‘Saturnin – bass. Teriel – hautboy. Ignace – viola d’amore,’ he whispered.

‘Thank you.’

‘Shall we take him back to the Sanctuary?’ asked one of the guards.

‘No. The Grand Maistre has specifically requested that he should be present throughout the proceedings.’

The judge turned back to the three musicians.

‘Now that you have been formally identified, we shall proceed. You have been charged with conspiring to assassinate an officer of the Commanderie. How do you plead?’

There was silence.

‘This is your chance to defend yourselves.’

Still the accused remained silent.

‘We have many witnesses who saw you deliberately cut through the rope holding the masonry when an officer of the Commanderie was passing beneath. What have you to say in your defence?’

Saturnin, the bass, cleared his throat.

‘We do not recognise this as a court of justice.’ His words were slurred; Khassian saw that he moved his bruised jaw with difficulty. ‘This is a travesty of a fair trial. We demand a civil hearing – with a lawyer to defend us against these accusations.’

‘Your protestations do not alter the facts of the case. You plotted to kill one of our officers. And for that, the Grand Maistre demands the ultimate penalty – death.’

‘No!‘cried Khassian, straining forward. His guards caught hold of him and pulled him back.

‘It is the sentence of this court that you be taken from here to a place of execution and hung by the neck until you are dead. Let your deaths be a warning to all those who seek to conspire against the Commanderie.’

There was a cry from the public gallery, a woman’s voice, harsh and sobbing. Khassian thought he caught sight of her, arms outstretched over the balcony – and then the Guerriors closed in and in the ensuing pandemonium, he found himself being dragged away by his guards.

‘Saturnin!’ he shouted. ‘I didn’t know, I didn’t –’

‘Fight on, Amaru!’ cried the bass. ‘Don’t let them defeat you! Don’t –’

Khassian did not hear his last words as his guards pushed him back into the passageway that led beneath the court.

Acir Korentan stopped in a vineyard to rest and water his horse. He felt weary and dispirited by what he had seen; the raw, red gash in the mountainside was an atrocity, an Allegondan rape of Tourmalise’s resources. But worse still was this wanton squandering of the miners’ lives.

Acir took the remains of the rations he had brought with him from his saddle bag: unleavened bread, olives, cheese… but after a mouthful or two he found he was not hungry.

He lay back beside the young vines, gazing up at the brilliant stars, his eyelids slowly closing…

He walks alone through the verdant vineyard in the last light of the setting sun. The fiery sky is streaked with flame and gold: thunderclouds are massing overhead.