Horses’ hooves beat heavily off the ground, churning up the earth that splattered against the gold crested carriage they were pulling. Escorting the carriage were a dozen mounted soldiers, determination etched across their faces. There was a full moon and a sky festooned with stars, which shed their silver light on the road ahead. Driving hard through the town of Monza, the carriage, flying the Duke of Milan’s crest of arms, passed unhindered. The coach veered off sharply as it passed the seat of local government, the Arengario, with its five porches and stone loggia. Onwards they rode past fields, plentiful vineyards and sleeping villages, waking up neighbourhood dogs as they hastened on their way.
Dawn broke. In the distance, the topmost minarets of the Duomo could be seen welcoming the
