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?’
‘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.