vi·ra·go [vi-rah-goh]
Archaic . a woman of strength or spirit.
Chapter I: Val d'Orcia, Montalcino
Tuscany was known throughout Europe as an idyllicexpansion of land. The bird that flies overhead sees that Tuscany is dotted with settlements of a simple rustic beauty. Industrialization and overpopulation did not mar the radiance of Tuscany like it had to Florence, Paris, and countless other European provinces. No, Tuscany mostly remained as a vast, pastoral stretch of land made out of golden grass, striped with rows of crops and the occasional vein of rivers.
Somewhere in the sanctuary of Tuscany was a small state called Montalcino.
Montalcino was the main town for several miles around. Within its walls were busy streets; or rather, it was what the country folk of this part of Tuscany would consider busy. Taverns, shops, and market stalls lined the well-trodden streets. The occasional farmer down on his luck would also decorate the walkways, calling out for a spare coin or some food.
Outside of the walls of Montalcino was a neighborhood of many small farm houses that were perched on the rolling hills of the countryside. The people there call this group of farm houses Val d'Orcia. A thin, swirling dirt path connected this small community to the main settlement. The grass in this small neighborhood varied from a sunbaked bronze to a minty green. When the sun is up, the people would be laboring over their many rows of crops. When the sun descended behind the horizon, these working class Italians would either make their ways home or seek out the attractions of the Montalcino nightlife.
Welcome to Val d'Orcia, Montalcino, a small pocket of Tuscany where the story begins.
Francesca awoke to the warm, gentle caress of sunlight that had shone in through her bedroom window. Her bronze eyes peeled open, and she groggily rubbed them awake. Familiar surroundings sank in; she was in a small room with three other cots with bits of straw poking out through the seams. Only one other bed was occupied by the small body of her fourteen year old little brother, Adriano, who seemed to be sound asleep.
Francesca stretched her limbs, pulling her arms over her head and extending her long legs over the edge of her bed. Her fingers combed through her thick umber hair, then divided it into three equal parts so that she could do her usual braid.
"Adriano," Francesca mumbled, trying to awaken her little brother. When he did not so much as stir, she moved to his bedside. Her younger brother's face was completely relaxed; his mouth was open wide enough for a mouse to crawl down his throat. Francesca allowed a maternal smile to grace her countenance before giving him a gentle shake. "Wake up, fratellino." When he did not awaken, she persisted. "Svegliati!"
His brow furrowed as he swam into consciousness. Adriano practically had to pry his tired eyes open. Francesca brushed a curl of hair behind his ear before making her way to the mirror.
"Nngh," Adriano groaned. "Don't do that."
"Don't do what?"
"Move my hair around like that. It makes me feel like a little boy."
"You are a little boy," his sister challenged.
"Pah! No I am not. I am fourteen years old. I'm practically a man."
This earned an insouciant chuckle from his older sister, who insisted with a smile, "Well, you're still a little boy to me."
Adriano simply groaned and moved to the trunk at the foot of his bed. He pulled out a clean shirt and pants and began to lethargically change clothes. In the city, undressing in front of your sisterwould be condemned, but this family upheld less strict customs.
While Adriano finished getting dressed, Francesca carefully uncovered a basin of water. Although it was lukewarm, it helped to wake her up when she splashed her face.
"Where is Carlota and Giana?" the brother inquired, motioning to the two empty cots before pulling his faded shirt over his head.
"Probably already up and tending to the silkworms," his sister replied.
"Ah. They get the easiest jobs," Adriano muttered.
By now, he was dressed and bid his sister farewell. He exited their room, leaving Francesca alone to get ready. She did not have a trunk like her brother, but instead shared a dresser with her older sister, Carlota. Carlota dominated two out of three of the sections of the dresser. Typical of her, Francesca thought spitefully. She fished out an outfit and hurried to put it on.
What Francesca wore to work was unorthodox for women. Instead of wearing a plain farmer's dress,she donned her trousers that were the color of dry hay and about as soft. She also had a pair of dark leather shoes, a hand-me-down from her father, which she tucked the ankles of her pants into. Francesca wore a simple faded black shirt under her overly large sand colored shirt. Around her waist, was a thin leather belt which she tied to keep the excess of her shirt from billowing too much.
If not for the fairness of her face, the long braid that traced the nape of her neck, and herbreasts, one might have mistaken Francesca for a young man. She was well aware of this, but at the same time, she knew if she had to stop and fix the folds of her dress every five seconds, she'd never finish her chores in time to join the neighborhood boys for their weekly calico match. So she hurried out of her small farm home, stopping only to snatch a slice of bread off the dusty kitchen counter, and began her work in the fields.
It was a couple of hours after noon before Adriano, Francesca, and their father Emilio finished work. After laboring for hours under the merciless Tuscany sun, Emilio and Adriano were about ready to collapse. Francesca, however, followed her routine of asking her father if she could join the local boys for a match.
Emilio stopped and rested one hand on his hip while the other stroked his gray mustache in mock contemplation. "I don't know, my dear," he began. "Wouldn't you rather be resting on the porch with a cool glass after a long day of work?"
Francesca, keen to her father's jokes, gave an airy laughed and waited ever so impatiently for him to give his consent. Emilio's eyes twinkled behind his bushy eyebrows, and a paternal grin overtook his face. He clapped his daughter on the shoulder and took from her hands the rake that she had used to till the soil.
"First get cleaned up. Then, go show those boys what real pain is! But be back before dinner! Which is—"
"Just after sundown, I know, papa!" Francesca interrupted. She placed a quick kiss on her father's cheek and hurried off into the house to quickly clean up. Emilio shook his head with a smile.
Francesca bolted through the door to her room, only to find Carlota there. Her older sister (only two years past her own age of seventeen) was occupying the small table which held up the mirror and water basin. The older sister's eyes passed over Francesca for a fraction of a second before returning to her own business.
"Nice clothes, Francesca. If you were farther away, I'd think you were Adriano," Carlota drawled.
"Oh, it's you, Carlota! I thought there was a rabid dog in the house for a moment," Francesca returned bitterly. She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, impatiently awaiting her sister's departure.
"And what would you have done if I were a rabid dog?" Carlota persisted. "Beaten me with your bare hands? Like a man?"
"If it would get the dog out of here, then yes," was Francesca's reply. She added, with a sly smile, "But it would be useless. Some pests just don't learn."
"Exactly," Carlota agreed simply, turning the attack against her opponent. Carlota gave a depraved chuckle when Francesca did not have a retaliation. She stepped away from the wall and approached her sister.
"Just get out of the way, Carlota. I need to use the wash basin."
"Indeed. You smell like swine. Have you been rolling in the mud again?"
"Oh, shut up!"
Carlota cackled wickedly again and held up a hand to silence her sister. "I'll go, I'll go… Just as soon as I finish putting these earrings on."
That was when Francesca noticed the beautiful earrings that dangled from her sister's earlobes: a single curled piece of wire bearing what looked to Francesca like droplets of silver clinging to it. No doubt it was another gift from one of Carlota's many suitors.
Francesca watched as her sister finished putting them on. She flicked them playfully, making them swing on her ears like raindrops caught in the wind. No more words were uttered as Carlota rose from her seat and sauntered away. Nothing else needed to be said to make Francesca feel that familiar sense of inadequacy that Carlota always brought upon her. After a sigh and a kick to the wall, Francesca seated herself in front of the basin and began to cleanse her skin of some of the dirt and dust that had settled there.
"That puttana," Francesca muttered under her breath, throwing her hands into the basin and splashing water everywhere. She jerkily scrubbed her face clean and rinsed off up to her elbows. She didn't bother to find a towel; her shirt would do. The young woman marched out of the house and broke into an anger-fueled run across the grass.
Francesca could see, not too far in the distance, the familiar patch of flat land among the many hills in Val d'Orcia. Already most of the players were gathered, one of them idly fiddling with the hand-sewn ball. When she was only a few paces away, one of the boys looked up and cheered.
"Ah! There she is!"
"I want her on my team!"
"Hey, no fair! She was on your team last time."
"So what?"
Francesca slowed to a stop. She placedher hands on her hips and gave an airy laugh. She was entertained by the friendly debate before her and, admittedly, flattered that these young men respected her athleticism even though she was a woman. It had taken a while, but Francesca had eventually cultivated a strong reputation as a skillful calico player. This allowed the boys to treat her just like one of them; no morejokes or low blows about gender during these calico matches.
Outside of the game, it was usually a different story.
The arguing over Francesca's allegiance continued for a short while longer. It was rudely interrupted by the presence of another woman.
"Oh! Vittoria!"
Francesca was yanked out of her moment of glory at the sound of her best friend's name. While she turned her head toward the lady named Vittoria, the boys halted their argument and hurried over. Practically tripping over their tongues, they all greeted her and complimented her hair, her dress, and whatever else they could think of.
Vittoria had long hair that was elegantly tied off in braids that were much more elegant than Francesca's. Her hair was as dark and sleek as obsidian. Conversely, Vittoria had the pale skin of a noble. She still had that slight olive tint of all Tuscans, but was much more cream-colored due to the fact that she didn't have to labor under the sun all day. Vittoria wore a very dignified collarless dress of red and gold. The bright trim tapered along the base of her long neck to her shoulders, which were covered with puffy sleeves of scarlet. The godet skirt of her dress hung beyond her ankles and brushed delicately against the ground.
This was the part of her best friend that Francesca could not stand: her beauty, and all of the attention it brought her. Francesca kicked at the dirt idly, waiting to be acknowledged by her female peer.
"Vittoria! Have you come to play with us again?" a boy named Victor practically squealed.
"Signorina, how you grace us with your presence!"
"Milady, if it pleases you, why not be on my team? I will keep these filthy roaches away from you!"
There Vittoria stood, slightly taller than the rest because she was on the curve of a hill (and since some of the boys were practically bowing down to her) with her brow furrowed in suppressed annoyance. She did her best to ignore the knot of wanna-be-suitors.
Craning her neck so as to see over the group, Vittoria yelled, "Francesca! Save me from these hounds, would you please?"
Francesca looked up from her leather shoes to see Vittoria roll her eyes comically. The woman in red hurried down the hill and embraced her friend in a quick hug, then gave a peck on both cheeks as many girlfriends do.
"You know what they say about dogs, Vittoria," Francesca said with a smirk. "No matter how much you kick them, they just don't go away."
This earned a wholehearted chuckle from both women and spurious giggles and simpers from the boys. Vittoria hooked arms with Francesca defensively and, turning to the rest of the group, said, "I'm on whatever team she is on." This caused an eruption of arguments from the men. Vittoria sighed in mock impatience and focused on her companion.
"You truly are the better dressed one here," she said, nodding to Francesca's unladylike apparel. "I ought to be quite the fool to wear clothing this constricting to a calico match."
Normally, Francesca became defensive whenever the matter of her clothing was brought up. But when it came from Vittoria, she knew her friend had only good intentions. Francesca shrugged and said, vacant of any apprehensions, "I'm sure most of the group would disagree." Vittoria dismissed the compliment with a wave of the arm and waited for the boys to decide on teams.
The calico ball, in all its dusty white, crumpled glory, was dropped between two competitors. They vied for possession of the ball, kicking to and fro and practically tripping over each other's ankles until finally the ball was sent into Francesca's possession. She eagerly caught it with the inside of her foot and began to dart across the field, slowed down only a little so that she could continue to edge the ball forward. She felt the wind from her speed fly through her pumping arms, imagining she were a bird about to ascend into the sky.
Her eyes flicked up to see three of the considerably larger youths rushing her like foot soldiers. Francesca's eyes went to her right, then left. She could pass the ball to her nearby teammate on the right side, or kick the ball with all her might toward Vittoria, much farther away on her left flank.
Vittoria was hardly prepared to receive the ball. Her protective reflexes told her to move out of the path of the ball that was sailing through the air at her. She stood her ground, however, and watched the ball bounce off the ground not three feet away and roll into her shadow. Vittoria grinned giddily. Hesitant feet nudged the ball forward.
Compared to Francesca, Vittoria was moving at a snail's pace. All the men were running toward Vittoria as if their legs were suddenly made of lead. Francesca rolled her eyes and continued down the field.
When Vittoria had had enough, she kicked the ball toward the goal, which was just a marker set in place with rocks. She did not aim for the net; instead she aimed several yards in front of it. Vittoria may not be a great athlete herself, but she had enough intuition to know how to make a great assist.
Francesca pumped her legs and arms furiously, emerging from the advancing group of competitors so that she could receive the ball. Her foot collided with the ball and sent it rocketing toward the goal. In a vain attempt to save his team, the goalie lunged to the side. The ball flew past him and straight through the goal markers.
Francesca and Vittoria's team erupted in cheers. The guys galloped around, pounding each other on the backs while they celebrated the winning goal. From across the field, Vittoria wiped the beads of sweat that had collected on her forehead, pulled at her sleeves, and watched her friend on the other side.
Francesca's chest was heaving, desperately trying to contain its rapidly beating heart. The athlete let her hands rest on her hips and dipped her head back. The gentle and much appreciated wind tousled the hair that had come loose from her braid. In a very halcyonic way, she closed her eyes and allowed a pleasant smile to adorn her countenance.
Vittoria could tell that there was nowhere her friend would rather be.
[AN] Thanks for reading :)