Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [275]
Flanked by his guards, Nicholas stepped down from the wide, crumbling wall-alley into a dark arena of rubble, of stench and of silence. Of the weeds of dilapidation there were none: they had been eaten. Where they had been was raw earth, smothered with the rubbish and dust of bombardment, and pitted with curious mounds and recesses which Nicholas recognised only slowly as rank upon rank of recent, random, haphazard graves. The houses here were ruined and roofless and unoccupied.
Because he had slowed, the man behind struck him a blow. ‘Heartburn, is it?’ he said. ‘A congestion after yesterday’s eating? That was the Armenian church. Them that died of typhoid, that’s where they were put. There’s St Anna’s. The women liked to go there, but the priests were the first to die. These last months, the women have taken it over, giving birth in the annexe and taking and bricking the babe up as soon as it breathed, and before it got found and eaten. Do you think God punishes men who eat their own children, Zacco’s pageboy? Do we not only die, but go to hell for what we have suffered?’
‘Raffo,’ said the other man. ‘He is hostage. We have to escort him safely.’
‘I will. I will,’ said Raffo. ‘St Francis’ monastery, do you see it? Beautiful, isn’t it? A bridge joins it to the old Lusignan palace. The Lusignans called it their own royal chapel. There are how many monks? Four, perhaps. They keep the infirmary for those who die clean of infection, from a falling gable, perhaps, when your serpentines find the right range. And there is the covered market. Not covered: the flying stone ripped the awnings. And not a market unless someone finds a birthed dog, or a bird. The roofs are covered with lime to bring in the birds, but the birds are intelligent: they know when there is nothing to feed them. Only the worms from the graveyard, but we are there before them, aren’t we?’
‘Raffo,’ said the other man.
‘And the Cathedral,’ said the man. ‘Do you like our Cathedral of St Nicholas? The Lusignan used to crown themselves there. King Peter – was it King Peter? – who used to stamp his feet weeping if the cook had no oil for his asparagus. We bury our noblemen there, except that they have to lie at present without coffins. I would take you in, but for the smell. And there is the Citadel. You will find people in the yard of the Citadel. Didn’t you wonder why all the streets were empty? All the hearty citizens of this city who can walk are at the Citadel, because that is where they have locked up the food, and are distributing it. Otherwise they are afraid we will kill one another. As if we would so dishonour our mother republic!’
Nicholas said, ‘You had the choice of surrendering.’
‘There is a ship coming,’ said Raffo. ‘We will never surrender.’
Diniz Vasquez was not visible in the shouting throng of people with sacks, boxes and baskets that crowded the inner yard of the fort of Famagusta, although Nicholas scanned them all as he was led across it. He didn’t see where their baskets were filled, but he observed that soldiers had been appointed to escort each laden man to his house, and that the man’s chin would already be glistening, from the raw food that he chewed as he hastened.
Some were unable to chew, or to hurry. Some carried enough for a family. Or for those, he supposed, who were too weak or too sickly to walk here. There were monks moving slowly in pairs, bearing great crates of foodstuffs between them, with a soldier on guard at their shoulders. The soldiers stared at the food, and kept swallowing. He learned, when he asked, that they had eaten already, from stores given out in the barracks. It explained, he thought, the absence of Diniz. Nicholas followed where he was led, and climbed the stairs to the captain’s own quarters. Once there, his escort opened