"Garry Kilworth - The Sculptor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kilworth Garry)

something he wished to avoid, he made love with her.
In the morning, he knew he could not send her on her way. He wanted her
with him, in the cold desert nights, and afterwards, in his bleak life.
"You'll have to ride on one of the pack camels," he said. "Have you ever
been on a camel?"
"No, but I'll manage."
"What's your name?" he asked, almost as an afterthought, as he helped her
up onto her perch. He had chosen one of the less vicious camels, one that
did not bite just out of pure malice, though it was inclined to snap when
it got testy at the end of a long hard day's walk.
"Romola," she smiled, "what's yours."
"NiccolЄ. Now listen, Romola, we've got a long way to go, and your . . .
you'll get a sore rump."
"You can rub some cream into it, when we stop at night," she said, staring
into his eyes.
"We're not carrying any cream," he said, practically, and swung himself
into the worn leather saddle.
They moved out into the desert, towards the wonderful Tower, whose shadow
would stretch out and almost reach them towards the evening. He and
Arturo, eight years ago, had set out on a mission of murder, and had
failed even to cross the desert. This time he was well prepared, but
carrying a passenger. If anything happened, he would have to abandon her,
for the mission was more important than either of them.
The city was still there, of course, he reminded himself. It was vertical,
instead of laying like a great pool over the surface of the continent. It
was as if the houses had been sucked up to the clouds, like water in a
waterspout, and now stood like a giant pillar supporting heaven. The city
had become the Tower, a monument to artistic beauty and achievement: a
profound and glorious testament to brilliant architecture. Perfect in its
symmetry, most marvellous in its form, without parallel in all the
previous accomplishments of man. It was grace and elegance, tastefulness
and balance, to the finest degree possible this side of heaven. The angels
could not have created a more magnificent testimonial to art, nor God
Himself a splendour more pleasing to the eye.
And at its head, the great and despised architect and builder himself, its
maker and resident.
The Tower had been started by the High Priest designate, da Vinci, when he
was in his early twenties.
"We need to get closer to God," he had told his contemporaries and the
people, "and away from the commerce and business of the streets. We have
the cathedral's steeple of course, but think what a great monument to the
city a tower would be! We could use the bricks and rubble from condemned
buildings, to keep the cost of the construction low. The air is cleaner up
there."
Da Vinci was now truly a 'high priest' living at the top of the Tower,
away from the people, protected by his army of clergy. It was said that
oxygen had to be pumped to his chambers, night and day, in order to
breathe up there. It was also very cold, and fires were maintained
constantly, the fuel coming from the stored furniture of a million
inhabitants of the old city.