Free The Daughter of Siena by Marina Fiorato

mouth to suggest her mistress should dress or take breakfast, registered this new tone in the duchess’s voice, shut it again and disappeared.
    Violante did not want to move from the place that had inspired her, so when her butler appeared she asked for a writing desk to be set in the window and took up her quill. Then she sat down and wrote to Gian Gastone de’ Medici, her brother-in-law and the only man in her family whom she felt she could count upon as an ally, the only Medici ever to show her any kindness. To do what she planned she needed the support of the state.
    She also needed the support of the city. She could see the city only as a stranger – for she was on the outside, something that had become abundantly clear yesterday
at the Palio. She needed to move from within. But there was one man here who had shown courage without partiality: the unknown horseman, who had run towards danger, unafraid, to help a dying man, a man not of his own contrada . She sealed and directed her letter to Gian Gastone just as Gretchen came back into the great chamber with the boy Zebra. The old lady pulled off the lad’s cap and pushed him forward with a little shove, but not without affection.
    Violante thought the orphan looked tired and felt a sudden misgiving that she would add to his load. She had a stool drawn close and some bread and milk brought before she spoke. She watched him as he sopped the bread in the milk, eating hungrily. He could not be more than eight or nine.
    ‘Zebra.’
    She felt foolish, but did not know his given name. He looked at her with a completely open countenance, not noticeably shy or diffident, and he began to smile a lopsided smile. She realized she was still wearing the Palio banner around her shoulders, had a simple cap on her head, and bare feet. She must look quite a sight. But she smiled back, encouraged. Perhaps there was still some innocence in Siena.
    ‘Do you know the horseman of the Tower contrada ? Do you know who he is, where to find him?’
    Zebra ducked his head in a nod, his mouth stuffed with bread and milk.
    Violante was relieved. She had half expected the horseman to have left Siena by now.

    ‘Go to him in my name, with this seal.’ She passed him a small plaque bearing the Medici shield. A glance at her family arms gave her courage. ‘Bid him come here to the palace at his earliest convenience.’
    As Zebra bowed, she noted his black-and-white clothes, the same colours as the banner that she still held around her shoulders. She had a sudden notion. She folded the flag respectfully, warm from her body, and gave it to the boy.
    ‘And on your way, take this to the Caprimulgo house.’
    The boy looked up, startled.
    ‘Put it in the hands of Faustino Caprimulgo and tell him …’ She hardened her tone with the timbre of resolve. ‘Tell him Violante Beatrix de’ Medici, no—’ She corrected herself. ‘The governess of Siena sends him this, with her condolences.’
    Black and white were the colours of the chessboard too. She had made her first move.

5
    The Panther

    T he Panther, the young man who lay dead in the Eagle’s dungeons, was once young and whole and happy, growing up in his father’s house. His father, captain of the Panthers, was an apothecary who had amassed a small fortune and bought a fine new house in the Pantera contrada in the west of the city. The capitano decided to bring objects to his house that befitted his new class, filling it with paintings.
    The young Panther had a favourite – a painting by the Sienese master Sassetta. He passed it every day in the parlour, where it hung over the armoire. It depicted a panther at bay, trapped in a deep pit, magnificent, sitting back on the bunched black muscles of his haunches, snarling with pin-sharp ivory teeth. On the lip of the pit were gathered a group of rustic shepherds, some pelting the beast with sticks and stones, some throwing him food. The young Panther was struck by the nobility of the beast: