the roofs were jammed; the great central space looked full, and yet from half a dozen narrow streets people were streaming across the track and jamming themselves in. The parade was now going around the track of earth, and all the contrade at once were doing the flag whorls, the flings, the arabesques to continuous plaudits of the throng and the cacophonous blare of many brass bands.
Byron led the way to their seats, still holding Jastrow’s thin arm. “Well, hasn’t the archbishop done us proud!” said the professor, as they settled on a narrow, splintery plank, directly below the judges’ stand. “One couldn’t have a better view of the thing.” He laughed without reason, obviously feeling better out of the press of bodies.
“See the mattresses?” said Natalie gaily. “There they are, down at the corners.”
“Oh, yes. My lord, what an extraordinary business.”
The noise of the crowd rose into a general cheer. A wooden cart, drawn by four white Tuscan oxen with giant curved horns, was entering the track surrounded by marchers in rich costume. On a tall pole in the cart swayed the Palio. “Why, it’s an Assumption,” said Jastrow, peering through small binoculars at the narrow painted cloth. “Naïve, but not bad at all.”
Around the piazza the cart slowly rolled, with helmeted policemen behind it driving the crowd from the track, while sweepers cleared up papers and trash. By now the paved square was one dense mass of white shirts, colored dresses, and dark heads, bringing out the half-moon shape of the track, and its danger. The red palazzos sloped downward to the town hall, where a straight street sliced off the broad curve. Heavy mattresses padded the outer barriers at these sharply cut corners. Even at the trial runs, Byron and Natalie had seen horses thud against the mattresses and knock their jockeys senseless.
The sunset light on the façade of the Palazzo Pubblico, the town hall, was deepening to a blood color. The rest of the piazza was in shadow, and a heavy bell was tolling in the tower. From the town hall a long fanfare sounded. The crowd fell quiet. Trumpets struck up the old Palio march that had been echoing all week in Siena’s streets. Out of the palazzo courtyard trotted the caparisoned racehorses with their flamboyantly costumed jockeys.
Natalie Jastrow’s fingers slid into Byron’s and clasped them, and for a moment she put her cheek, cool, bony, and yet soft, against his. “Idiotic. Briny?” she murmured.
He was too delighted with the contact to answer.
The starting line was directly in front of them, and behind them, above the judges’ stand, the Palio hung on its pole, stirring in a cool breeze blowing across the great amphitheatre. An ancient contraption of wood and rope controlled the start. To line up the dancing, overwrought animals inside the ropes proved almost impossible. The harried creatures capered in and out, they turned, reared, stumbled, and broke away twice in false starts. At last the ten horses went thudding off in a pack, with the jockeys clubbing wildly at the creatures and at each other. A yell rose above the steady roar, as two horses went down at the first set of mattresses. After that Byron lost track of the race. While he watched an unconscious jockey being dragged off the dirt, another wild yell of the crowd told of more mishaps, which he couldn’t see. The pack came racing by in a club-waving dirt-flying jumble, strung out over five or six lengths. A riderless horse galloped well up among them, dripping foam, its reins dangling.
“Can a riderless horse win?” Jastrow shouted at Byron.
A man in the row below him turned up a fat warty red face with pointed moustaches and popping yellow eyes. “ Si, si . Riderless is scosso , meestair, scosso . Viva Bruco! Scosso !”
When the pack came past the judges’ box a second time, the riderless horse was clearly in the lead, and Byron could see its Caterpillar colors and emblems.
“ Scosso !”
Byron led the way to their seats, still holding Jastrow’s thin arm. “Well, hasn’t the archbishop done us proud!” said the professor, as they settled on a narrow, splintery plank, directly below the judges’ stand. “One couldn’t have a better view of the thing.” He laughed without reason, obviously feeling better out of the press of bodies.
“See the mattresses?” said Natalie gaily. “There they are, down at the corners.”
“Oh, yes. My lord, what an extraordinary business.”
The noise of the crowd rose into a general cheer. A wooden cart, drawn by four white Tuscan oxen with giant curved horns, was entering the track surrounded by marchers in rich costume. On a tall pole in the cart swayed the Palio. “Why, it’s an Assumption,” said Jastrow, peering through small binoculars at the narrow painted cloth. “Naïve, but not bad at all.”
Around the piazza the cart slowly rolled, with helmeted policemen behind it driving the crowd from the track, while sweepers cleared up papers and trash. By now the paved square was one dense mass of white shirts, colored dresses, and dark heads, bringing out the half-moon shape of the track, and its danger. The red palazzos sloped downward to the town hall, where a straight street sliced off the broad curve. Heavy mattresses padded the outer barriers at these sharply cut corners. Even at the trial runs, Byron and Natalie had seen horses thud against the mattresses and knock their jockeys senseless.
The sunset light on the façade of the Palazzo Pubblico, the town hall, was deepening to a blood color. The rest of the piazza was in shadow, and a heavy bell was tolling in the tower. From the town hall a long fanfare sounded. The crowd fell quiet. Trumpets struck up the old Palio march that had been echoing all week in Siena’s streets. Out of the palazzo courtyard trotted the caparisoned racehorses with their flamboyantly costumed jockeys.
Natalie Jastrow’s fingers slid into Byron’s and clasped them, and for a moment she put her cheek, cool, bony, and yet soft, against his. “Idiotic. Briny?” she murmured.
He was too delighted with the contact to answer.
The starting line was directly in front of them, and behind them, above the judges’ stand, the Palio hung on its pole, stirring in a cool breeze blowing across the great amphitheatre. An ancient contraption of wood and rope controlled the start. To line up the dancing, overwrought animals inside the ropes proved almost impossible. The harried creatures capered in and out, they turned, reared, stumbled, and broke away twice in false starts. At last the ten horses went thudding off in a pack, with the jockeys clubbing wildly at the creatures and at each other. A yell rose above the steady roar, as two horses went down at the first set of mattresses. After that Byron lost track of the race. While he watched an unconscious jockey being dragged off the dirt, another wild yell of the crowd told of more mishaps, which he couldn’t see. The pack came racing by in a club-waving dirt-flying jumble, strung out over five or six lengths. A riderless horse galloped well up among them, dripping foam, its reins dangling.
“Can a riderless horse win?” Jastrow shouted at Byron.
A man in the row below him turned up a fat warty red face with pointed moustaches and popping yellow eyes. “ Si, si . Riderless is scosso , meestair, scosso . Viva Bruco! Scosso !”
When the pack came past the judges’ box a second time, the riderless horse was clearly in the lead, and Byron could see its Caterpillar colors and emblems.
“ Scosso !”
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