The Daughter of Siena: A Novel Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE - The Donkey

  1 - The Owlet

  2 - The Tortoise

  3 - The Eagle

  4 - The Wave

  5 - The Panther

  6 - The Forest

  7 - The She-Wolf

  8 - The Goose

  9 - The Unicorn

  10 - The Dragon

  11 - The Giraffe

  12 - The Vale of the Ram

  13 - The Snail

  14 - The Caterpillar

  15 - The Porcupine

  16 - The Tower

  17 - The Shell

  EPILOGUE - The Sixteenth Day of August 1724

  Also by Marina Fiorato

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  THE DAUGHTER OF SIENA

  Copyright Page

  PROLOGUE

  The Donkey

  Two gentlemen of Siena stared down at a stinking corpse that had been flung over the wall at the Camollia gate.

  ‘Is it a horse?’ asked the younger, for the body was so decomposed it was hard to tell.

  ‘No, it’s a donkey,’ answered his elder.

  ‘Hmm.’ The youth was thoughtful. ‘Whatever can it mean?’

  ‘Well,’ said the other, who was pleased to be asked, and whose air of the greybeard who knew it all did not endear him to his friends, ‘in 1230 the Florentines who besieged Siena used to throw the corpses of donkeys over the city walls. They hoped the carcasses would bring pestilence and plague.’

  The youth pulled his neckerchief swiftly over his nose and mouth. ‘Jesu. D’you think this one is diseased? It stinks enough.’

  ‘Dio. It’s not the olden days. Someone’s ass died and they dumped it. No more, no less.’

  His companion craned upwards and stroked the beard that he one day wished to have. ‘I don’t know. Look; there’s some blood and skin on the top of the gate. This fellow was thrown over. Should we tell someone?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know … the duchess? The council, then? Or the Watch?’

  The older man turned towards his young companion. He had never known the lad to question with him and felt justified in hardening his tone just a little.

  ‘The Watch?’ he scoffed. ‘On the eve of the Palio? D’you not think they might have better things to worry about than a dead donkey?’

  The boy hung his head. He supposed he was right. It was the Palio tomorrow and the whole city was a ferment of excitement, a ferment that sometimes bubbled over into violence. Nevertheless, he walked backwards for a little until he could no longer see the grisly heap. Intensely superstitious, like all Sienese, he could not help thinking that the donkey was an ill omen for the city. Uneasy little thoughts gathered round his head like the flies that rose from the corpse.

  1

  The Owlet

  For her nineteenth birthday, Pia Tolomei, the most beautiful woman in Siena, was given a necklace and a husband.

  Her name-day was spent sitting quietly in her chamber, a day like any other – the same, the same, the same. But then Pia’s maid told her that her father wished to see her and she knew exactly what was coming. She’d been awaiting this moment since she was eleven.

  She laid down her hoop of embroidery with a shaking hand and went down to the piano nobile at once. Her knees shook too as they carried her slight and upright form down the stair, but she had courage. She knew it was time to face what she had dreaded for years, for as long as she had been old enough to understand the expediencies of the marriage market.

  For eight years Pia had expected, daily, to be parcelled up and handed in marriage to some young sprig of Sienese nobility. But fate had kept her free until now. Pia knew that her father would not marry her beyond her ward, the contrada of the Civetta, the Owlet. And here she had been fortunate, for the male heirs of the good Civetta families were few. A boy that she was betrothed to in the cradle had died of the water fever. Another had gone to the wars and married abroad. The only other heir she could think of had just turned fifteen. She had a notion her father had been waiting for this lad to reach his majority. She went downstairs now, fully expecting that she was about to be shackled to a child.

  In the great chamber her father Salvatore Tolomei stood in a shaft of golden light streaming in through the windows. He had always had an instinct for the theatrical. He waited until she approached him and laid her cool kiss upon his cheek, before he pulled a glittering gold chain from his sleeve with a magician’s flourish. He laid it in her palm where it curled like a little serpent and she saw that there was a roundel, or pendant, hanging from it.

  ‘Look close,’ Salvatore said.

  Pia obeyed, humouring him, masking the impatience she felt rising within her. She saw a woman’s head depicted on a gold disc, decapitated and floating.

  ‘It is Queen Cleopatra herself,’ whispered Salvatore with awe, ‘on one of her own Egyptian coins. It is more than a thousand years old.’

  His ample form seemed to swell even further with pride. Pia sighed inwardly. She had grown up being told, almost daily, that the ancestors of the Tolomei were Egyptian royalty, the Ptolemy. Salvatore Tolomei – and all the Civetta capitani before him – never stopped telling people of the famous Queen Cleopatra from whom he was directly descended.

  Pia felt the great weight of her heritage pressing down on her and looked at the long-dead queen almost with pity. That her long, illustrious royal line should distil itself down into Pia, the Owlet, daughter and heir to the house of the Owls! Pia was queen of nothing but the Civetta contrada, sovereign of a quiet ward in the north of Siena, regent of a collection of ancient courtyards and empress of a company of shoemakers.

  ‘And on the other side?’

  Pia turned the coin over and saw a little owl in gold relief.

  ‘Our own emblem, and hers; the emblem of Minerva, of Aphrodite, of Civetta.’

  She looked up at her father, waiting for the meat of the matter. She knew he never gave without expectation of return.

  ‘It is a gift for your name-day, but also a dowry,’ said he. ‘I have spoken with Faustino Caprimulgo of the Eagle contrada. His son, Vicenzo, will take you in marriage.’

  Pia closed her hand tight around the coin until it bit. She felt a white-hot flame of anger thrill through her. She had not, of course, expected to choose her own husband, but she had hoped in her alliance with the Chigi boy that she could school him a little, to become the most that she could wish for in a husband; to treat her with kindness and leave her alone. How could her father do this? She had always, always done as Salvatore asked, and now her reward was to be a marriage to a man she not only knew to be reviled, but a man from another contrada. It was unheard of.

  She knew Vicenzo by repute to be almost as villainous and cruel as his father, the notorious Faustino Caprimulgo. The Caprimulgo family, captains of the Eagle contrada, was one of the oldest in Siena, but the nobility of the antique family was not reflected in its behaviour. Their crimes were many – they were a flock of felons, a murder of Eagles. Pia was too well bred to seek out gossip but the stories had still reached her ears: the murders, the beatings, Vicenzo’s numerous violations of Sienese women. Last year a girl had hanged herself from her family’s ham-hook. She was barely out of school. ‘With child,’ Pia’s maid had said. ‘Another Eagle’s hatchling.’ Apparently Salvatore could overlook such behaviour in the light of an advantageous match.

  ‘Father,’ she said, ‘I cannot. You know what they say of him – what happened to the Benedetto girl. And he is an Eagle. Since when did an Eagle and an Owlet couple?’

  In her mind
she saw these two birds mating to create a dreadful hybrid, a chimera, a griffon. Wrong, all wrong. Salvatore’s face went still with anger and at the same instant she heard the scrape of a boot behind her.

  He was here.

  Pia turned slowly, a horrible chill creeping over her flesh, as Vicenzo Caprimulgo walked forth from the shadows.

  A strange trick of light caught his nose and eyes first. A beak and two beads – like the stuffed birds in her father’s hunting lodge. His thin mouth was curved in a slight smile.

  ‘I am sorry, truly, that the match does not please you.’ His voice was calm and measured, with only a whisper of threat. ‘Your father and I have a very particular reason for this alliance between our two contrade. But I am sure I can … persuade you to think better of me, when you know me better.’

  Pia opened her mouth to say that she had no wish to know him better, but she was too well bred to be insolent, and too afraid to speak her mind.

  ‘It’s something you can do at your leisure, for your father has agreed that we will marry on the morrow, after the Palio, which I intend to win.’

  He came close and she could feel his breath on her cheek. She had never been this close to a man save her father.

  ‘And I assure you, mistress, that there are certain arenas in which I can please you much better than a fifteen-year-old boy.’

  The malice in his eyes was unmistakable. There was something else there too: a naked desire, which turned her bones to water. She shoved straight past him and back up the stairs to her chamber, her father’s apologies raining in her ears. He was not apologizing to her, but to Vicenzo.

  Alone in her chamber, Pia paced the floor, fists clenched, blood pounding in her head. Below she could hear the final preparations being made for the celebratory feast she had believed was for her own name-day. How could her life be overturned in this way?

  Several times during the evening Salvatore sent servants to knock at her door. She ignored them: the celebrations would go on whether she was there or not. Despairing and frightened, she sat huddled in a chair as dusk fell, hungry and shivering, although it was not cold.

  Eventually her father came himself and she could not refuse his bidding. She was to take a turn about the courtyard with Vicenzo, he said, to admire the sunset. The servants were all inside. It would be a chance for her to get to know her husband.

  Pia did as she was commanded and walked Vicenzo to his horse as the sinking sun gilded the ancient stones. Still frozen by shock, she made no attempt to converse with him, and by the time they had crossed the courtyard his sallies and courtesies had turned to scorn and provocation. Numbly, she observed how the shadows of twilight closed around her. She took him, unspeaking, to the loggia where his horse was tied and waited silently for him to mount. Suddenly he lunged at her, spinning her behind the darkest pillar. His hungry lips mouthed at her neck and his greedy hands snatched at her breasts.

  ‘Come,’ he whispered viciously, ‘the contracts are inked, you are nearly mine, so nearly.’

  She fought him then, desperately crying out, although there was no one to hear, striking him about the face and chest. Her struggles only seemed to madden him more, and when he grabbed her by the hair and threw her through the half-door of the stable she thought she was lost. She smelled the warm straw and tasted the tang of blood where she’d bitten her cheek. But Vicenzo seemed to check himself.

  ‘Stay pure, then, for one more night,’ he spat, as he stood over her, ‘for tomorrow I’ll take you anyway.’ He turned in the doorway. ‘And never strike me again.’

  Then he kicked her, repeatedly, not about her peerless face, but on her body, so the bruises would be hidden under her clothes.

  When at last he was gone the shock hit her and she retched, great dry heaves, into the straw. In the warm dark she could hear the Civetta horses, snorting and shifting, curious.

  She straightened up, aching, and walked directly out of the courtyard straight to the Civetta church across the piazza. She laid her hands on the heavy doors that she had passed through for years, for her christening, confirmation and shrift. Tonight she did not tenderly lift the latch but hurled the oak doors open so they slammed back against the pilasters, sending angry echoes through the belly of the old church. She ran to the Lady Chapel and there her legs gave way, her knees cracking on the cold stone. She prayed and prayed, the pendant pressed hard between her palms. Not once did she look up at the images of the Christ or Mary; she was calling on far more ancient deities for help. She thought it more likely that the antique totem between her hands could help her. She prayed for something to happen, some calamity to release her from this match. When she opened her hands there was the imprint of Cleopatra on one palm and the owlet on the other.

  The Palio.

  A year of planning, ten men, ten horses, three circuits of the piazza, and all of it over in one single moment.

  No outsider could conceive of – let alone understand – what the Palio meant to the Sienese. That they ate it, breathed it, slept it. That they prayed to their saints for victory every day, the year round. That all their loyalties, their colours and their contrade proceeded from the Palio, as the web radiates from the spider. The concentric circles of their customs and society originated from this piazza and this day, and this smallest circle of all – the racetrack. Scattered with the dust of tufa stone hewn from the Tuscan hills, run by Sienese-born men on Sienese-bred horses, right under the ancient palaces and towers of the old city. The Palio was the centre; the Palio was Siena. To know this was to know all.

  On the second day of July 1723, Siena was punishingly hot. But, despite the heat, the numbers assembled to catch a glimpse of the Palio di Provenzano seemed greater than ever. On other days the beauteous shell-shaped Piazza del Campo lay as serene and empty as a Saint Jacques scallop, but today it was crammed with a thousand Sienese, drumming their drums and waving their flags. Every other place in the city was empty: every street, every courtyard, every dwelling, church and alehouse. The courtrooms were deserted, the apothecaries closed. The bankers had put away their tables and the tailors had pulled down their blinds. At the hospital-church of Santa Maria Maddalena the sisters instructed the orderlies to carry their patients in litters to the piazza. Even the starlings gathered to watch the Palio in the hot blue circle of sky high over the track. They wheeled around the tower-tops, to gather in smoky clouds and break apart again, dissipating like ink in water, all the time screeching with excitement.

  Everyone had their role on this day of days, from the greatest degree to the least. At the very top, on the balcony of the great Palazzo Pubblico, with its crenellations of terracotta teeth and tall clock tower, stood the governess of the city. Duchess Violante Beatrix de’ Medici, fifty and plain with it, presided over the race with great dignity and grace, as she had done for ten years now since the death of her husband.

  Below her the capitani, the captains of the contrade, were in final clandestine counsel with their deputies. These were the greybeards, the chiefs of their families; silver heads bent close as they discussed their final pacts and partiti. Their faces, weathered and lined, had seen it all, and they knew the city and her ways.

  The fantini, the jockeys, dressed in silks of colour so bright that they stung the eye, were being given their nerbi whips, vicious lengths of stretched oxhide, which they would shortly use not only on their horses but on each other. These young men, the flower of Sienese youth, were alive with tension, their black eyes glittering, their muscles taut. Fights, both verbal and physical, broke out in little volcanic pockets along their lines. To a man they had abstained from the pleasures of their wives and lovers for weeks now, to prepare in body and mind for the race.

  Ill-disguised betting syndicates signalled across the crowd in their secret ciphers, street sellers brought skins of wine or dried meats to those who had been in this square since sunrise, canny fan sellers sold paper fans in the contrada colours to their members. The Palio band repeated obsessively the sol
emn notes of the Palio anthem, a task they would not leave off now until tomorrow’s dawn, each musician sure of his harmony and his counterpoint.

  Even tiny children flew the bright flags of their contrada, trying to emulate their older brothers, those princes of swagger the alfieri, who, in the main parade, tossed their larger flags so high and so skilfully. The little orphan boy and water-carrier known as Zebra – so-called because he wore the black-and-white colours of the city, not of any contrada, showing allegiance to no one and everyone – trotted busily back and forth, bringing wooden goblets for the thirsty in exchange for coin, sure-footed of mission and purpose.

  The horses too, mere dumb beasts, circled in readiness. Their bridles were bright with streamers, their manes woven with ribbons, their saddles hung with pennants. They were led in rein but knew that they would soon be loosed to race, and must win for the colours that they bore.

  Pia of the Tolomei felt lowlier than all of these. As a betrothed woman she was not afforded the respect that she had known when she was a marriage prize – a renowned beauty to be bargained for and bartered over by the well-to-do families of the Civetta. She was now merely a spectator, required to cheer for her betrothed and nothing more. But Pia of the Tolomei had no intention of fulfilling that role. Yes, she was going to watch her betrothed ride in the Palio, but she would not be cheering for him. Pia of the Tolomei would be praying that during the course of it he would be killed.

  For tonight she was to be wed to Vicenzo Caprimulgo in the basilica. For the last time she was wearing the red and black of the Civetta contrada. Her bruises were hidden under a girdle in the same Owlet colours around her handspan waist and her lustrous black hair was piled high under her hat. She was seated, as she had been for the last nineteen summers and thirty-eight Palios, on the elevated benches of the Owlet contrada next to her father. Mindful of this position, this upbringing and her aching ribs, Pia was trying not to cry, for by the next Palio, the Palio dell’Assunta in August, Pia would be sitting across the square, as Vicenzo’s wife, wearing the black-and-gold plumage of the Eagles. She would graduate up the order of birds of prey to the very top.