"That's what you call getting a lift to windward," Ramagemuttered. "I hope that tail is firmly attached."

Man and donkey proceeded up the hill thirty yards ahead of the column, and judging from the man's wavering course he was very drunk. "That's a bit of luck: we'll be able to see what the sentries at the gate do about him."

"Do about the donkey," Rossi murmured. "The man's too spronzato to answer questions!"

The donkey reached the gate but no uniformed man stepped from the shadows. The man was pulled through the gate and he neither looked round nor appeared likely to notice even if all the stonework suddenly fell on his head.

"Twenty-five ... twenty ... fifteen ..." Ramage counted the remaining yards to himself as they marched towards the gate. They seemed to be moving faster, although their pace did not change. In fact, time was playing its usual tricks. Ten ... five... and then he was under the archway and in its shadow and, apart from the column, no one else moved, except that he just caught sight of the donkey as it hauled its owner round the corner into the piazza. He saw only an old man dozing in the shade on the steps of a house, a sleeping dog which had ignored the pack, two goats tied to a stone hitching post on the right. . .

Through the archway ... no lounging soldiers . . . and there, towering over the town, was the Orsini Palace. The family, once powerful in Tuscany, had long since gone; this palace, one of many they must have built for themselves through the centuries (or did they inherit it from the Aldobrandeschi? He recalled a mention of it), had buttressed walls. And there were the wide stone steps leading up to the entrance. The heavy wooden door was shut; no soldiers lounged. There were no sentries, no carts that the army would use, no horses. One might have expected a carriage or two; the officers of such an egalitarian army were not expected to march.

Then Ramage realized what must have happened: the hostages were not being held in the Orsini Palace. There would be enough rooms, surely, but perhaps hostages need not be so carefully guarded. A lieutenant or young post-captain might be expected to try to escape but rheumatic admirals, quirkish generals and bucolic landed gentry were unlikely to steal off across the Tuscan landscape, seeking their freedom. They were, in all fairness, equally unlikely to give their parole. There was a vast difference between not escaping and actually promising the enemy not to try.

He held up his arm and the column halted outside the palace. Yes, he had seen the scissors sign hanging over the door of the Manciano peasant's father-in-law, but the man could not have been here for some time because only one of the two falegnami who were his father-in-law's neighbours was still in business: the door of the other one was boarded up.

Now what? That was the splendid thing about Tuscany and the Tuscans - always expect a surprise to arrive at siesta time. Pitigliano slept just at the moment he expected to be using his wits (and those of Gilbert) to bamboozle French guards, or all of them would be fighting their way out, with the hostages. He expected to be outnumbered three or four to one. Instead, he could tell Orsini and Rossi to capture Pitigliano using only belaying pins as weapons.

Unless . . . there were several unlesses. Why should French soldiers expect there would (or could) be an attempt to rescue the hostages? It sounded too unlikely to disturb the siesta of the most nervous of Frenchmen, be he a private soldier or one of the Emperor's best generals. After all, mon ami, Tuscany sleeps through the siesta, and the nearest Englishman is probably having his afternoon nap in Gibraltar.

So, Ramage admitted, there was nothing very surprising about the lack of French soldiers. The great doorway of the Orsini Palace with its enormous lock was shut, but that could just be for the siesta: after all, a locked door kept someone inside just as securely as it kept a stranger out. Lock the door and sleep off a heavy meal. A sergeant's guard inside a palace with walls this high and this thick and such a door would be enough to keep the hostages under control. A summer's day in Pitigliano was the most peaceful thing he could think of, so either the French had shut the palace door or they were in another part of the town. Or perhaps they had moved to a house outside the town. Somewhere cooler?

There was only one way to find out. He beckoned to Gilbert and together they mounted the steps. Ramage drew his sword and used the hilt to bang on the door. The thuds echoed, but no one gave an answering shout. Ramage banged again. A woman came to an upper window of a house opposite, ostensibly to take in some bedding which was airing. Ramage waved to her and pointed at the door.

"It's empty," she shouted back, her voice shrill and nervous. "The French left several weeks ago."

And who the devil would know where they had gone? The mayor? If the French really had left Pitigliano for good, the senior person left would be the mayor.

"Where is the mayor?"

"At home having his siesta."

"Which is his house?" Ramage asked, trying to keep a grip on his patience.

"This one. I am his wife."

"Please ask him to come down here."

"He is asleep."

"Three minutes," Ramage snarled. "Then I send some of my men to fetch him!"

The woman vanished and Ramage and Gilbert walked over to the house. In less than three minutes the front door suddenly burst open and a dishevelled and still sleepy man hurried out, saw Ramage and stopped suddenly, obviously expecting to find him at the door of the Orsini Palace.

The man bowed and introduced himself, his voice and manner polite but neutral. "Can I help you, sir?" he said in Italian.

"The French troops over there," Ramage gestured towards the palace, "do you know where they have gone?"

"They left - well, almost a month ago."

"Where have they gone?" Ramage repeated.

"I am not authorized to say, sir," the mayor said. "You must understand that such information is secret, and if I. . ."

"I quite understand," Ramage said. "But look over there - you see those scoundrels with irons on their arms? They are more Inglesi to join the others. If I can't find the rest of them - the ones who were held in the Palace - I'll have to billet them here. Some in your house."

"Accidente," the mayor sighed. He was stocky, bald and his face was sun-tanned. His hands were large and calloused. His face was open, his eyes met Ramage's squarely. An honest mayor doing the best he could for his little town, but like grain in a mill, caught between the upper grindstone of the French with their new laws and demands and the lower of his loyalty and duty to his own people.

"Do you have orders which I could see, to assure myself?"

"Of course, but they're in French." He spoke in fast French to Gilbert, who pulled folded papers from a pocket and, opening them, offered them to the mayor, who examined the crest and the name of the ministry. "I don't speak French," the mayor said helplessly. "You must understand, Major, that I am afraid I shall be shot if I reveal anything to you."

The man's wife suddenly came through the door and stood beside him, arms akimbo and brown eyes glaring at Ramage. "It's all right for you," she said sharply, "You make a mistake and your colonel shouts at you. My husband makes a mistake, and the colonel shoots him. Down there -" she gestured to where the road from the town made its sharp turn, "- on the day of Ognissanti, they shot three of our men. On All Saints' Day: three paesani. Why? I'll tell you why. They accused them of helping an Inglese to escape. How did the French know? Because they knew the three local men left the town after midnight, and soon after they could not find the Inglese.

"The men must have helped the Inglese, the French said, so the three men - two of them my husband's cousins - were shot at once when they came back at dawn. You might ask how the French knew the Inglese had escaped? Because he did not attend the evening roll call.