Ezio approached a group of gunners who were clustered round one of the bigger guns.

‘Handsome beasts,’ he said, running a hand over the elaborately chased decoration around the touch hole.

‘Indeed they are, Messer Ezio,’ said the leader of the group, a rough-hewn master sergeant whom Ezio remembered from his first visit to Monteriggioni as a young man.

‘I heard you practising earlier. May I try firing one of these?’

‘You can indeed, but we were firing the smaller cannon earlier. These big ’uns are brand new. We don’t seem to have got the trick of loading ’em yet, and the master armourer who’s supposed to be installing them seems to have taken off.’

‘Have you got people looking for him?’

‘Indeed we have, sir, but no luck so far.’

‘I’ll have a look round, too. After all, these things aren’t here for decoration and you never know how soon we’ll need them.’

Ezio set off, continuing his rounds of the ramparts. He hadn’t gone more than another twenty or thirty yards when he heard a loud grunting from a wooden shed that had been erected on the top of one of the towers. Near by, outside, lay a box of tools, and as he approached the grunts resolved themselves into snores.

It was dark and hot inside the shed, and smelled appallingly of stale wine. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, Ezio quickly made out the form of a large man in his none-too-clean shirtsleeves spreadeagled on a pile of straw. He gave the man a gentle kick, but its only effect was to make the man splutter, come half awake, then turn over with his face to the wall.’

‘Salve, Messere,’ Ezio said, jostling the man again, less gently this time, with the toe of his boot.

The man twisted his head round to look at him and opened one eye. ‘What is it, friend?’