It’s late evening by the time the train draws in to Arezzo. A gloomy stillness has fallen and the rain has turned into a sullen drizzle. The carriage is practically empty, and I pull down the window, surprised by the chill in the air.

Uncle Leo is meant to be meeting me off the train, but I don’t see him waiting on the platform as we draw in. I gather my belongings and make my way to the door. There doesn’t seem to be a steward on hand. I hesitate – my bag is quite bulky, and the steps down to the platform are high. I am about to throw the bag from the door when a boy appears with his hands outstretched. He looks like he is about twelve or thirteen and he smiles, calling up in Italian. Gratefully, I hand him my case, before turning to clamber down the steps.

I reach the platform only to find the boy disappearing into the crowd, my luggage clutched victoriously in his hands.

“Hey!” I shout, taking off at a sprint, pushing my way past the other people on the platform. The boy looks over his shoulder, clearly surprised to find me giving chase. He hesitates for a moment and that is enough for me to surge forward, grabbing the end of my bag. I tug sharply, hoping to get a better grip and the boy pulls back, shouting and trying to shake me off.

Suddenly, from behind comes another voice, loud and carrying, also shouting angry words at me in Italian. An accomplice of this boy’s, I realize, and for the first time my heart quickens with fear as well as anger. I am about to be outnumbered.

A strong hand curls around my wrist and I just have time to register that this newcomer is tall, even taller than me, before I begin to fight back.

Relinquishing my grip on the bag I pull my elbow back, digging it sharply into my assailant’s stomach. I hear a groan as my wrist is released and I swing around to face him. It’s a man, who is now bent over, winded, his arm wrapped protectively over his stomach. He foolishly lifts his face, and I have a brief impression of the kind of boyishly golden good looks typically afforded to Classical statues before I spring into action.

Drawing on the information I have gleaned from reading several of Father’s well-thumbed books on pugilism, I curl my hand into a fist, careful to keep my thumb outside and across the bottom of my fingers and deliver a blow to his nose which sends him staggering backwards with an incoherent cry, landing with a thud on the floor.