Paolo held his breath as the German soldiers and their prisoner passed. Il Volpe’s hands were tied behind his back, and his face was badly bruised. One eye was almost closed, and on his forehead there was a gaping cut that was bleeding down into his beard.

Paolo waited tensely until they had gone on ahead. He then crept out of the bushes and began to follow at a safe distance, wheeling his bicycle and keeping well in the shadow of the trees, ready to dodge out of sight at any moment. They kept going for some time along the narrow path until it forked — they took the wider path, going steeply downhill in the opposite direction to the way Paolo had come. He was getting farther and farther away from home, and he had no clear idea what he hoped to achieve, but he kept on going.

Occasionally Il Volpe stumbled and fell, but the soldiers kicked him until he was back on his feet again.

The path became a dirt road. Soon there were dry-stone walls, and the trees gave way to olive groves, vineyards, and the occasional group of farm buildings, baking in the noonday heat. It became almost impossible for Paolo to follow without being spotted. He let them go out of sight and turned onto a farm road. He threw down his bicycle and sprawled on the ground beside it. He felt completely lost. And only now did he realize how terrified he was.

He wondered what had happened to the other Partisans. Perhaps they were all dead, or maybe they were not even aware that Il Volpe had been captured. Where were those German soldiers taking him? Wherever it was, Paolo thought, there was nothing he could do to help him now.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, three German fighter planes — Messerschmitts — ripped through the sky overhead, and there was a burst of heavy gunfire not far away. Paolo automatically ducked and covered his head with his hands. More than anything in the world, he wanted to get back home. The best way, he thought, was to follow the road to a village and try to make it back from there. Wearily, and aching with hunger and thirst, he lugged his bicycle back onto the road and set off.

The nearest village was much farther away than he had calculated. En route, he was overtaken by a couple of army trucks full of German soldiers with rifles at the ready. They roared past in a cloud of dust and nearly tipped him into the ditch. At last he reached the outskirts of a village and turned down one of the narrow streets that led to the church and the main piazza. In spite of it being siesta time and stiflingly hot, there were a great many people around. They stood, silent and watchful, on their doorsteps or in huddled groups, murmuring anxiously. They looked at him warily as he cycled past, but he kept his eyes on the street. Then, thank heavens, he found a wall fountain. He dismounted and took a long, long drink, then doused his head under the running water. It was wonderfully, deliciously cool. He sat there for a few minutes, letting his aching legs relax. But he hardly had time to recover before there was a great commotion of shouting and scuffling higher up the street. A truckload of German soldiers had arrived, and they were beginning to break up the groups of people. They were shouting orders and herding people into the main piazza at gunpoint. Paolo looked around desperately, but he could see no means of escape, so was forced to mingle with the crowd, pushing his bicycle and hoping he wouldn’t be noticed.

“What’s happening?” he asked an old man who was jostling against him.

“The Partisans are coming out of hiding from the hills around here. Now that the inglesi and the americani are so near, they want to fight out in the open. These Germans know they’ll be pulling out of Florence soon, and they’re determined to kill as many Partisans as they can before they go. They hate them — especially the Reds. They hanged two of them the other day at Tuori. Now they’ve got our man.”

“Il Volpe?”

“Yes — him. They know he comes from around here, and they think we’ve been protecting him.”

“What are they going to do to him?”

The old man merely spat on the ground and looked grimly ahead.

The little piazza was bordered on three sides by old houses, a police station, and a few shops, all now closely shuttered. At one end was a fountain, enclosed by a low semicircular wall, and at the other was an ancient archway, too narrow to accommodate modern vehicles. The church occupied the whole remaining side. Its facade was faced with striped green marble. There was a bell tower, and two curved flights of steps led up to the main doors. Below the steps was a crumbling wall covered with notices: orders to civilians from the occupying German army, and among them one or two fading images of Mussolini, the jutting-jawed dictator who had once been all-powerful but was now a failing puppet treated with contempt by the Nazis. The German soldiers were herding everyone into one half of the square, being careful to keep an empty space in front of the wall. There was an atmosphere of sullen resentment, but anyone who showed signs of disobedience was soon prodded into submission with the end of a rifle.

Paolo was pushed to the front of the crowd but somehow managed to hold on to his bicycle. He was weak with exhaustion and hunger now. The sweating strangers around him offered no reassurance. The crowd stood there, pressed together, waiting. At last, a squad of soldiers appeared leading Il Volpe. A couple of women cried out when they saw him, but most people remained silent. They all knew that they had been assembled to witness a public execution.