Now he had reached the track to Pitigliano he was becoming more confident about this bizarre expedition. On board the Calypso, with the men snipping and stitching at the make-believe French and Tuscan Army uniforms, it was like playacting: there seemed no chance that a French cavalry patrol or guards at the gate of Pitigliano itself would be fooled. But now, having made the men parade in their three sections before being dismissed to sleep by the cypress, the whole affair began to develop a strange reality of its own.

First there was Gilbert and his three fellow Frenchmen. They looked genuine in their uniforms. Much too smart, perhaps, but sleeping in them for a few hours (as they were now doing) would make them seem more authentic, plus another day's growth of whiskers. On this kind of escort duty, French soldiers would look more like bandits in stolen uniforms. When the four Frenchmen and Hill spoke French and pretended to quarrel among themselves, they sounded just like the French soldiers he had seen a few months ago in Brest; in fact Ramage was hard put to restrain a shiver.

It was many years since he had seen any of the Grand Duke of Tuscany's troops, but he was willing to accept that Paolo had made no mistakes in the patterns he had drawn for the uniforms. Anyway, Paolo, Rossi and Ramage himself had looked impressive (in the darkness, at least), although for the moment the uniforms were also a little too smart: they needed creasing and a light coat of the white dust that they would soon be kicking up along the road.

The prisoners - yes, they looked just like admirals, generals, colonels and civilians who had been on holiday when caught up in an unexpected resumption of war. Jackson, wearing Ramage's oldest pair of breeches, woollen stockings, an old frock-coat and a torn stock, with the buttons replaced and the epaulettes removed, could pass for a stranded admiral. He had agreed when Ramage said his queue looked out of place, and his sandy hair was cut short and combed back. Jackson looked like a man who, although a prisoner for many months, had tried to keep up appearances. Stafford - well, Stafford was dressed in some of Kenton's civilian clothes, and the fact was (as Jackson had announced) that he looked more like a prosperous pimp who had been caught by a highwayman on his way back from the races.

The remaining eight prisoners seemed, Ramage thought, reasonably authentic: he had quite deliberately chosen men who by their faces or way of walking would not be mistaken for labourers and who, by nature, carried themselves with something of a swagger. All of them had spent several hours on board the Calypso practising under Rennick's sharp eye - Ramage recalled with a smile the instructions Rennick had shouted. "No, no - walk as though you had a smell under your nose . . . Damme, man, treat him as though he's a card sharper flirting with your wife ... No, no, he's a poacher that your gamekeeper has just caught ...! Think of him as the husband who knows you've cuckolded him but daren't do anything about it. . ."

Finally Rennick had turned the delighted seamen into a semblance of Britons of considerable importance who were being treated by the French as hostages and now being transferred from one prison to another led by Rennick.

It could work: even Southwick was agreed on that. But if the French discovered the deception, then the French "guards" and the Tuscan "soldiers" could be shot out of hand as spies masquerading in uniform. The "prisoners", not being in uniform, might stand a chance of being made real prisoners but Ramage doubted it: the plains and hills and mountains of Tuscany somehow lent themselves to backs-to-the-wall, firing-party-atten-shun! answers.

Finally, Ramage slid sideways, cradling his head against a hump of earth covering a root, and fell asleep.

Soon after dawn the three groups of men were walking (Rennick would call it shambling) along the flat road running beside the river. They would reach the hills, which looked like sleeping turtles, just as the sun reached its zenith. Scorching sun, no breeze, more than a couple of dozen pairs of feet stirring up clouds of white dust lying on the rock and which formed the track . . . Thirst might become a problem. Each man carried a Marine's water flask, and Gilbert's men and Ramage's had haversacks with ship's biscuits. But the farms along the way were going to suffer just as if this was a real French army unit: they would have to provide food and water. There would be no payment because Ramage had no local money - and anyway the French never paid.

The "prisoners" each carried arm irons. It only took a couple of moments to slip their wrists through and hold their arms as though marching in irons.

"Nice to 'ave a walk in the country just as the birds is waking up," Stafford remarked to Jackson.

"Yes, but when was the last time you did it?"

"Don't fancy it too often," Stafford said airily. "Not that fond of the country. Mosquitoes buzzing most o' the night, scorpiongs waiting -"

"Scorpions," Jackson corrected.

"S'what I said, scorpiongs lurking under the rocks to prod you - hey Jacko, wasn't it a scorpiong that did for that Egyptian doxy, her that danced for Caesar?"

"I think someone else danced, but Cleopatra did herself in by holding an asp to her bosom."

"An asp? That the same as a scorpiong?"

"I reckon so," Jackson said carefully. "Then it must be big if she could 'old it. Like a small lobster."

"Maybe them Egyptian ones are, but those here don't run to more'n a couple of inches."

'"Ere, 'old 'ard. Mr Ramage said they just give you a nasty sting, but one did poor Cleopatra in."

"Don't worry," Jackson said reassuringly.

"S'trewth, I don't remember these scorpiongs when we were last here: and, so help me, the mosquitoes are so much bigger." He slapped the side of his face, and then held out the palm of his hand. "See? Look at the blood in that one. 'Ere, you don't arf look a sight: your face is all swolled up."

Jackson looked at Stafford and laughed. "My oath! You ought to see yourself: you look as though you've got gumboils all over the place!"

Stafford pointed to a small turning leading away to the left and crossing the river. "Where's that go?"

Jackson shrugged. "From what I saw of Mr Ramage's map, it goes across that valley and then twists and turns through those hills. See how the hills get higher and higher? Well, it goes on to the foot o' that mountain. Amiata. We have to keep the same distance and we'll come up on Pitigliano."

"You've never been there, this Pitigliano, 'ave you?"

"No. Mr Ramage says it's a hill town and very old."

"Roaming, you mean?"

"No, older than Roman. Etruscan, I think he said."

"Who? I thought the Roamings came first!"

"No, and the Etruscans gave this area its name, Tuscany. Very clever people, according to Mr Ramage. They built big stone-lined cellars to store the grain and dug caves and painted the walls with things like leopards and people: they painted the women one colour and the men another."

Stafford looked at Jackson startled. "Why the hell did they do that? Couldn't they tell the difference? Must 'ave been uncomfortable, covered in paint."

As soon as Jackson realized Stafford's mistake he roared with laughter. "Different colours in the cave paintings! What did you think, the women were gilded and the men striped green?"

"Well, no," Stafford said, embarrassed, "but don't forget the Druids in England - they used to paint themselves, didn't they?"

"Yes, at times," Jackson said carefully, knowing he was out of his depth. "But most o' the villages round here were originally Etruscan, so Mr Ramage says. Most of 'em have still got ruins to show for it. Huge rocks, specially carved so one fits perfectly into another. Puzzle how they did it."