‘Right. That was in 1492. This was three centuries before Columbus. It says here they started with forty-two Contrade, reduced three hundred years later to twenty-three, then in 1675 to the seventeen we will see marching tomorrow.’

Out of sight, the first ranks of the hundreds of brightly caparisoned drummers, musicians and standard-bearers of the Comparse pageant were emerging into the Campo itself. Its sixteen palaces were hung with banners and ensigns, crammed with the privileged at every window and balcony, as 40,000 of the populace roared inside the race-ring.

‘Hurry, honey,’ he called behind him as the tumult ahead rose in volume. ‘We’ve come a long way for this. I can see that darn tower at last.’

And indeed the tip of the Mangia Tower was just visible above the roofs ahead. That was when she tripped and fell, her ankle twisted by the cobbles and the shoe. She cried out and collapsed in a heap upon the stones. Her husband turned and ran back to her.

‘Aw, honey, what have you done?’ He was creased with concern as he bent over her. She clutched one ankle.

‘I think I twisted it,’ she said and started to cry. It had started out so good and turned into such a bad day.

Her husband looked up and down the alley but the ancient timber doors were locked and barred. A few yards away was an arch in a high wall that enclosed the alley on one side. Sun shone through as if there was an open space there.

‘Let’s get you in there, see if we can find a place to sit,’ he said.

He hauled her off the cobbles and she limped down to the arch. It gave onto a flagged yard, with tubs of roses and, Lord be praised, a stone bench in the shade of the wall. The American helped his spouse to the cool stone, where she sank with great relief.

Far away the tail end of the Comparse parade was leaving the Piazza del Duomo as the head of the column entered the Campo itself and the civic judges keenly studied the turnout, comportment and flag-waving skills of the standard-bearers. Whoever won the coming horse-race, the best-accoutred Contrada team would be awarded the masgalano, the finely chased silver salver. It was important, and all present knew it. The tourist bent to examine his wife’s ankle.

‘Can I be of help?’ said a quiet voice. The American started and turned round. The stranger stood above him, framed by the sun. The tourist stood up. The man was tall and rangy, with a calm lined face. They were both of an age, mid-fifties, and the stranger had greying hair. In faded canvas slacks and denim shirt he looked like a wanderer, a hippie but no longer young. His English was cultured but with a hint of an accent, probably Italian.

‘I don’t know,’ said the American with some suspicion.

‘Your wife has fallen, hurt an ankle?’