With Florencia between them in a state of near collapse, Cal Jardine and Tyler Alverson took her back to the hotel, where her lover got her up to their room, took off her filthy clothes, ran her a deep hot bath and lowered her in, then gently washed her body and hair. Having left her to soak for only a minute, he re-entered the bathroom to find her sound asleep, her blonde hair streaming out in the bathwater like the Burne-Jones painting of Ophelia.

Lifting her out was difficult, but when he had, Cal wrapped her in a towel and put her to bed.

The brigades had looked impressive, with their uniform dress and sloped arms, but it took little time to show that they were far from properly trained and nothing demonstrated that more than their losses. Knowing Florencia would sleep for an age, Cal went out to see if any of his boys were present in the other units, knowing he had not seen them at the Segovia Bridge.

He made his way to the University area, where he expected to find fierce fighting, and he found plenty. He also came, at a crawl, across Ernest Hemingway, well forward, right in the thick of a fierce firefight and too close for a non-combatant.

All he got was a nod of recognition and the American’s attention went back to the battle before him; what Cal did not find was any of the Olympiad athletes, the men fighting being Italian communists, part of what was called, he discovered from those at the rear, the Centuria Gastone after their leader.

From what he could observe, the Centuria was attacking without much tactical nous; it was all frontal and fast up against a stout and well-organised defence made up, he suspected, of the hard elements of the Spanish Foreign Legion – odd that it should be non-Spaniards on both sides. Once back out of the fighting zone he noted the number of men being fetched back either as corpses or seriously wounded, and he also ran once more into Hemingway, he likewise observing the numbers.

‘They’re brave enough,’ Hemingway said, as if he was damning with faint praise.

‘They’re taking casualties to no purpose.’

‘Happens in a shooting war, friend.’

‘The first people I would shoot are their commanders.’

That got a wry smile and a question. ‘You figure you could do better?’

‘They’re not trained to the requisite standard for such an assault, anyone can see that, and you do not send forward men like that. You form them into a defence and get them to hold ground.’

‘So how do you win a battle?’

‘Attrition and on-the-job instruction in field tactics, not that those who command them seem to know how.’

‘You a soldier, Mr Thomas?’

There was a moment when Cal wondered who he was talking to, until he recalled that was how Alverson had introduced him. ‘I was once.’

‘That does not surprise me.’

‘Why?’

‘You look like one, that’s why.’ Hemingway was staring, but not in an unfriendly way; in fact it was as if he was amused. ‘So tell me where you soldiered?’

‘Maybe over that drink,’ Cal said, stalling, for no good reason he could think of; it just seemed right, or maybe it was habit.

In streets of some fairly smart apartment blocks, obviously the homes of well-heeled madrileños, they heard the sounds of echoed commotion, this explained as a small knot of black-clad men emerged from a doorway, dragging in their midst a struggling middle-aged fellow, clearly being arrested. Something he was seeing for the first time made it remarkable, but not so much as what followed next.

Out of the same doorway came Manfred Drecker, as usual smoking one of his long Russian cigarettes in between the wrong fingers, hand held aloft and full of that arrogance and righteousness that Cal recalled so well, while it was obvious, as he glanced in their direction, he immediately recognised him – not hard, he was dressed as Drecker had seen him last – the face screwing up with what looked like rage.

Cal rated that as a bit of an overreaction but he automatically put his hand to his pistol holster and the German’s eyes followed it – Drecker would not know it was empty – a move also noticed by Hemingway.

‘Friend of yours?’

‘Bosom pal.’

The middle-aged captive had been set against the wall of the apartment block and was clearly pleading for mercy, not that it seemed to affect the men who had put him there; they merely stood back and unslung their rifles, shifting the bolts to put a bullet in the chamber.

‘What’s going on?’ Cal yelled in German, which had everyone looking at him, not just Drecker.

‘My, you are full of surprises,’ Hemingway said laconically.

‘What business is it of yours, Jardine?’ Drecker demanded.

Aware that the American’s thick black eyebrows had gone up in surprise, Cal ignored that and concentrated on what was obviously taking place in front of them, the clear prelude to an execution. Fighting to keep any anger out of his voice – Drecker was a dangerous man – he said slowly, again in German, ‘This gentleman with me is an important American journalist. I do not think it will aid our cause for him to see what it is you are planning to carry out.’

‘This man is a traitor, a class enemy and a fifth columnist.’

‘Comrade Drecker, there is no such thing, it is a figment of General Mola’s imagination.’

The use of the word ‘comrade’ caused Drecker some surprise; Cal had rarely been so polite in the past, but it was necessary to save the life of what could well be an innocent man, now sobbing and on his knees. And even if he was not innocent, the poor fellow was entitled to a trial, but it did not soften Drecker up as he had hoped.

‘Then perhaps it is time the Americans, with their soft livers, saw what the revolution does with its traitors.’

‘We are not the revolution, comrade, we are the legitimate government of Spain. Those in revolt are the people we are fighting.’

‘We, Jardine?’ Drecker spat.

The idea of being on the same side as the prize shit he was talking to was anathema, but with a life at stake it was worth it. ‘You have seen me fight for the Republic.’ Then he turned to Hemingway. ‘Use your best Spanish, tell him you will let the world know that people are being shot out of hand.’

‘I’ll try.’

The language was not perfect, little better than Jardine’s, but there was no doubting the sentiment or the fervour; what was worrying was the way it seemed to harden a countenance that was already an exercise in humourlessness. Drecker barked a set of orders and up came the rifles. As they did, Cal Jardine’s hand went automatically once more to his holster.

‘Whoa there, friend,’ Hemingway hissed.

It was not that which stopped Cal, it was the look in Drecker’s eye, one which promised he would be next against that wall; maybe if he could have dropped him he would have chanced it, then turned the weapon on his men, but his pistol was empty, the means to reload it not available, and somehow it was clear that a threat would not be enough.

At a second bark the rifles came up and took aim at a wailing fellow now with his head near his knees. Drecker gave the order to fire and the bullets slammed into the poor man’s body, throwing it back. There was a gleam in Drecker’s eye as he stepped forward, took out his pistol, aimed it, then looked at Cal Jardine as if to say ‘this should be you’. Then he pulled the trigger, his final indignity the dropping of his used cigarette on the corpse.

The walk towards the pair who had observed this was slow, the words addressed to Cal, the blue eyes as hard as the lips. ‘Have a care, Jardine; if you seek to interfere with revolutionary justice you may find that you are the next to be shot.’ Drecker spun round, barked an order, and as he marched off his men fell in behind him.

‘Nice guy,’ said Hemingway.

‘I don’t see this as a time for irony.’

‘I thought you were going to drop him.’