‘Orders of Aeneas!’ barked one of the guards, a skinny, cold-looking man, face smeared with smuts and dust. ‘No strangers after twilight. And that is definitely a stranger.’

Silvius couldn’t let that happen. He had to see this centaur, talk to him, find out what he wanted. So he leapt down the final two steps to the ground and pushed his way in front of the guards.

The other one, thickset and dark, muscles bulging as he heaved the bolt across, turned to swat him away.

And that gave Silvius enough time to dodge him, set his shoulder to the bolt, push it upwards and kick the left-hand gate open as hard as he could.

‘What are you doing?’ shouted the thickset guard, roughly. ‘I’ll have you up before Aeneas! You’re deserting your post!’

But before the guard could say anything more, the centaur was through the gap and into the city, scattering the dispersing citizens. The guards rushed, too late, to close the gate behind him.

Silvius caught a glimpse of a long tawny mane, a sweating, hairy torso and a steaming chestnut flank, bloodied and foaming.

The magnificent being swayed, and then, his front forelegs crumpling, he fell to the ground, sending dust flying upwards, his noble head crashing into the dirt. The centaur’s eyelids fluttered, a long lock obscuring his forehead.

A circle of onlookers formed around the fallen creature. ‘It’s not possible!’ Blaeso the blacksmith ran the back of his hand across his cheeks, still sweating from the forge. ‘A centaur!’

‘Kill it!’ shouted the thin guard. ‘Monster!’ There was a scrape of metal against leather as he pulled out his sword.

‘Don’t do it!’ Silvius tried to make his voice heard above the throng, pushing his way through until he was near enough to the centaur to smell his pungent musk. Without really thinking, Silvius blocked the sword’s path with his body.

The centaur groaned, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, he shuddered through his entire frame, and went limp.

Silvius dropped to his knees and took the centaur’s head into his hands, brushing away the lock of hair. The crowd was silent for a moment, until someone, whistling, went back to his task, picking up his cart of apples from where he’d left it. ‘He’s dead …’ said another.

‘Could make something out of that hide.’ The blacksmith spat onto the ground.

Silvius couldn’t bear it. ‘Please!’ he whispered. ‘Please …’ He wept, and his hot tears dropped onto the centaur’s eyes, and he cradled the head, heavy in his hands. ‘I thought you’d all gone …’

He stayed like that for a moment, and then, wishing to honour him, sat back on his heels and addressed the crowd. ‘We should bury him. Bury him like a prince.’