the field for the Super Bowl or World Series. Another procession of medieval-garbed Sienese had ended with the prize banner being escorted to the judge’s stand, where it was raised high for all to see. The mayor and the ten capitani , Camilla Baines among them, stood before it. The bell in the Torre del Mangia stopped ringing, as did all the others across town. Sunlight was fading, the campo half lit, half in shadow. All ten horses and jockeys made their way to a point a few yards behind the starting rope.
Silence reigned.
Impressive.
Tens of thousands of people holding their breath.
Waiting.
He and the others maintained what the locals called the dance of the jockeys, circling behind the starting line, thick as thieves. The horses pranced, nostrils quivering. He noticed that no jockey spoke to another. Not the time for deals.
Not yet, anyway.
Earlier, Camilla had explained how ten barberi , small balls painted in the colors of each contrada , were inserted into a long-necked flask, shaken, then turned upside down, where the balls lined up. That order was recorded on a piece of paper, which was sealed in a white envelope and delivered by a policeman to the mayor. All eyes seemed to be on it as the mayor held it high, then ripped it open.
Nine horses would be called to enter the starting line according to the order of the balls. The tenth, the rincorsa , runner-in, would tease the others, moving forward, falling back, then finally rushing past the rope signaling the start of the race. He’d realized there was a chance he might be the rincorsa . So he’d watched YouTube videos of past races to get an idea of what that might entail. But one out of ten seemed like good odds that would not happen.
He gently stroked Leone’s neck. The horse’s ears swept back, signaling she was listening. His grandfather taught him about the ears. Like radar antennas. Wherever they pointed dictated what the horse was hearing. So pay attention to those ears.
A hush swept over the campo.
Everyone was focused on what was about to happen.
One by one a contrada’s name was called out and the corresponding horse and rider assumed their place before the starting rope. Golden Oak was called sixth, which placed him in the middle of the pack. The Porcupines came eighth, two horses over. Camilla had told him that the inside and outside spots were the best for winning, and the middle was where all the mischief occurred. So he was in the right spot. The Dragons were assigned as rincorsa . There was lots of nudging, pushing, searching. Hooves pawed the ground. Leone threw her head up in the air, like a giraffe, a signal that she was irritated with all the motion. Cotton stroked the animal’s neck, trying to calm her. They had to be a team, riding in rhythm, the more relaxed the better.
But he got it.
The air reeked of excitement and fear.
The race was about to begin.