"Why are you so miserable, then?"

"You know scopa. I lost nearly all of it the next night. Scopa ... Mamma mia, they swept me up." The man still had a sense of humour. Scopa, the name of a card game, also meant broom.

"Anyway, you still have some soldi left, so cheer up!"

Again the man shook his head. "I felt so badly - I knew my wife would be angry. Miserable, I was, and so I started drinking . . ."

"And that's where the rest of the money went," Rossi commented.

"No, only some of it. But I drank so much I went to sleep in the road outside the taverna, and when I woke up . . ."

"Your pockets were empty."

"Yes, some thieving stronzo . . ."

Rossi looked at the man and rubbed the side of his nose with a forefinger. "Perhaps your wife would not be so angry if she thought that ladrone stole all the wine money."

The man thought for a few moments and then shook his head. "No, I've been away too long for that. If I had come back the next day with that story it would have been all right, but I stayed longer . . . she knows."

"Not the first time, eh?" Ramage said understandingly. "Is this why your father-in-law speaks so badly of you?"

"You know about that, then?"

"At Pitigliano, at the sign of the scissors? Yes, of course. By the way, one of those falegnami has closed."

"I'm not surprised," the man said, shaking his head. "The one on the gate side? Yes, well, he drinks, you know."

And now, Ramage thought, we are all friends together. Time to ask some more questions without arousing the man's suspicions. "You didn't play scopa with any of the French soldiers, then?"

The man looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot and squinting as though the light was too bright. "The French soldiers went two weeks ago. The ones that came from Pitigliano, that is. The usual garrison is still there, but they don't play scopa. Some French game they have, with different cards from ours."

"So the taverns are quieter now," Ramage commented. "Where have the French taken their money to now, I wonder?"

The man looked directly at Ramage. "Signore, I don't know what you are doing, but if you are on the side of the French, surely you would know the answers to all these questions?"

"The Army of Italy is a big one," Ramage said vaguely. "Orders go astray, mistakes are made . . ."

"Permesso?"Rossi asked.

Ramage nodded, giving the Genovese permission to say what he wanted. Rossi understood people instinctively; he had a knack probably learned in the stews of Genoa, and it was a knack which would still work in the open fields of Tuscany.

"Amico mio," he said, "I think you have guessed."

"I never make guesses, I'm always wrong. And just now -" he looked at the pistols tucked in Ramage's belt, "- making guesses could be dangerous."

"All right, don't guess," Rossi said. "All we ask is that you answer our questions if you wish, but if you want to remain silent, then please don't betray us the minute you get to Manciano."

"You mean I could betray you? That you are not with the French? What about those men?" He gestured to where Gilbert was sitting.

"Yes, you could betray us, and they are not French. They are simply dressed in French uniforms."

The man turned from Rossi and looked directly at Ramage, paused a moment as though reassessing him, and then said: "You are the leader, eh?"

Ramage nodded.

"You are Italian?"

Ramage shook his head. "I was not born an Italian, but these two were."

"That I can tell. Once a Genovese always a Genovese. And the youngster, he is Tuscan. Allora, I help you. You have my word. Not," he added, "that that means much to you, but I am known as an honest man."

"Yes," Ramage said, "I see that. We are looking for the French soldiers who were in Pitigliano."

"The French soldiers or the Inglesi prisoners?"

"If they are still together, does it matter?"

The man grinned and shook his head. "Two weeks ago - I know the date because I had to go to Orbetello to do some shopping - the French took their hostages to Santo Stefano. As I rode back along the road (along the Via Aurelia, before taking this turning) I saw a French ship sailing into the port. I think it took them all away."

"You don't know the destination?"

The man shrugged his shoulders. "No. It was not a big ship, but there are many places. Giglio, Elba, Montecristo . . . Even Corsica or Sardinia."

"Thank you," Ramage said. "I know you have told us this because we are paesani, but I wish we could help you with soldi, so that your wife is not so angry, but unfortunately we have neither French nor local money in our pockets."

"I guessed that," the man said, "and I would not have accepted it anyway. I am not a soldier or -" he winked at Ramage, "- a sailor, but I am a proprio Toscano, even if my father-in-law says bad things about me. Tell me, did all go well in Pitigliano?"

"Quiet. The few people we saw helped us. We were there only a few minutes."

The peasant nodded. "When I first met you, I wondered but dare not risk saying anything. Even now, you could shoot me, saying I am a traitor."

Ramage pulled one of the pistols from his belt, flicked open the pan so the man could see the powder, and shut it again. Then he cocked the gun and gave it butt-first to the man. "If you think you are going to be shot, you can take me with you."

The man handed back the gun. "Grazie, signore, but let us both try to stay alive - me to face my wife, you to find the prisoners . . ."

Back on board the Calypso, once more dressed in breeches and stockings, shirt, stock and uniform coat, Ramage again reflected wryly that as far as he was concerned the one benefit brought about by the French Revolution was substituting trousers for kneebreeches.

The sans culotte, the "without breeches", could kneel or sit in comfort. Breeches were one of the most uncomfortable, confining garments yet devised for men, and the revolutionaries were sensible to dispose of them, thus ensuring a liberty not envisaged in their windy rhetoric. And, from what he and Sarah had seen during their honeymoon, French women had achieved a similar freedom in refusing to wear corsets. However, this often gave men an unfair advantage: a fellow with skinny shanks or bow legs looked much better in trousers: the tubes of cloth hid the defects. Women in abandoning corsets all too often looked - well, abandoned! Those lucky enough to have slim figures looked very beautiful in the new Grecian style now popular, but the plump women looked like barrels draped in sheets of muslin.

Looking around his cabin at Aitken, Southwick and Hill, all of whom were watching him attentively, waiting to hear his plan for their next move in finding the missing hostages, he wondered what their reaction would be if they knew he had been thinking of sans culottes, and how he hated having to wear breeches, and how plump Frenchwomen fared badly in the Revolution.

"They might be kept prisoner in Santo Stefano despite what our gambling friend said," he commented, "but I doubt it. The Fortezza is the only place big enough to hold them and the guards - and the obvious question to ask ourselves is: 'Why there?' The Orsini Palace in Pitigliano is large, much more comfortable and in every way more suitable. This makes me certain that Santo Stefano was being used simply as a port and that by now a ship has called and taken them somewhere else."

"Dare we risk sailing off to look for them somewhere else when they might still be at the Fortezza, sir?" Southwick asked, adding one of his you-might-be-mistaken sniffs.

Ramage recognized the sniff and smiled. "No, we daren't: I was just coming to that. Because I know Santo Stefano quite well, the cutter will land me tonight on a stretch of beach about a mile east of the port and I'll go in and find out."