Mauro dashed between the oaks, zigzagging wildly, but the horse was too fast for him. He could hear its hoof beats growing louder behind him.

He cursed.

This was crazy.

He looked back briefly and saw that the rider was almost upon him. He threw himself to the ground and the blade scraped across his shoulder, tearing his shirt.

He scrambled to his feet and bolted back the way he had come. He had to try and head towards the village. His only hope was that somebody nearby could help him.

He called out for help. ‘Agiudai! Agiudaimi po presceri!’ but his voice was swallowed up by the trees.

The rider had turned his horse and was now fast approaching again, the mask still showing the same placid expression.

The path widened into a clearing and as Mauro emerged into the dazzling sunlight he disturbed a swarm of scarlet butterflies that flew up around him in a swirling mass.

He swore. It was too open here. The horse would be able to gallop unimpeded. He looked quickly around: there was thick vegetation on one side, dense brambles laden with blackberries and a low holly tree. That would stop the horse.

But could he get there before the horse?

He had to try. He had no choice.

He sped up, sprinting faster than he ever thought possible, the stony ground a blur beneath his feet.

The brambles were getting nearer, nearer; he could see the blackberries glistening. He was going to make it, yes, just a few metres more…

Anyone watching from the village would have seen a cloud of red butterflies spiralling upwards into the sky, and if they had been listening they might just have heard a faint cry.

‘Mamai –’

It was eight o’clock at night and the festivities in Sant’ Ugo were still in full swing. James and Perry had become separated from the other boys and were watching a group of men who were singing on a small stage beneath the walls of the stadium.

The afternoon had been crazy. There were fireworks in the streets. Music and noise everywhere. Some local men had even organized a horse race in the main square.

Things had quietened down now and James was enjoying the lulling sound of the singers. He drifted in and out of sleep while the unaccompanied voices of the men haunted his dreams. There were four singers, all wearing the local black and white costume with stocking caps, and the music was unlike anything he had ever heard before. The sound was inhuman, like the drones of bagpipes. There was something ancient and primitive about it and James kept imagining that he was back in the tower at Sant’ Antine.

England and its grey skies seemed a million miles away.