specimens of manhood tussling, while Lord Silvio’s servants plied me with wine. As if we lived in a fairy tale, a golden carriage with gilded wheels and panels painted in the della Torre colors appeared at the foot of the loge. Lord Silvio himself handed me in, and settled me on the velvet cushions. He took his place beside me, with Brother Guido opposite, and told me, “You, Signorina Luciana, shall be my mascot for the day, and a lovelier one I have never seen.”
My tomcat’s grin was frozen by the dour look on Brother Guido’s face. “Cheer up,” I whispered. “He probably means that I’m wearing a dress of red and orange, the colors of the Cock-erel party.” For indeed my travel-stained dress had once been a handsome gown of those hues. Brother Guido did not look convinced, but the carriage jolted and we were off. I saw him thaw a little as the carriage passed through the streets, for even he had to be enjoying the fact that, in a matter of hours, we had been transformed from a couple of freezing pilgrims to the fortunate favorites of the local lord. Brother Guido began to point out well-loved landmarks with his uncle, and in his usual wordy way, he began to acquaint me with the spectacle that we were about to see. At last I could see the glittering silver Arno, bright as a new ribbon in the sun, so different now from the mire of sludge I had crossed earlier in the hammering rain. Then I had been atop a skinny pony. Now I rode in a golden carriage. The day was certainly improving. The crowd, meantime, was parting like the Red Sea, and Brother Guido explained, “You may see, signorina, that the crowd is dividing to the north and south banks, to indicate the ancient historical opposition between the parties of the Mezzogiorno and Tramontana.”
I did notice, but I noticed, too, that he had become more formal with me in the presence of his uncle. We had become “Brother Guido” and “Luciana” on the road (he would never call me “Chi-chi”), but now I was back to “signorina.” Before I had time to ponder this, he went on.
“The people are getting ready to support the colors of their own magistratura, or court. The magistratura is the political-military organization of a city quarter or of the team which participates in the Game of the Bridge.”
God, he could be boring. It was fortunate that he was so pretty. I stifled a yawn. “So what actually happens in this game?” I just wanted more wine. I didn’t even care about my appearance anymore, which is very unusual for me.
“Essentially, each team must push a large battering ram weighing more than seven tons across the old bridge—this one we are approaching now—while the other team tries to stop them. It is a wonderful contest where elements of folklore fuse with the proud warrior tradition of the parties, where each bank of the Arno fights for sovereignty over the bridge.”
These Pisanos were clearly insane. “Are you actually telling me that all this spectacle is to do with two bunches of dressed-up men pushing a large log over a bridge, while the other lot try to push it the other way?”
Brother Guido visibly deflated. “Yes.”
Madonna. But I was aware of Lord Silvio’s amusement as he watched us, and quickly returned to my flattering mode. “How wonderful! And what a fitting . . . celebration of the might of this great city,” I finished weakly and felt my praise had been unconvincing.
Indeed, Lord Silvio had detected my scorn. “The people enjoy it, and always have. It is their only chance for a real, honest-to-goodness scrap. You see, Pisa has little to do with landlocked combat, but at sea, well, our maritime forces cannot be matched, even by such cities as Genoa and Naples.”
And there it was again—that trinity of seagoing cities, bringing a small chill to my day like a cloud passing over the face of the sun. In truth, I had all but forgotten the Primavera, and now felt the whisper of danger again. But uncle and nephew smiled their twin smiles and our carriage drew in to the center of the bridge, where Lord Silvio was well placed to adjudicate the heats. As far as the eye could see, crowds lined both banks of the Arno, dressed in their partisan colors, cheering themselves hoarse. I watched the first few heats, enjoying