He landed well, startling some doves that flew off with a noisy clatter. He crept along the ledge until he found a gap where he could squeeze through between two statues of semi-naked women. There was a narrow space behind here, thick with birdlime and stinking of ammonia.

He shuffled forward in a squatting position until he came to a small square opening covered by a metal grille that looked down on the interior of the temple.

He could see a mosaic floor, covered in signs of the zodiac and a large circular marble table.

About thirty men were sat round the table. James recognised the bull-necked Frenchman who had accosted him, the two men from the railway, and there was Zoltan, looking yellow and feverish, his tunic spotted with blood from his shoulder.

Standing apart from them was Smiler. From a distance his scar looked even more like a painted-on smile, so that, with his red hair and pale skin, he looked like some horrible clown.

Ugo was standing next to him, a goblet raised in his hand.

‘Salve, amice,’ he said solemnly. ‘Iterum tibi occurrere mihi placet.’

‘Spare us,’ said Zoltan. ‘You sound ridiculous, Ugo. You can play the Roman emperor all you like, but you cannot expect us to join in.’

‘I forgot,’ said Ugo patronisingly. ‘You cannot speak Latin. You always were the more stupid one, Zoltan.’

‘I can speak several languages, Ugo,’ said Zoltan. ‘Useful ones. Latin is a dead language for dead people. Your secret cult, your speaking in tongues, it is not serious. If you wish to have real power you must learn that it is about more than dressing some peasants in fancy uniforms and speaking Latin and pretending to be Julius Caesar.’

‘Real power, Zoltan?’ said Ugo. ‘What do you know of real power?’

He went to a guard and took a gun from him. James recognised it. It was a Thompson sub-machine gun.

‘This is real power,’ said Ugo, fondling the weapon.

‘And you would not have it without me,’ said Zoltan. ‘Don’t forget that. You would have nothing without me.’

‘I will admit,’ said Ugo, returning the gun to his guard, ‘that you have been helpful to me over the years, Zoltan. But you are not the only one. All these men have been helpful to me. The Pasulo brothers from Sicily, Armando Lippe from Lisbon, Herr Gröman and Doctor Morell from Germany, Henri Boucher from France . . . I look around the table here and I see familiar faces from Spain, from Turkey, from Armenia, from Greece. What language should I speak, Zoltan?’

‘I know your dream,’ said Zoltan. ‘To have an international language of crime. But we do not understand Latin and we do not care to learn. What is wrong with English?’

There was mumbled agreement from around the table.

‘Very well,’ said Ugo, though he didn’t sound too happy about it. ‘Now, before we start, we must a drink a toast.’