Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [271]
Nicholas turned his face to his arms, and was silent.
He couldn’t tell when the singing came to an end, or the Archbishop’s voice was first raised, addressing the city; offering it God’s peace and succour so long as the Feast of Christ lasted. He didn’t move until John’s hand smote his weak shoulder, and John’s voice said, with desperate hoarseness, ‘You thrawn God-damned fiend of a Fleming!’
He lifted his head, and they looked at one another. John’s face was furrowed with tears. Nicholas said, ‘I didn’t know if they would do it.’ His arms over his head were an agony. He began to bring them down, still in a daze, and then remembered, with terrible clarity, where he was and what he was doing. At the same moment, he saw John’s eyes suddenly widen. The fuses. The fuses must be put out, or the miracle that was happening out there would be useless.
They scrambled, this time, as if secrecy didn’t matter, although of course it did. If they were seen, they’d be picked off. If they failed to reach the fuses in time, they’d be killed with the rest on the wall, and only a little earlier than the men of both sides who would open fire, without doubt, claiming treachery. They shared the task between them, descending first to the biggest mine, by the base of the wall. Next, the one fixed by the dead man. And lastly, the two higher up.
By then, the fuses were short, and there was no time to be nice about quietness. In any case, the wall-walk above them was empty. Only the hide-covered penthouse was occupied, and the three men in that were jammed at the opposite end, craning to watch the brilliant theatre; the exchange at the gates upon which their survival depended. Breathless and dizzy, Nicholas found and pinched out his fuse, and looked across gasping to John. The task was almost done. In a moment, they could take stock, and be thankful together.
Hampered by his terrible perch, the engineer, as before, was making slow work of it. As before, he had not wasted energy in trying to keep watch about him. Not as before, someone this time was leaning out, watching him from the gallery.
They had been seen. Not as yet by all three of the men, but by one who already had his handgun set up, aimed fully at John, and the flare in his hand to ignite it. Without thinking, Nicholas unslung his bow. Clinging with toes and with knees, he leaned into the wall and drew an arrow, fast, from over his shoulder. He had it nocked, and the hemp half drawn back when an extra flare lit the sky, and he saw how close the man was to firing, and how ill he looked, and how young he was: a hollow-faced boy, defending the walls of Famagusta.
Saw, then, that the hollow-faced boy was Diniz Vasquez.
Chapter 39
THERE WAS A moment when Nicholas could have released his arrow: he let it pass. He spoke John’s name, to make him look up. Then he tossed his bow to the foot of the wall, and unslung and threw down his quiver. From the gallery, the feverish gaze of Diniz Vasquez held no recognition; but still he hadn’t touched fire to his weapon. His two companions, readying theirs, crowded behind him. The boy said, ‘What are you doing?’
Nicholas said, ‘We’d planted four mines, before we knew of the truce. We’ve just made them harmless. Bring us up: we’ll tell where they are; you can check them.’ His eyes on Diniz, he spoke in Italian. The boy’s sunken face changed.
A man said, ‘Treachery! The bugle! Sound the bugle! They’re Zacco’s soldiers. The bastards! The bastards!’ He was weeping. He said, ‘You thought these turds with candles were churchmen. D’you imagine those wagons hold food? Wait till we turn the guns on them all. Watch their powder blow up. Pour lead shot into their fat, meat-stuffed bellies. And as for you …’
It was his handgun that fired, not the boy’s. But although he aimed it at Nicholas, it fired into the air, for the boy knocked it sideways and held it. The boy said, ‘No. I’ve sent for the captain. But the men in that column are churchmen. Look. I know them. And look, too. The sides of the wagons are slatted. You can see baskets, Vito,