City of Stars Page 27

  As the evening wore on, the singing became louder and more raucous. Toasts were drunk to Georgia, Paolo, Arcangelo, the Ram and anything else the Montonaioli could think of. There was a solemn moment when Paolo called for a toast to the health of Cesare, ‘wherever he may be,’ and Luciano added in a whisper, ‘and Merla.’

  The food was plentiful – roasted vegetables pungent with garlic and herbs, seafood on beds of sharp watercress, pasta in a myriad of shapes (of which the ones like curled rams’ horns were the most prevalent), sauces of wild boar or spinach and pine-nuts, grilled cutlets and chicken, bowls of beans, green and white and red, whole rounds of cheese, mild and soft or blue and tangy – the dishes kept coming.

  There was a pause while wooden platters were cleared and a cloaked figure slipped in between Georgia and Luciano. A velvet hood was pulled back and Georgia found herself looking into the violet eyes of Arianna. She was unmasked. Paolo gasped and instantly stood and called for another toast. He couldn’t acknowledge Arianna’s presence directly – the fact that she was unmasked showed her to be there incognita – and he had no idea how she had escaped from the Twins’ banquet. But he called for another toast to their patron city and the word ‘Bellezza!’ rang round the Via di Montone.

  ‘Bellezza!’ echoed Georgia, drinking rather unsteadily from her silver goblet.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Arianna, amused. ‘And thank you for not coming last today. It seems that my Twelfth will not be disgraced tomorrow after all.’

  Georgia was fascinated by her. It was not just that she was beautiful, although she was, in a dramatic, film-starry sort of way that had nothing to do with her clothes or jewels. It was her history with Luciano, a whole chunk of his life that Georgia didn’t know about, and her important and dangerous role as absolute ruler of a city which had held out against the di Chimici.

  ‘Is Rodolfo with you?’ Luciano was asking.

  ‘No,’ said Arianna, without taking her eyes off Georgia. ‘It was bad enough that I made my excuses – a sudden headache, you know. He had to stay to represent our city. But I couldn’t let tonight pass without wishing my jockey luck, could I?’

  I am not going to blush, thought Georgia, and she realised that Paolo had again put his hand on the hem of her tunic. But Luciano was looking distinctly nervous. Having the Duchessa nearby was a bit like having a wild animal in your dining-room – you didn’t know what it was likely to do next. Yet in one sense anything less like a wild animal than the sleek and elegant Duchessa was hard to imagine.

  Now Arianna was acknowledging the presence of her mother, very slightly – they were both playing a dangerous game. Georgia thought that the Ram was probably safe, but there could be spies – there were hundreds of people eating in the main square. For the first time Georgia forgot about being jealous of Arianna or in awe of her and instead just admired her courage.

  Then she found that the young Duchessa was looking straight at her. ‘We are more alike than you might think,’ said Arianna quietly. ‘We both wear a disguise and perhaps share a secret.’

  That Friday in Islington was a long one for Falco. He was anxious all the time, worrying if Maura would ring and ask to speak to Georgia. And he had never had to go so long without knowing what was going on in Remora.

  ‘Shall we go out somewhere?’ Vicky asked. ‘You seem a little down.’

  Falco’s first instinct was to say no, but then he thought that perhaps it would be the perfect cover to be out. He couldn’t lie to Georgia’s mother if he wasn’t there. And, if they were out, he wouldn’t be worrying about Vicky wanting to come into his room. But it was hard to leave the house knowing that Georgia’s body was apparently sleeping peacefully on the floor beside his bed. And his door didn’t lock from the outside.

  It was a lovely hot day and Vicky drove them to the park; it wasn’t far but it would have used up too much energy for Falco to walk. There was a visiting funfair and, although a twenty-first-century boy of thirteen would have found it quite tame, Falco thought it was all wonderful.

  They went on the Ghost Train, the Big Wheel, the Waltzer and the Dodgems. He ate pink candy floss and drank a blue Slush Puppie but he was hungry again after the Dodgems.

  ‘Do you think I could have one of those burning hounds?’ he asked Vicky.

  It took her a moment but she got him his hot dog, surprised that he knew what they were. Vicky was always unsure about Nicholas. Sometimes she thought he was only pretending to have lost his memory but at other times it seemed there were things that genuinely puzzled him about life in London. That was when she thought that Maura O’Grady’s theory about asylum-seekers might be right.

  Falco licked his lips and fingers and sighed with pleasure. There was so much nice food in his new world and you could get it so quickly.

  The Manoush were always up before the dawn but on the Day of the Goddess they had not lain down to sleep at all. They had spent the night in the Campo delle Stelle with Grazia, their old friend from the Lioness, and when the full moon rose were standing silent, facing eastward. Other groups of brightly dressed people stood with them.

  As the moon appeared, all the Manoush began to sing. Aurelio was not the only musician among them; harps and flutes and small drums all joined in the hymns of praise to the goddess which lasted throughout the night.

  The one or two Remorans who were up and awake at dawn saw the Manoush raising their arms to the rising sun and heard them chanting their high wailing song about the goddess and her consort. So begins the Stellata every year, with an older, hidden ritual, known to few citizens but underlying everything that happens for the rest of the day.

  *

  Georgia had slept little more than the Manoush and was relieved to see the lightening sky. For this, her official night away in Remora, she had been given a room of her own in Paolo’s house.

  ‘Too dangerous to sleep in your hayloft,’ said Paolo. ‘We don’t want another jockey kidnapped.’

  After a late night at the street party and an hour or two’s dozing, Georgia woke to the sounds of a home with small children and several visitors. But this day she did not join the cheerful breakfast chaos. She had to go to Mass in the Duomo with the other eleven jockeys and go fasting.

  Georgia was not used to such early rising or to doing anything without breakfast. And she was not used to going to church. The imposing Duomo, with its black and white marble stripes and its clouds of incense, made her feel overwhelmed – in great contrast to her lionising of the night before. To make things worse, although there was a crowd of supporters for all the Twelfths outside the Duomo, only the dozen jockeys attended the service itself.

  Georgia watched closely what the others did and followed suit. She heard Salsiccio’s stomach rumble loudly and smiled to think that there was someone hungrier than her. But for the most part the short service was solemn. Georgia looked closely at the Pope, who celebrated the Mass. She had been in his palace several times, but never actually seen Falco and Gaetano’s uncle. He was very different from the Duke, soft and corpulent but not unkind looking. So this was the fate that Falco had been willing to face death to avoid.

  She stumbled out of the cool interior of the great church into the early morning sun. She thought she heard the faint sound of a harp in the distance. But then the bells of the Duomo started ringing and the crowd of supporters was applauding. The day of the Stellata had truly arrived.

  *

  In the palace at Santa Fina, the guard was worried. The boy captive was curled into a ball in the corner. He had not eaten any of the food he had been brought for nearly two days. He was obviously sick and there was no one to advise the guard what to do. Enrico had gone down into the city and would not be back till the afternoon.

  Cesare tensed every muscle in his body and when the guard came over to shake him awake, he was up and out through his legs and down the first flight of stairs before he could react. Cesare ran down flight after flight, blindly, the way a wild animal will run from a trap, not kno
wing where he was going but using all his energy just to get away.

  After several days without exercise and the last two without food, he was weak and dizzy, but he had the advantage of surprise, and his light build which made him such a good jockey gave him the edge on his stocky pursuer.

  He seemed to be in a huge palace, even though the stairs he was running down were not the main ones. Cesare guessed he was in the servants’ quarters. And when at last he reached the bottom and found the way out, he knew where he was. He was at the back of the Casa di Chimici in Santa Fina.

  He ran through the gardens at top speed and didn’t stop until he found himself in the cover of the woods. He was scratched and panting and parched with thirst. But he was free.

  *

  The heat on the morning of the Stellata was the merest formality for most jockeys. But not for Georgia. It was another chance for her to ride Arcangelo round that treacherous track and she was going to give it a good shot. And as a result she came third. The Lioness won on La Primavera and their jockey got his nickname at the last minute. ‘Tesoro’ his Twelvers called him, ‘treasure’, with much kissing and hugging, because he had come first, even though this heat mattered less than all the others.

  ‘Well done!’ Luciano said to Georgia and she glowed under his approval.

  And then the jockeys had to give their names into the mayor and register for the race. ‘Giorgio Gredi’ was enrolled along with the eleven others. There was no backing out now.

  She was too nervous to eat much lunch; the afternoon’s ordeals were approaching and all Georgia wanted to do was get through them without disgracing the Ram. It was a heavy responsibility.

  Soon after lunch she was taken to see Arcangelo in the ‘Horse’s House’. He was refreshed after his morning ride and now recognised her when she entered his stall. ‘OK, boy?’ she whispered, into his rusty mane. ‘Let’s give it a good try.’

  The first task of the afternoon was to go to the church of Santa Trinità for the Blessing. All the members of the Twelfth, wearing sashes of red and yellow, were crowded into the little oratory at the side but the crowd parted as the horse was led in. Georgia walked beside him along the red carpet to the altar. The carpet dulled the sound of his hooves and yet it was a strange sound to hear in a place of worship. The crowd of Rams was silent and the atmosphere tense; no one must startle the horse.

  The priest intoned the ritual blessing of horse and jockey. She felt his hand rest briefly on her head. And then he turned to the horse.

  ‘Arcangelo – go and return a winner!’

  The Rams waited until the horse was safely out in the sunlight. And then the church filled with voices raised in song.

  Chapter 22

  Star Riders

  Duke Niccolò was roused by the sound of drums outside. Like everyone in Remora, he had lived with that sound for weeks, but this was different. It was right under the hospital window and it triggered a response in the Duke’s clouded brain. Falco had always loved the sbandierata – the displays of multi-coloured flags, creating elaborate patterns, being waved and tossed by the skilful ensigns of each Twelfth. It had been a treat for him to see it in Remora every year of his short life until his accident.

  The Duke realised that it must be the afternoon of the Stellata, when all the Twelfths came and performed their ‘sbandierata’ in honour of the Pope, his brother. The day that Falco had been going to enjoy again for the first time in two years. Niccolò walked slowly to the window and looked down into the square. It was a riot of colour and noise. The numbers of Twelvers and tourists crowding round to see the flag displays had overwhelmed the well-wishers praying outside the hospital for Falco’s recovery.

  ‘Life goes on,’ whispered the Duke bitterly. He of all people knew how Remorans felt about their annual race; after all, he had been plotting to exploit their credulity and superstition himself this year. It seemed to be a plan made by another person a long time ago.

  He went over to the bed and lifted his son, now so light that it was no effort at all, and carried him to the open window.

  ‘See, Falco,’ he said. ‘See the pretty flags?’

  *

  Cesare felt he had been walking for hours. He had recognised the palace at Santa Fina where he had been held prisoner and he knew how far that was from the city but he had never been in these woods before and had lost all sense of direction. The woods were silent, the ground underneath his feet already thick with dry leaves, even though it was only August. The bushes were covered in this year’s withered catkins and the trees towered above him, forming a continuous green arch above the path.

  But was it the right path? He couldn’t see the direction of the sun clearly through the foliage but it seemed to be overhead. He hoped he was still heading south. He was tired and hungry and very thirsty; the burst of energy that had got him through his escape had all evaporated now.

  Now all Cesare could think of was that this must be the day of the race and the Ram had no jockey. He plodded on determinedly, even though he knew that, whether or not he got to Remora in time, there was no way that he would be fit enough to ride.

  *

  Georgia had been moved by the ceremony of blessing the horse. Remorans were a funny lot, she thought. So superstitious and almost pagan in their talk of the goddess and yet the atmosphere in that Christian oratory had been electric, everyone willing the priest’s final words to come true.

  Paolo encouraged her to rest after the Blessing, though at first she was too wired to stay lying down. This was her only opportunity to see the great day in all its ritual splendour and she didn’t want to miss a second of it. But she thought that she should try to stravagate back briefly and check on her arrangements in London and eventually managed to fall into a doze, clutching the winged horse that was her passport home.

  Falco was startled when Georgia suddenly sat up and reached for his hand. Not that he had been asleep. It had been so wonderful to lie awake and gaze undisturbed at her by the light of the moon coming through his open curtains. Now it shone on her eyes as she gazed back at him.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ he whispered. ‘What is happening in Remora?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing is wrong. I’m supposed to be resting before the race. It’s all so fantastic – the flags and the clothes and the horses. This morning I came third in the heat and then I went to Arcangelo’s Blessing and . . .’ Words failed her. ‘But I had to come back and check on things here. And to check that I still can,’ she added even more quietly.

  ‘Everything’s fine here,’ said Falco. ‘Only I wish I could be with you at the race.’

  Georgia squeezed his hand. ‘This is the hardest part for you, I know,’ she said. ‘Just hold on and I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. Only I must go now.’ She lay back down and concentrated her mind on her room in Paolo’s house.

  Soon her regular breathing told Falco that she had fallen asleep and it was all right to resume his vigil. It was many hours before he closed his eyes; in his mind he was living every moment of the big day of the race he would never see again.

  Georgia stood on the steps outside the big church and watched the ensigns execute their formal flourishes, making patterns with the red and yellow flags. Like all the other Rams, she gasped when the ensigns tossed the flags with their heavy flagpoles up high above the crowd and caught each other’s standard as they fell after crossing in mid-air.

  ‘The alzata,’ said a voice behind her, and she turned to see Paolo, splendidly dressed in his parade clothes. As Capitano, he would walk with the ensigns and the drummer in the Ram’s section of the parade, just like every other captain of one of the Twelfths. He was talking to a tall grey-haired man who Georgia gathered from the talk around her was head of the silversmiths’ guild.

  They were all lining up now, in their red and yellow velvet, with brocade cloaks and elaborate hats with rolled brims and curling feathers. Paolo had silver spurs and a sword too. Later they would be joined by
the float carrying a tableau of Rams and by a Twelver leading Arcangelo. Georgia herself would have to join in the great procession, wearing her metal helmet and riding the substitute parade horse; Arcangelo mustn’t waste an ounce of his energy by carrying her around the Campo before the race. But now the walking members of the party were moving off to join the other Twelfths already performing the sbandierata in the square behind the Papal palace.

  Of Luciano there was no sign, though Georgia glimpsed Dethridge through the crowd with a woman dressed in red velvet with a yellow silk cloak who must have been Silvia.

  *

  Enrico was in the Piazza di Gemelli watching the flag displays. He thought he caught sight of the Duke’s face at one of the hospital windows. He seemed to be holding something like a doll or statue. Then Enrico realised with a shock that it was the unconscious body of the young di Chimici prince.

  Quite mad, he thought to himself. Was it going to matter to the Duke who won the race now? Perhaps he should lay out a bit more of the money both Duke and Pope had given him and make a last-minute extra pact with the Twins’ jockey, Silk? His sharp eyes sought him out now, locating the pink and white colours among the ever-changing palette of Twelvers wearing their sashes and scarves.

  *

  The Pope led the Duchessa to her place between Rodolfo and Gaetano on the Twins’ stand outside the Papal palace. Fabrizio di Chimici was there already – Carlo was representing the Giglian family in the Lady – but there were several empty places, including those of the other Bellezzan visitors. But the most conspicuous gap was where the Duke should be. Whispers exchanged between his sons made it clear that no one knew if he would turn out in time for the race.

  It was a hot and sunny afternoon and Barbara stood behind the Duchessa with a white lace parasol. Arianna was dressed in pure white silk with a mask trimmed with white peacock feathers. It was a tactful choice, not clashing with the rose and white colours of the Twins around her and not espousing any one Twelfth. Only Arianna and her maid knew that she wore garters of brightest red and yellow under the wide silk skirt.