Carlo was seventy now, nobly fat, wonderfully ugly, apparently recovered. He was dressed in the total red of his rank. He had come, I gathered, alone. He offered me whisky, the rare brand Old Mortality. He said: ‘They told me the Casino was reserved for some visiting oil sheikhs. I was not having that. Would you put the infidel before a prince of your own Church? They then telephoned through to say that His Highness Hussain ibn Al-Haji Yusof or somebody would be honoured if I joined their party. So. We play first. Dine after. Does that suit you?’

‘How many years is it now since we did that? Forty?’

‘Forty. There were three of us then.’

‘Yes. Three of us.’ I sensed there was a tabu on mentioning the third by name. ‘How are you, Carlo?’

‘Well enough. You realize that the moment of truth is coming?’

‘You mean a certain death is imminent in Rome?’

‘Yes yes yes. You remember before the war, in Moneta, we discussed Greek tragedy. I cannot remember whether the term hubris came up.’

‘I don’t think it did.’

‘Have some more whisky.’ He appraised me from his plush armchair. ‘Help yourself. You’re thin. You look old. How old are you?’

‘Sixty-eight.’

‘Old, and you haven’t yet come through to what I said.’ All this talk was very cryptic. ‘The revelation has not occurred.’