Major Bates marches up and down the line of prisoners shouting, but the men are deaf to the sound. Not one has picked up his spade.
Major Bates’s face is puce – he has yelled at MacLeod too, called him a fool boy and an imbecile, and has sent him up to wait in his office, but still the Italian men won’t work. There is an unspoken agreement between them: no matter how much Major Bates roars, no matter his threats, they will not dig.
The major’s gaze falls on Cesare.
‘You! Come here,’ he calls. Then, loud enough for the other men to hear, he says, ‘You know I’m a reasonable man. I don’t want to threaten you. But you must work. I order it.’
Cesare is aware of all the eyes on him – all his countrymen, it seems. They have had so few letters from home, and those that have arrived have been battered or soaked or torn, or full of small domestic details that fill the men with a painful longing. In this moment it feels to Cesare as though these men are his home. They are his country, his safety, his belonging – these men who have been shot at and boiled and frozen along with him, and who all, as one, laid down their spades because it is the right thing to do.
‘You must dig,’ says Major Bates to Cesare, his voice loud and clear.
‘We will not build enemy fortifications,’ Cesare says, and as his eyes meet Domingo’s, the other man gives a small nod of encouragement. ‘It is against the Geneva Convention.’
Major Bates rakes his hands through his hair. His eyes are wide, slightly wild, his voice a little unsteady, when he orders the men to go back to the camp, to stay in their huts.
‘There will be no food today, except bread and water. And tomorrow, if you do not work, you will have bread and water. And the day after, bread and water. And you will be confined to your huts until further notice.’
There is some muttering as they walk back to the camp, but all the men march upright, their shoulders thrown back. Cesare walks among them, marvelling: it is like watching them strolling towards the fields on their own land to bring in the harvest.
Cesare’s own chest lifts; he breathes more deeply. He forgets entirely about the pain in his hand, about the blood on his trousers, about the heat he can feel, which is like the beginning of a fever and spreads an aching heaviness through his limbs.
So it takes him by surprise when one of the guards, who is holding Marco by the arm, also grabs Cesare and steers them both towards the infirmary.Dorothy
I am bandaging a man’s twisted ankle. Con is standing behind me holding the scissors and pins, passing me each item before I have even held out my hand for it.
‘I will marry you after the war,’ the prisoner says to Con, and she smiles. Even a week ago, she would have paled at his words and looked at the floor. I take the scissors from her and squeeze her hand briefly. Her colour is better too, her breathing normal, although she still has to rest often. Both of us are eating more, now that we spend most of our time in the camp. We return to the bothy occasionally, but it feels dark without the hole in the roof and, although neither of us says it, I know that Con thinks of Angus every time she looks at those new planks.
I pin the man’s bandage.
‘I will take you back to Florence,’ the man says to Con. ‘I will bring you oranges and grapes every day. And the peaches! You will sit in the sun and eat peaches!’
She shakes her head, still smiling. ‘I like the cold.’
He is about to answer when the door flies open. I turn and, for a moment, I think I must have misremembered his features, because Cesare’s cheekbones are sharp under his skin and his face is paler than I remember.
But his eyes light when he looks at me. It takes me a moment to notice his hand, which is bloodied, his fingers bent.
‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Oh, God! Come here! I’ll get – Sit down!’
Dark patches of blood shine on his brown trousers. I steer him to sit on one of the beds, while Con and Bess take charge of the other man, who looks only half conscious, and is bleeding heavily from his forehead.
‘What happened?’ I touch each of Cesare’s bloodied fingers in turn, bending them a little. He sucks in air through gritted teeth and shakes his head, eyeing the guard, who is watching them both carefully.
I nod to show I understand, and begin dabbing at the cuts on his hand. Some of them are deep and grit-filled and I wince as I wipe the cloth over his skin again and again.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper.
‘Is no hurt,’ he says, although his forehead glistens with sweat and his jaw is hard.
I put the back of my hand on his forehead. Burning. He turns his head to one side and coughs. I wince.
‘You have the infection too.’
He coughs again, then shakes his head. ‘It is nothing,’ he murmurs. ‘You are not sick? Your sister?’
‘She is better.’ I smile, nodding at where Con is helping to clean the other Italian’s wounds.
‘No talking to the prisoner,’ the guard snaps. I am about to argue: this rule has never been enforced before. But then Cesare widens his eyes slightly, shakes his head.
There is a gust of air as the door opens again, and another guard appears. The stern-faced guard talks
