She stubbed out her cigarette and lay back.

‘Vincenzo’s just a spoilt brat,’ Rodolfo said in a dismissive undertone. ‘Father’s a lawyer, mother has a pretend job with the giunta regionale fixing up artsy exhibitions and the like. Typical Bolognese upper middle class, in short, with a history of mild political activism when young that makes them socially acceptable now, and enough disposable income to take pricey “alternative” vacations in the Lofoten Islands or wherever. It’s all the usual cliches, so Vincenzo’s done the cliched thing and rebelled against the family life he can return to any time he wants. He skips his classes and exams, hangs out with a bunch of low-lifes at the football stadium, and drinks to excess. But evil? He doesn’t have the balls to be evil. Or anything else for that matter. The guy’s just a wanker.’

Flavia just lay there, gazing up as though at a distant light faintly visible through the ceiling.

‘Nevertheless, I know such people,’ she said at last. ‘Even though I never met them, I know them. Can you understand? Ion Antonescu, Gheorghiu-Dej, Corneliu Codreanu…I know them very well.’

Rodolfo yawned. It was late, and he had a lot of revision to do for Ugo’s seminar the following day. His attitude to his renowned tutor had become much more overtly confrontational of late, so he’d better be able to demonstrate a flawless grasp of the subject.

‘Who are they?’ he murmured.

‘Which one?’

‘Any of them. The last one.’

‘Codreanu? King Carol had him killed in 1938. Two years later Antonescu overthrew the monarchy and turned the state into a dictatorship run by the Legion of the Archangel Michael, otherwise known as the Iron Guard.’

Rodolfo yawned again and embraced her.

‘You’re Scheherazade, spinning me crazy stories to keep me awake all night. You and your Ruritania! I don’t believe the place even exists.’

Flavia nodded.