The day was one of high humidity, the temperature soaring to twenty-eight degrees Celsius.
A cool breeze over the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea was a small comfort to the inhabitants of the island prison.
Manfri was sitting on the surface of one of the many rocky ledges found on the island, his wide-brimmed straw hat shielding his eyes from the fiery light of the sun.
He had removed his tattered boots, rolled up his scruffy beige cotton pant legs to just below the knees, unbuttoned his sweat-stained shirt, equally scruffy and of beige cotton, and flexed his toes towards the light, imagining what it would be like to dip his feet into the cool waters of the Bay of Naples.
Manfri had been on this wretched piece of rock for some nine years now. It was a wonder he hadn't thrown himself over the ledge into the gleaming waters far below, even though he knew it meant certain death.
Life in that gilded fortress was one frightfully regimented and repetitive day after another, each successive day adding its grain of salt to the festering wound besieging the soul of each inmate.
Manfri had been accused of murdering a bishop, a bishop he had never heard of, never met. He couldn't say who had framed him, or why; but he knew he was innocent of the crime.
And when a newly arrived convict - old, half-moon-bespectacled, and eyes crinkling with laughter - revealed the name of the person responsible for his imprisonment...
'You are Manfri di Rocco, and I know you to be innocent of the crime for which those lackey judges sent you up here... to this lovely spot, '
said the old man, as he pirouetted about himself with his arms and hands extended and highlighting the resplendent setting.
Manfri knew then that he would take his revenge.