He looked around at the assembled fighters. There were some thirty of them here now, ranging from boys of Stefano’s age to grizzled oldsters whose gnarled fingers were twisted round the butts of their rifles like the ancient roots of the local trees.

Three of them brought in a log from outside and propped it up against a wall. They painted the crude figure of a man on it and daubed the letters ‘UGO’ on the bottom. The bandits then took it in turn to throw knives into the log, seeing who could hit it most accurately. Calogero was the champion, landing his big hunting knife right in the eye of the painted figure. He laughed and waved his fists in triumph like a schoolboy scoring a goal at football.

His friends slapped him on the back and gave him more wine to drink, and then he started to dance with a very serious expression on his face. It was a strange melancholy dance and James was aware that he was witnessing a ritual that had been acted out here for thousands of years.

‘This is the Danza di Sangue,’ said Stefano.

‘The Dance of Blood?’ said James.

‘Sì.’

James looked at the ring of men around Calogero, their faces red from drink and the heat of the fire. They were shouting and clapping, their voices harsh. They seemed happy, filled with a wild spark of life. Their world was a world of hardship and poverty, fighting was their only release.

Sitting in the shadows behind the ring of drunken men were the women, their faces occasionally lit by flashes of firelight. They looked blank and resigned, like age-old stone carvings that had seen everything there was to see.

Once again their men were going off to fight; which of them would return and which would die?

It was in the hands of God now.

Deep in thought, James stood up and left the party. He wondered if he would make it back to Victor’s in time, and he thought of Amy, trapped in her cell. If these men attacked Ugo she would be in great danger.

Vendetta appeared at his side, staring at him with her shining black eyes.

She wouldn’t leave him alone. He was reminded of Mr Cooper-ffrench, and how he had followed him around like a dog after the incident at the tower. Both of them had been trying to look after him in their own way, but James felt as uncomfortable with this small girl as he had been with the grumpy Mr Cooper-ffrench.

She grabbed hold of his sleeve and said something, her voice husky and quiet.

James shook his head. Her accent was so thick, her dialect so strong and her delivery so fast that he couldn’t follow a single word of it.

‘I’m sorry, Vendetta,’ he said. ‘I can’t understand you; I wish I could.’