Archer didn’t dare press his uncle’s decision immediately. No man liked to be countermanded outright. Challenging his uncle would hardly be the way to ingratiate himself to his new family. But he could make an effort to change his uncle’s mind about the Palio. Archer kicked Amicus into a trot to pull up alongside Giacomo, determined to start on that good impression today at the horse farm.
If his uncle could see him handle the horses or see him ride, his uncle would change his mind. Seeing was believing after all. His uncle had nothing to go on in reference to him except his mother’s letters and mothers were inherently biased. Based on that, Archer understood his uncle’s reticence to make him a rider.
‘Tell me about this beast of yours, mio nipote,’ his uncle said as Archer pulled even with him. The traffic had lessened on the country road. They were able now to ride side by side and enjoy some conversation. ‘He’s a fine-looking animal, strong through the chest.’
‘He looks much better these days,’ Archer agreed. Even considering the rough travel from France, Amicus had blossomed from good care and affection. He told his uncle the story of Amicus’s rescue and his heroic jump on to the boat, keeping his attentions covertly alert to his uncle’s reaction.
‘No!’ Giacomo cried in happy disbelief. ‘That’s incredible.’
Archer patted Amicus’s neck. ‘It is incredible. But he’s an incredible horse. He had two months to rest in Paris and I worked him with a fine group of riders while I was there. Paris has a surprisingly strong group of enthusiastic riders. I had not expected it. They were a pleasure to train with and I was able to give Amicus some more refined skills. He’ll make a good hunter.’ Although he intended to stay in Italy, Archer still wanted to make the trip north to the Spanish riding school in Vienna. It would be a treat to see Amicus join their training regimen and it would be a good opportunity to look for new horses. He shared as much with his uncle. ‘Perhaps next year’s Palio horse will be among them.’ He winked.
‘Could be. We haven’t had a horse from that far away for quite a while, but it wouldn’t be unheard of.’ Giacomo nodded, the idea becoming more interesting as he thought about it. That had to be a good sign, a sign that he could trust his nephew as an assessor of horses. One step closer. Archer had no intentions of taking no for an answer on the Palio. Just because his uncle thought he wasn’t going to ride in the race didn’t mean he was going to accept that decision any more than he was going to accept the mysterious Elisabeta simply disappearing into the night, lost to him.
He’d come too far to let these challenges get in his way. He was going to ride in the race. He was going to find Elisabeta because he wanted to, and Archer Crawford was a man used to getting what he wanted.
‘We’re nearly there. The farm is just over the hill.’ His uncle gestured ahead of them. ‘Let’s be clear on what we’re looking for today. This man is a horse breeder. He’s bred more winners of the Palio than anyone else currently living. I train them, of course, but they spend their early years with him. I’ve had two horses in his care since they were yearlings. They are four years old now. I want to see if they’re ready to be recommended for the race, but I also want to see which other horses might be brought in either by Torre or by the other contradas. We are not the only ones who use him.’ This was to be a test, then, of his skill, Archer thought. His uncle would listen to his opinions and decide if he knew his business. But the visit was more than a test for him. It was also a subterfuge.
Checking on the two horses was merely the surface of his uncle’s agenda. Archer saw that immediately. This was a reconnaissance mission. They were here to ascertain the level of competition. ‘I understand,’ Archer nodded. He was enjoying this easy camaraderie with his uncle, finding it a novel contrast to the terse, succinct conversations he had with his father. His father rarely asked for opinions. The man just gave them. But his uncle seemed to genuinely care what his opinion might be. ‘This is not all that different than wandering through the Newmarket stables during race week to see the other horses.’
Giacomo gave a friendly laugh. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, mio nipote. At Newmarket, it is straightforward; a man races his own horse with his own rider. Anyone who wants to enter a horse can as long as they can pay the entry fee. Not so, here. We have to make it more dramatic. We can recommend horses for the Palio, but we do not control which horse we get. We do not enter a horse for Torre, our horse is drawn for us, assigned to us, out of the final pool of horses. All we can do is recommend the best horses possible for that pool.’
That was news to Archer. He was starting to see that his mother’s stories of the great race had left out certain details. It was easy enough to do. When one lived in a particular milieu, there were nuances that one took for granted and assumed everyone else did too. ‘I think I understand, but give me an example.’
Giacomo grinned and warmed to the subject. ‘Consider the horse that won the July Palio, Morello de Jacopi. He is owned by Lorenzo Jacopi, but the Pantera Contrada drew him for the race. It doesn’t matter what contrada Jacopi is aligned with, if any. For the race, the horse is Pantera’s. If the horse is selected again for the August Palio, another contrada might draw him.
‘Hopefully us.’ Giacomo leaned in although there was no one on the road to hear. ‘He’s the best-looking horse this year and I think we could put a better fantino on him than any of the other contradas.’
The remark wounded Archer although he knew it wasn’t his uncle’s intention. He could be that rider if his uncle would give him a chance. ‘If the horse has proven himself by winning, surely he’s an immediate choice for the August race,’ Archer put in.
‘You Englishmen are always so direct.’ Giacomo laughed. ‘You’re thinking just like your father, that speed matters. It does to some extent. But now, you must think like an Italian, like a Sienese. If we all know who the fastest horse is, the race is less exciting. Why race if the outcome is certain?’ He gave Archer a sharp look, daring him to debate the proposition.
For all that his mother had taught him about her city and her language, she’d not taught him that. Archer had no answer. ‘First you tell me a contrada doesn’t enter its own horse and now you tell me the race isn’t about speed? I’m afraid it all seems a bit counter-intuitive.’
‘It’s like this,’ his uncle explained, clearly revelling in the chance to delve into the intricacies of the great race. This Archer was prepared for. His mother had told him that for many in Siena, the mental exercise of the Palio was raced all year. ‘Every contrada should have an equal chance to win the Palio. To that end, the horses are selected to give everyone the best chance for an equal race. Obviously, horses who are hurt or not in good physical condition are not considered. They would obviously put the contrada who raced them at a disadvantage. But also, a horse who is too good might give a contrada who drew it an unfair advantage. When the capitani vote for the horses that should be in the drawing, we vote for the horses that will create the most equal race. The horses that are chosen for the honour are neither too fast or too slow, but just right. They fit well with each other.’
The fastest horse didn’t race? That sounded crazy to Archer but he did not dare to say it out loud. It would be imprudent to question a centuries-old tradition. Who was he to say it was wrong? It was merely different, vastly different than the straightforward tradition of speed he’d been raised to.
‘Of course, a good fantino isn’t going to let a horse go all out in the trials if he’s too fast,’ Giacomo put in cryptically. ‘There are ways to ensure your horse fits in.’ Good lord, Archer thought. This wasn’t a horse race, it was a chess game. Based on the statistics, Torre played the game well. His uncle’s
