began to dance again.
“How
can they act as if nothing happened?” Frances asked.
Tom
shrugged. “That’s Italians for you.”
He
made it sound like a bad thing, but secretly Isobel thought they had it right.
There was enough misery in life; one had to take joy wherever it could be
found.
The
sky deepened to a magical shade of blue as the sun slipped downwards, turning
into a ball of flame on the horizon. The music that floated in the heavy twilight
faded away, replaced by a stirring drum roll. Isobel sensed the crowd’s
heightening expectation as a quiver on the sea breeze. It exhilarated her, and
the last lingering traces of the violent scene she’d witnessed dissipated.
“Let’s
get a good vantage spot,” said Adam, rising from his seat. “We don’t want to
miss the show.”
They
joined the crowds now lining the shore front. In the distance, spreading along
the edges of the bay, the flare of bonfires leapt up.
“Every
year, Positano celebrates its victory over Saracen invaders by re-enacting the
event which took place right here on this beach hundreds of years ago,” Adam
whispered in her ear. “The bonfires warn that the invaders have been sighted,
so the women and children can escape to safety in the hills.”
Against the spectacular backdrop of the setting sun, a
flotilla of small boats sailed into the mouth of the bay. At sight of them, a
cry rose up in the watching crowd, a cheer that echoed back from the
surrounding cliffs.
The
air trembled with the tension of rolling drums as the boats slid into the bay,
their shapes growing more distinct as they drew nearer. These were the same
fishing boats she’d seen drawn up on this same beach barely a week ago, but now
they were decorated for the occasion, bright with flaming lanterns. The sailors
on their decks wore costumes, dressed up as fierce Saracen pirates.
“Where
did they come from?” she asked Adam.
“From
the beach at Fornillo, past that headland.” He pointed towards the treed
peninsula jutting out into the sea, where a squat watchtower stood shadowed
against the darkening sky. She shivered.
“The
whole village joins in preparing the boats. People come from miles around to be
a part of this.”
The
sun dipped beneath the horizon, stripping the scene of colour as it
disappeared. The boats drifted in towards the shore, sails furling, and the
drum roll became a thunderous roar. Another shout rose up from the audience, a
battle cry.
Beneath
her on the beach, a band of men separated from the crowd and strode forward to
meet the incoming boats. Isobel gasped. At their head was a commanding figure,
the tall, athletic frame of a man dressed all in black she could not fail to
recognise.
Stefano.
No
longer a simple fisherman. Silhouetted against the setting sun, his presence
drew every eye. His stance was that of the warrior, seemingly at ease but ready
to strike, and he held in his hands a long, gleaming sword, not a fake sword,
but the real thing, heavy and ancient and deadly.
A
hush fell over the watching crowd. The drums stilled. As the boats crunched
onto the black sandy beach, the defenders surged forward to meet the invaders.
The Saracens descended from the boats, curved blades glinting against the
darkening sky. Stefano wielded his sword with practised ease and rushed to meet
the first of them.
Isobel’s
heart pounded. She watched in fearful fascination as the mock battle began.
Weapons clashed, the sound of metal against metal rang out. The melee seemed
all too real.
The
crowd shifted and sighed, now booing, now applauding, even more caught up in
this drama than they’d been in the real life one not an hour since.
A
small band of invaders tore away from the fighting, heading for the church. The
audience parted, clearly expecting them. Soon the band returned, carrying
between them an icon taller than themselves, a life-size image of the Madonna,
its gilded edges glinting in the light of the lamps and the torches held
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