There are not a lot of places where a horse defecating in a church is considered a good thing. Siena, it turns out, is one of them. I squeezed into the crowded Civetta church to watch the blessing of Civetta’s horse before the race. The air was thick with incense from swaying censers when the Civetta jockey walked in, holding his horse’s reins in his hand, closely followed by the comparsa—the official delegation of the contrada. The horse flicked his ears restlessly, dark gray above his lighter gray head, and shied from the crowd as he was squeezed into the tiny church. The contradaioli kept the onlookers back, clearing a space around the horse and jockey, and I maneuvered to see from the side pews.
“Our help is in the name of the Lord,” intoned the contrada priest, holding a cross over the horse’s elegant head.
“Who made heaven and earth,” the congregation answered.
The horse shifted and defecated onto the marble floor, and the crowd let out a cheer of delight.
“Guard, protect, and defend your servant from the dangers of the race to come . . . let your blessing fall upon him and upon this horse . . . and may they be safe from the approaching dangers . . . through the intercession of blessed Saint Anthony . . . amen.”
And then a cry went up from the priest and the hundreds of Civettini packed shoulder to shoulder:
“Vai e torna vincitore!” Go and return a winner! I joined the yelling crowd and tried to stay on my feet as we pushed out of the church and emerged into the hot sun, thoroughly blessed and heading fast for the piazza. Someone must have stayed to clean up the floor afterward.
Donata guarded our places in the packed Piazza del Campo with all the ferocity of a Palio-charged Sienese art history professor. People crowded on rooftops, leaned out windows decorated with contrade banners—owl, unicorn, goose, caterpillar, all seventeen proudly flying their colors—and thousands, like us, pressed close together down on the ground. The huge bell of the Torre del Mangia began to ring, bells that had rung their warning for centuries. Then, to screams from the crowd, the horses entered the piazza with their jockeys. I tore my Civetta scarf off my neck and waved it frantically in the air like everyone around me. When the cannon fired the horses exploded forward, tearing around the piazza, hooves thundering on the yellow earth.
Ninety seconds—that’s all it took for the ten horses to run three times around the piazza—the most breathtaking ninety seconds I had ever witnessed. Within the first turn one horse had slammed into the wall, and his rider was thrown to the ground, then rolled to escape the horses pounding past him. The horse kept running, riderless. At the San Martino corner, two horses went down, along with their riders.
“OCA OCA OCA!!” the goose contrada fans screamed. Their horse was in the lead, head free and low, with the jockey flat against his horse’s neck, green, white, and red silks flapping. Civetta was in the middle of the pack, edging forward around the second turn, but Oca crossed the finish line first. Screams of joy broke out from Oca’s contradaioli, and despair from Civetta, La Nonna again. The Ocaioli poured onto the terra, crying, laughing, praising God, and hugging the winning horse and jockey.
“Daccelo, daccelo, daccelo. . . .” The chant of the Oca contradaioli rang through the Campo: “Give it to us!” and the Palio banner descended into their eager hands, rippling with the image of the Virgin Mary.
“Next year, Papà,” Felice said, wrapping her plump arms around her father’s bent neck.
* * *
That night, just before I went to sleep, I snuck in a quick read from Gabriele’s diary. For the first time, I imagined his voice, reading the passage aloud. Through him, the saint’s story came alive for me in a way it never had in my years of Catholic school.
Feast of San Pietro Martire, 1346
I have been fortunate to be granted a commission to decorate a section of the new city gates. I will paint Saint Christopher, protector of travelers, patron of ferrymen, and guardian of good death. A good death—not too sudden to pray for redemption. Since the commission was confirmed I have spent many nights awake, as I often do at the beginning of a project, staring at the beamed ceiling above me as my head fills with images starting to take shape. I have always been deeply moved by his story—in seeking to serve his holy Master he took on the task of ferrying travelers across a dangerous river. One day he found himself carrying a young child, a child who became heavier and heavier as the waters became more turbulent, so that Christopher bowed with the struggle, unsure he could continue, saying, “I feel that I carry the world on my shoulders.” In fact, he did, as the child confided in him, “I am not only that world, but its Creator, whom you serve through your efforts,” and vanished. It is a tale worthy of depicting. All who enter or leave our gates will set their prayers by his image, and though I am certainly no saint, I take this weight seriously.
The next afternoon, I threw on my favorite sleeveless white linen dress, shouldered Ben’s leather backpack with the journal in it, and took an afternoon to walk out the Porta Camollia through Siena’s medieval walls and down the Via Francigena, the ancient trade route between France and Rome. I stopped to look at the inscription over the Porta as I left. Cor Magis Tibi Saena Pandit: “Wider than this gate, Siena opens its heart to you” the Latin read. So far, I’d found that to be true, and secretly was imagining a second, if only sentimental, citizenship. I wondered whether Gabriele’s painting might once have decorated these walls. After a few hours’ walk I made my way back to the Porta, then I went to the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, on the site of what should have become the new cathedral.
Later, I would try to remember every detail of what happened next, but at the time I did not know how important that would be. A set of paintings depicting the life of Saint Christopher caught my eye, and when I saw them, I stopped short. The saint’s face was filled with intense determination to ferry the small child safely across the frighteningly rough river, and the final scene, where Christopher and the child gaze into each other’s eyes, was so intimate and beautiful I almost understood, for a brief moment, the power that pulls ordinary human beings into sainthood.
I glanced at the placard on the gallery wall: “Studies for frescoes thought to have decorated a portion of the city gates, tempera on panel. Attributed to Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi, Martini School, 14th century.” My Gabriele, I thought, and I felt the hair on my arms rise. And then I caught a detail at the edge of one of the scenes, almost small enough to miss. On the distant riverbank, a small crowd of anxious travelers stand, and among them is a woman in a green dress, with black hair braided in the shape of a crown. The painting was more than 650 years old. But the woman’s face was mine.