"The possibility of us hanging out more made me happy...but now it's all gone," he mourns.
I smile sadly, suddenly wishing the distance between us wasn't so wide. Suddenly I wish that seeing each other wasn't going to be so difficult, and I have to fight the tears that threaten to blur my vision. "I didn't think my company meant that much to you," I say, partly joking.
He glances up then, dark eyes meeting my curious ones. "You have no idea," he says softly.
The Colosseum is alight with a mid-afternoon glow, the sunlight tentatively warming the dust of the arena and the skin of those who have come to worship at the altar of tradition, of the pride of a city and its kings. Utterances of the day’s beauty slip from the mouths of spectators, prayers of thanksgiving they may or may not have meant to say.
Una bella giornata. Even the heavens have given their blessing.
A gentle breeze breathes life into the many colorful flags of the slowly assembling parade, toying cheekily with the flaps of the contrada member’s tunics like a child come to enjoy the festivities. The horses, too, seem touched by a deity, coats slick and shining and ears pricked to the sounds of the Palio: the chorus of voices that seems to float on the wind, the faint blaring of trumpets in the distance. Each who enters the amphitheatre pauses to admire the raw elegance of it all, a glimpse of living history surrounded by the opulence of a new order. As they search for their seats—or if they’re brave enough to situate themselves in the thick of the procession, their spot beneath the white tent enclosed by the barrier—they can’t help but think that it’s not terribly hard to believe that something holy happened here, that something holy might happen again.
It began as a celebration of the appearance of an apparition—Madonna di Provenzano, named for her sightings near estates owned by a gentleman of that name—and evolved into something of a tradition among the contradas and then among the families that hailed from them as the years went on. There are few things men love more than the feeling of self-importance inevitably brought about by the visitation of a spirit, but the most prominent of these is their pomp, their pride, so it should come as no surprise to any deities watching that the Palio has shed some of its baser traits in favor of luxury, of the glint of gold, silver, and the jewels that accompany them. There are pilgrims of two kinds in the crowd today: those who worship the God said to have walked the earth, and those who worship the gods who still do.
The last of the historical procession fall into place, flags held high and shoulders back—ready, at last, to offer sacrifice. The call of a trumpet demands that every spectator lend both their eyes and their ears, and they do so willingly (nothing can quiet a person quite like the presence of divinity). Then, as if on cue, the stallion bearing the flag of Verona surges forward in a pompous prance, head held high in the sort of arrogance that befits magnificent beasts like him, and the colosseum erupts into cheers, each patron craning their neck to catch a glimpse first of the beautiful costumes and then of the competitors, the true stars of the afternoon. The parade makes its way through the arena, trumpeters, drummers, and flag-bearers heralding the arrival of the barberos and barbarescos—the race-horses and their jockeys.
A blood bay decked in emerald green and royal blue leads the charge, spiriting forward at a trot that demands his lead horse break into a canter in order to keep up. Murmurs about his energy—be it of promise or nerves—arise as he passes, setting the bar high for the judgment of those horses he precedes. Next comes a dappled grey donning red and white, unique both in its coloring and its tepid temperament. Had it been a gloomy day, the wise gamblers would’ve put their money on him, for it’s been said that in rainy conditions, the only grey horse in the field will seize the crown. But alas, the sun shines down on Verona this fine afternoon, and the ashen sheen of his coat rewards him little more than momentary interest.
The same cannot be said for the horse cloaked in purple and silver, a dark brown bay with four white socks, but the attention he garners is hardly positive. It’s been said that a chrome horse brings nothing but bad luck, and the people of Verona are considerably superstitious (why, they’re here, aren’t they?); thus, the gelding who precedes Cosimo Capulet’s horse is met with suspicion and dread—raised eyebrows, scoffs, and every slightly insulting gesture imaginable in between. But the horse bearing the Capulet crest, a fiery chestnut with an immaculate white stripe down his nose and a lone sock on his right foreleg—the mark of a swift steed, some say–draws attention to himself in a pleasing way. The sunlight hits his reddish coat and paints him nearly scarlet, a sight even if it weren’t for the silver nearly dripping from his tack. The spectators’ eyes linger, sizing him up against the others who have come before him, and many raise their pencils to jot down their bets.
But those who are none too eager to throw their lots in so prematurely wait for what they hope will be an earthquake among tremors; it’s no secret that the Montagues have won the Palio Cup more times than one could count, and they’ve garnered a bit of a reputation for running some of the finest horses in the field. Those who pause in anticipation are not disappointed; the glossy black stallion bearing the Montague crest is every bit the stud they’d expected (if not more), but all traces of gold, save for the threads woven into his saddle blanket, are gone, replaced with black alone—the color of mourning. He’s a sight, surely, but the unusual circumstances regarding his colors perplex the audience far more than the dilemma of their wagers ever could, and murmurs arise as he passes, pitch black flag waving. “They scratched him, did you know? The Montagues scratched him.”
“I do have to wonder why, as wasn’t he the favorite?”
“He was; it said so. I liked his odds.”
“Damiano did lose a dear friend a few weeks ago; perhaps he’s withdrawn in his honor.”
All is quiet for several moments following the unveiling of Verona’s most prized steeds, and then the silence breaks. Ladies in divine silk brocades and gentlemen in suits of splendor alike surge forward to snatch their ticket and place their bets, their conspiratorial whispers a buzz throughout the Colosseum. “Which one, which one, darling?” “I like the look of that dappled fellow!” “Pass the program, who’s the jockey for number six?” “Brielle King, she’s the one to look out for, the one riding the black bay!” “Why, I heard she came in from the east specifically to ride.” Binoculars press indentations into porcelain faces, lacquered nails flip through the Daily Racing Form and programs. There is endless energy to be found in glamour and the fleeting distraction of gambling, and the stadium is alive with anticipation, their collective breaths held as they cast their bets. Anything can happen, anyone can win, and anyone can profit.
“In bocca al lupo!” Someone cries.
“Crepi il lupo!” Another answers.
TASK: Among the most decadent and powerful of Verona, there is no short of vices and sins, and certainly no shame. Your task is to pick one of the seven deadly sins (pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth) and describe how your character embodies it. Bonus points if you can relate it to their event ensemble!
Please tag your character’s ensemble/ensemble descriptions as #diveronaraces and your event interactions as #event: races. There is no deadline to complete the task, so take as much time with it as you feel necessary.
