‘Yup.’

The stranger knelt on the flagstones of the yard, eased off the sandal and slowly massaged the damaged ankle. His fingers were gentle and skilled. The man from Kansas watched, prepared to defend his wife if need be.

‘It is not broken, but I am afraid it is twisted,’ said the man.

‘How do you know?’ asked the husband.

‘I know,’ said the man.

‘Yeah? Who are you?’

‘I am the gardener.’

‘The gardener? Here?’

‘I tend the roses, sweep the yard, keep it right.’

‘But it is the day of the Palio. Can’t you hear?’

‘I hear. It will need strapping. I have a clean T-shirt I could tear into strips. And cold water to stop the swelling.’

‘What are you doing here on the day of the Palio?’

‘I never see the Palio.’

‘Why? Everyone goes to the Palio.’

‘Because it is today. The second of July.’

‘What’s so special?’

‘It is Liberation Day also.’

‘What?’

‘On this day, thirty-one years ago, the second of July 1944, Siena was liberated from German occupation. And something happened here, in this courtyard, something important. I believe it was a miracle. I’ll go for the water.’

The American was startled. The man from Topeka was a Catholic: he went to mass and confession; he believed in miracles – if they were endorsed by Rome itself. Much of his entire summer tour of Italy was to see Rome at last. Siena was an afterthought. He gazed around the empty courtyard.

It was about twenty yards by thirty. On two sides it was bounded by high walls, twelve feet at least, with one arch, gates drawn open, through which he had entered. On the other two sides the walls were even higher, fifty feet or more, blank but for a few slits, topped with roofs, the outer walls of a massive building centuries old. At the far end of the yard, set into the wall of the huge edifice, was another door. It was made not of planks but entire beams bolted together to withstand attack and it was closed tight shut. The timber was ancient as the city itself, long bleached by sun save for a few dark blotches.

Along one side of the court, from end to end, ran a colonnade or cloister, the leaning roof supported by a row of stone columns and casting deep, cool shade inside. The gardener came back with strips of cloth and a pannikin of water.

He knelt again and firmly strapped with bandages the injured ankle, pouring water into the fabric to soak it and cool the flesh. The American’s wife sighed with relief.

‘Can you make it to the Palio?’ asked the husband.

The wife rose, tested the ankle, winced. It pained her.

‘What do you think?’ asked the tourist of the gardener. He shrugged.