The Daughter of Siena (27 page)
‘You!’
The Snail
A
fter a troubling interview with Riccardo’s father, Giuliano Dami wandered back through the Tower
contrada
. He knew he should hurry back to his master before he was missed, but he had a lot on his mind and he had always enjoyed cities at night. The looming palace against the star-studded night was alluring, the night warm and there was a scent of hyacinth on the breeze. All of his senses conspired against him and he dawdled. If someone had asked him why he dawdled, he might have said that thinking slowed him up.
fter a troubling interview with Riccardo’s father, Giuliano Dami wandered back through the Tower
contrada
. He knew he should hurry back to his master before he was missed, but he had a lot on his mind and he had always enjoyed cities at night. The looming palace against the star-studded night was alluring, the night warm and there was a scent of hyacinth on the breeze. All of his senses conspired against him and he dawdled. If someone had asked him why he dawdled, he might have said that thinking slowed him up.
Someone did ask him.
Footsteps followed. And a voice came out of the dark. ‘Why do you walk so slowly?’
Dami turned. He must be out of practice, for he had one of the sharpest pairs of ears in Tuscany, attuned to everything from below-stairs gossip and returning wives to angry creditors. He walked, without changing his leisurely pace, back to his
questioner. The moonlight showed a youth of piercing beauty: ash-blond hair, pearly skin with barely the fuzz of an emerging beard, velvet-dark eyes and full lips. Dami let his eyes wander over the young man, his night-purple eyes heavy with meaning.
questioner. The moonlight showed a youth of piercing beauty: ash-blond hair, pearly skin with barely the fuzz of an emerging beard, velvet-dark eyes and full lips. Dami let his eyes wander over the young man, his night-purple eyes heavy with meaning.
‘Why do I walk so slowly?’ He smiled lazily. ‘Perhaps I am a snail. What do you think?’ He let one long finger stroke the young man’s cheek. Slowly, slowly. ‘And you? Perhaps you are a snail also? For it must be said that you, too, were walking very slowly.’
The young man smiled, his full lips parting to show excellent teeth. Slowly, slowly, he took Dami’s finger between his lips and sucked. Dami had his answer. On the way back to the palace, the two of them walked a great deal more quickly than before.
Violante woke from her usual dream of the twins with a feeling of trepidation. Gradually the events of yesterday resolved themselves. The arrival of Gian Gastone; the return of Dami into her life, a man she hated and feared with equal measure without quite knowing why. The disastrous feast, which brought back so many ill memories. And today, Riccardo would begin the long ride to San Galgano, for she could still not decide whether to lay the whole business before her brother-in-law.
She lay for a long, long while, staring up at the folds and festoons of the drapes of her bed. A swallow flew into the room through the open window. The bird perched on her bedpost, cocking its little head at her, staring at her
with twin black beads. Before she could reach for it, the bird flew away again, directly out of the window, with unwavering direction and resolve. Mocking her.
Violante threw back the coverlet and rang for Gretchen. She dressed, breakfasted and met with her council – presided over with smooth, insolent dispatch by Francesco Maria Conti – before she climbed the stairs to Gian Gastone’s chamber. She had seen the state he was in by the end of the night and knew that he had carried on carousing after the feast, for she had heard laughter and music, as well as other sounds she had not cared to analyse, issuing from his chamber until the early hours. So she waited as long as she could before approaching him this morning. Violante had never drunk more than a goblet of wine at a sitting, even in the depths of her miserable marriage. She had no idea how such excesses would affect the constitution the following day.
But as she entered the chamber when bidden, she was pleasantly surprised by Gian Gastone’s appearance. He was up, dressed in sober clothes, with his whiskers shaven and his wig combed and arranged. His feet were plunged into a silver basin from which rose the scent of lavender and she thought that, for the first time, he looked faintly regal. His demeanour and the friendly smile he bestowed upon her made up her mind. As she looked past him along the swallow’s path, to her city, his city, she began her tale.
She had, it seemed, to become used to expecting the unexpected. Gian Gastone seemed excited by the task,
galvanized out of his usual torpor by opposition. He rejected all notions of appealing to his father for help, for arms and armies.
galvanized out of his usual torpor by opposition. He rejected all notions of appealing to his father for help, for arms and armies.
‘Florence is not defended,’ he said. ‘The payroll of the garrison shows most of the infantry are over seventy, with not a mouthful of teeth between them. It no longer has a standing army. The only infantry and cavalry billeted here are my sister’s army from the Palatinate.’
Gian Gastone’s lip curled and Violante could not tell which her brother-in-law liked less: the notion of Florence’s geriatric army, or the presence of his detested sister’s troops.
‘I will deal with this problem, dear sister, myself,’ he announced, closing that particular discussion. ‘You will enjoy my protection and these treacherous captains will know what it is to be faced with a Medici.’
Violante attempted to furnish her brother-in-law with the details of what was already known, what was suspected, but he would have none of it, waving away her assistance with a massive hand. He merely asked, ‘When are these nine fellows to meet next?’
Violante hesitated. ‘Tonight, at the hour of nine. At the round church of Montesiepi above the abbey of San Galgano outside the city. My … man, from the Tower
contrada
, is to be there and hear their council.’
contrada
, is to be there and hear their council.’
Gian Gastone appeared not to recall the name, if, indeed, he had ever known it. ‘The pretty one?’
Her contradiction died on her lips. ‘Yes.’
‘Very good,’ said Gian Gastone, ‘leave it with me, dear sister-in-law.’
There was nothing for it but to quit the room. As Violante closed the great doors behind her, she could feel herself shrinking. She stood outside, swallowing. She had not expected to be removed from the affair so completely. For the last ten years she had ruled the city. For the last twenty days she had fought for it to remain in Medici hands. She knew now what a pair of crutches these two aims had been. Now that both had been taken from her, how would she live?
Pia knew that it was time.
Both Nello and Faustino would be going to San Galgano that evening. When they had safely left in the carriage, she must saddle Guinevere and ride, far and fast, away from here, away from Siena. She had no plan; she just knew she had to choose a path and follow it, go somewhere, anywhere, and begin again.
She had no gold save Cleopatra’s pendant. If she could get away, south, maybe, she could sell it for a little money. Maybe Palma, Messina, or Capri: places that she had never visited but had heard of, sybaritic, sun-soaked places whose exotic names she used to repeat in her girlhood chamber like poetry. Perhaps she could enter a great household as a servant. In her naivety Pia did not ask herself how easy it would be for someone raised in privilege to serve others. Anything would be better than what she could expect as Nello’s wife.
She spent the day in a ferment of nervous expectation and curious reluctance. She was not quite self-aware
enough to admit that, in some small part of her, she did not want to go. To ride from Tuscany would mean that she would never again see Riccardo Bruni, never laugh with him, or ride with him, or share a forbidden kiss with him. But she schooled herself harshly whenever her thoughts wandered to him and the time they had shared, for in Siena she was Nello’s wife. She could not be with Riccardo anyway; it would be an added torture to have him under her eye every day.
enough to admit that, in some small part of her, she did not want to go. To ride from Tuscany would mean that she would never again see Riccardo Bruni, never laugh with him, or ride with him, or share a forbidden kiss with him. But she schooled herself harshly whenever her thoughts wandered to him and the time they had shared, for in Siena she was Nello’s wife. She could not be with Riccardo anyway; it would be an added torture to have him under her eye every day.
In the afternoon she wandered, listlessly, about the castle, and from one draughty arrow slit saw the ostler leading his team of four greys into the courtyard, strapping them into their tracings, ready for the carriage. Pia calculated – it was about an hour’s drive from here to San Galgano. A servant, armed with a bucket and brush, was covering over the Eagle arms with pitch paint. The sun was lowering, and the Nine were due to meet at nine of the clock. They would be off soon and she would be free to go. She felt again that odd foreboding at the pit of her stomach, but still she headed down to the stables to give Guinevere oats for the journey.
In the warm, low buildings she found comfort in the smell of hay and horse. As she fed and petted her palfrey, she gave a handful of oats to Nello’s black stallion too, checking his bandaged leg, batting away his great head when he tried, as he always did, to nibble her ear. She fiddled with Guinevere’s tack, making sure that everything was ready and in place, thankful now that Signor Bruni had insisted that she learn the name of every bit and every strap, and that she learn to saddle and bridle her
own mount over and over again. Riding, he’d say, was a
whole
experience, and you should know everything about your mount. When she’d suggested, surprised, that the servants should tack up her horse, he’d been short with her.
Signor Bruni
. How long would it take her to stop thinking of him?
own mount over and over again. Riding, he’d say, was a
whole
experience, and you should know everything about your mount. When she’d suggested, surprised, that the servants should tack up her horse, he’d been short with her.
Signor Bruni
. How long would it take her to stop thinking of him?
Footsteps sounded, voices spoke and got louder. Pia, bidden by some nameless instinct, ducked down in Guinevere’s stall. A moment later she recognised the voices as those of Nello and Faustino. They were dressed for their carriage ride in boots and hooded cloaks. Pia might have stood then, for she was entirely innocent, visiting her horse. And yet she did not, for as soon as she was able to hear her menfolk’s discourse she knew she’d be in danger.
‘ … troops,’ said Nello, ‘and a thousand men? ’Tis a little in excess, surely?’
Faustino’s voice then. ‘We want to be sure. And Romulus will have the men of all the Nine’s
contrade
at his disposal too.’
contrade
at his disposal too.’
‘And these troops, they will be armed?’
‘Of course. Pikes and muskets. We’re deposing a duchess. It’s a coup, Nello, not a carnival.’
Pia could hear Nello scuffing his feet like a sulky child. ‘I still don’t really see why he’s helping us.’
‘The duchess is childless, and so is that great fat sot of a brother-in-law of hers, lately arrived from Florence. And so is his sister Anna Maria Luisa. When they all die – and they are all advancing in years – there will be an absence of power in Tuscany.’
‘So?’
Faustino sighed. ‘Take a look at this water bucket.’
Pia jumped at the clang of metal as the
capitano
kicked the pail with his foot.
capitano
kicked the pail with his foot.
‘If you fill it to the brim, and leave it out in the rain, what happens?’
Nello’s voice, slow. ‘It stays full.’
‘It remains unchanged, exactly. But if you leave an empty bucket in the rain, what then?’
‘The rain fills it.’
‘Exactly. Tuscany is soon to be an empty bucket. And the rains are coming.’
‘But why is Romulus helping the Nine fill it?’
‘Because we are better than the alternative.’
‘Which is?’
‘Don Carlos of Spain, a foreigner and, moreover, the son of Elizabeth Farnese. The Farnese family are Romulus’s hated rivals. If the Don becomes grand duke, the Farnese will regain the ascendancy. So Romulus will help us rebuild Siena as a republic and get rid of the duchess for us.’
Then Nello’s voice again, grim. ‘I care not what happens to the duchess, so long as the race is run. Three score and ten beats of the heart, that’s all it takes – seventy heartbeats to victory. And nothing, nothing, should be allowed to interrupt it.’
Pia’s skin chilled; she buried her face in her arm to stop herself breathing loudly and could see bumps raised on her skin like a plucked goose.
Faustino spoke, conciliatory. ‘Of course. That shall all
be made very clear. And do not forget that we need to win the race to win the betting, so it’s as important to the Nine as to you.’
be made very clear. And do not forget that we need to win the race to win the betting, so it’s as important to the Nine as to you.’
Nello again. ‘You say that the heir to the duchy has arrived from Florence. Will he not threaten our enterprise?’
‘Not a bit,’ assured Faustino. ‘He can barely walk unaided, let alone act against us. All his arrival signifies is that we have
two
Medici lobsters in the pot. Besides, if Signor Gian Gastone interferes, I have laid down assurances to deal with him.’
two
Medici lobsters in the pot. Besides, if Signor Gian Gastone interferes, I have laid down assurances to deal with him.’
Then, the scrape of a boot as the driver and footman approached, and the talk was ended. Pia heard the doors close and the rumble of wheels as the carriage rolled into the courtyard to be harnessed to the waiting team of greys. Her heart thudded as she sat, still in the prickling hay, until she heard the smart hooves of the greys move down the drive and out of earshot. Then she took her face out of the hot crook of her arm.
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