Seven Dials - Anne Perry [94]
He turned back. He knew there was another way around to the street beyond. It was longer, but in these circumstances, better. He started to walk more rapidly, but the noise behind him increased. He turned to look. Two men in long robes were arguing, waving their arms around and gesticulating, apparently over the price of a red-and-black rug near the feet of one of them.
Behind him a group of men pressed closer, also curious to see what the hubbub was about.
Pitt swiveled around again to continue walking, but now his way was blocked. He had to step aside not to be caught up in the heat of the crowd. Another carpet was unrolled, completely barring his way. Someone shouted out what sounded like a warning. There were voices all around him, and he understood none of it.
Overhead the dark beams gave a patchy shade, but still the heat was intense because there was no wind. The dust seemed baked under his feet, and the smell of wool, incense, spices, and sweat were heavy in the motionless air. Another mosquito bit him and he slapped at it automatically.
A young man was running, shouting. A pistol shot rang out and there was instant silence, then howls of anger. There seemed to be police of some sort, four or five of them at the far end of the bazaar, and another two only yards away from Pitt. They were European, probably British.
Someone threw a metal bowl and it hit one of the policemen on the side of the head. He staggered a little, caught by surprise.
There were cries which were unmistakably of approval and encouragement. Pitt did not need to speak the language to understand the meaning, or see the hatred in the bearded faces, most of them turbaned, dark and more African than Mediterranean.
He tried to move away from the increasing violence, and bumped into a pile of carpets, which swayed. He spun around to stop it from falling, grasping hold of it with both hands, fingers digging into the hard wool, but he could not save it. He felt himself pulled forward, losing his balance, and the next moment he was sprawled on the pile of rugs, rolling into the dust.
Men were running, robes flying. There were more shouts, the clash of steel on steel, and shots again. Pitt tried to scramble to his feet, and stumbled over an earthenware pot, sending it rolling fast until it caught another man and knocked him off balance. He fell hard on his back, swearing furiously—in English.
Pitt clambered to his feet and ran toward the man, who was still lying on the ground, apparently stunned. Pitt reached out to help him up, and was hit with great force from behind. He pitched into darkness.
He woke up lying on his back, with his head pounding. He thought it was moments since he had fallen and that he was still in the carpet bazaar, except that when he opened his eyes he saw that the ceiling was dirty white, and when he moved slightly he could see walls. There was no red anywhere, no rich colors of wool, only striped ochre and black and unbleached linen in a heap.
He sat up slowly, a little dizzy. The heat was motionless, suffocating. There were flies everywhere. He swatted at them uselessly. He was in a small room, and the heap of cloth was another man. There was a third propped up against the farthest wall, and a fourth under the high, barred window, beyond which was a square of burning blue sky.
He looked at the men again. One was bearded and wore a turban; he had a dark, heavy, swollen bruise around his left eye. It looked painful. A second was clean-shaven except for a long, black mustache. Pitt guessed him to be Greek or Armenian. The third smiled at him, shaking his head and pursing his lips. He held out a leather water bottle, offering it to Pitt.
“L’chaim,” he said wryly. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted. His mouth was dry and his throat ached. An