“Someone broke in through my balcony, remember?”
“I see.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You want me to protect you.”
I opened my mouth to fire back something cheeky, but realized I didn’t want to. The truth was, after everything that had happened, and everything that might happen still, I would like nothing more than to have Alessandro-gun attached-within arm’s length for the remainder of my stay in Siena. “Well,” I said, swallowing my pride, “I suppose I would not object if you did.”
IV.IV
You are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings
And soar with them above a common bound
Siena , A.D. 1340
IT WAS THE DAY OF THE PALIO, and the people of Siena were merrily afloat on a sea of song. Every street had become a river, every piazza a whirlpool of religious ecstasy, and those awash in the current kept flapping their flags and banners that they might rise out of the shallows and straddle the slippery swells of fortune, reaching up for their mother in Heaven to feel her tender touch.
The tide of devout mankind had long since broken through the floodgates of the city, spurting out into the countryside all the way to Fontebecci, a few miles north of Porta Camollia. Here, a heaving ocean of heads watched intently as the fifteen horsemen of the Palio emerged from their tents in full battle dress, prepared to honor the newly crowned Virgin by a dashing show of manhood.
It had taken Maestro Ambrogio the better part of the morning to leave town, elbowing his way through the masses, and had he been able to feel less guilt in the matter, he would have given up and turned around a thousand times before he was even halfway to Fontebecci. But he could not. How very wretched the old artist felt this morning! How dreadfully misguided had been his intervention in the affairs of these young people! Had he not been in such a hurry to join beauty with beauty for beauty’s sake, Romeo would never have known that Giulietta was alive, and she on her side would never have become infected with his passion.
How very odd, the idea that an artist’s love of beauty could so easily turn him into a delinquent. How very cruel it was of Fortuna to teach an old man a lesson at the cost of a young couple’s bliss. Or was he mistaken when he tried to explain his own crime through lofty ideas? Was it in fact his base humanity, and nothing else, that had doomed the young lovers from the very outset? Was it possible that he had transferred his own infirm desire to the admirable body of Romeo, and that all his hopes for the happy union of the youngsters had merely been a way of gaining vicarious admittance into Giulietta Tolomei’s bridal chamber?
The Maestro was not one to wallow in religious riddles unless they were part of a painting and payment was forthcoming, but it suddenly struck him that the slight nausea he was feeling at the thought of himself as a lascivious old puppeteer must be somewhat near what God was feeling every minute of every day. If indeed He felt anything. He was, after all, a divine Being, and it was entirely conceivable that divinity was incompatible with emotion. If not, then the Maestro sincerely pitied God, for the history of mankind was nothing more than a long tale of tears.
With the Virgin Mary it was different. She had been a human being, and she understood what it meant to suffer. She was the one who would always listen to your woes and make sure God sent his thunderbolts in the right direction. Like the lovely wife of a mighty man, she was the one to befriend and beseech, the one who knew how to reach his divine heart. She was the one to whom Siena had given its front-door keys, the one who had a special fondness for the Sienese, and who would protect them against their enemies, the way a mother protects the little son who seeks her embraces against the harassment of his brothers.
The Maestro’s air of imminent apocalypse was not reflected in the faces of the people he pushed aside in his quest to reach Fontebecci before the race began. Everyone was feasting, and no one was in a particular hurry to move forward; as long as one secured a spot along the open road, there was no real need to walk all the way to Fontebecci. Certainly, there would be sights to see at the starting area with all the tents, the many false starts, and the noble families whose sons were participating, but after all, what spectacle could be more worthwhile than the oncoming roar of fifteen galloping warhorses?
When he finally arrived, Maestro Ambrogio headed straight for the colors of the Marescotti eagle. Romeo had already emerged from the yellow tent, surrounded by the men of his family, and there was a remarkable scarcity of smiles among them. Even Comandante Marescotti, who was known to always have an encouraging word for everyone, be it in the most desperate of situations, looked like a soldier who knew he had fallen into an ambush. He was the one who personally held the horse steady while Romeo got into the saddle, and he was the only one who addressed his son directly.
“Fear not,” the Maestro heard him say, adjusting the plate armor covering the animal’s face, “he stands like an angel, but he will run like the devil.”
Romeo merely nodded, too excited to speak, and took the lance with the eagle flag that was handed to him. He would have to ride with it all the way, and if the Virgin Mary was kind, it would be the very one that was exchanged for the cencio at the finish line. If, on the other hand, the Virgin was in a jealous mood, he would be the last rider to plant his flag in front of the cathedral, and in return he would have to pick up a pig as a symbol of his shame.
Just as the helmet was brought out, Romeo caught sight of Maestro Ambrogio, and his surprise was so great that the horse became nervous beneath him. “Maestro!” he exclaimed, and there was understandable bitterness in his voice, “have you come to draw a picture of my downfall? I assure you, it will be quite the spectacle for an artist’s eye.”
“You are right,” replied Maestro Ambrogio, “to taunt me. I gave you a map leading straight to disaster; now I am eager to undo the damage.”
“Undo away, old man!” said Romeo. “You had better hurry, though, for I see the rope is ready.”
“Indeed I shall,” replied the Maestro, “if you will allow me to speak bluntly.”
“Blunt speech is all we have time for,” said Comandante Marescotti. “So let us hear it!”
Maestro Ambrogio cleared his throat. The carefully rehearsed monologue he had worked on all morning now quite escaped him, and he barely knew his first line. But necessity soon overruled eloquence, and he blurted out his information in the order it occurred to him. “You are in great danger!” he began. “And if you do not believe me-”
“We believe you!” barked Comandante Marescotti. “Tell us the details!”
“One of my students, Hassan,” the Maestro went on, “overheard a conversation in Palazzo Salimbeni last night. He was working on an angel in the ceiling, a cherub, I believe-”
“To Hell with the cherub!” roared Comandante Marescotti. “Tell us what Salimbeni is planning to do to my son!”
Maestro Ambrogio drew in air. “I believe their plan is as follows: Nothing will be attempted here at Fontebecci, as so many eyes are watching. But halfway to Porta Camollia, where the road widens, the son of Tolomei and someone else will attempt to block your way or push you into the ditch. If Salimbeni’s son is far ahead of you, they will be content with just slowing you down. But that is only the beginning. Once you enter town, be careful when you go through the contrade controlled by Salimbeni. When you pass the houses in the neighborhoods of Magione and Santo Stefano, there will be people in the towers, and they will throw things at you, if you are among the three front riders. Once you get into San Donato and Sant’Egidio, they will not be as bold, but if you are ahead of the field and look like a winner, they will risk it.”