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

each other's language, they use many different tongues. If they can't
communicate, they can't conspire against the High Priest, can they?" she
said. "Since he has control over a small group of interpreters, he has
complete control over the whole army."
Despite himself, NiccolЄ was impressed. It certainly was clever strategy
on da Vinci's part. There was much to admire about da Vinci, no matter how
much he was hated. The Tower was a product of a brilliant mind. The
architecture, the engineering, was decades ahead of its time. Where an old
support might have proved to have been too weak, da Vinci had designed a
new one. He was responsible for inventing the transverse arch, the
buttress, the blind arcade, and many other architectural wonders. The
absolute beauty of the work - the colonnades, the windows, the ceilings -
was indeed worthy of a god.
Such a pity a million people had been sacrificed to feed his egoism.

On the third Sunday NiccolЄ confronted her, waking her from a deep sleep.
"You've been meddling," he said, angrily. "You've been sticking your nose
in amongst my goods."
She shook the sleep from her head, staring up at him. Comprehension came
to her gradually. He could see it appearing in her eyes.
"I was just curious," she said. "I didn't mean any harm."
NiccolЄ pointed to one of the packs that had fallen from a camel. Its
contents had spilled out, over the desert floor: marble statuettes, of
angels, of cherubim, of seraphim.
She stared where he was pointing.
He said, "When you retied the knot, you used a knot that slipped - there's
the result."
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to . . ."
"To spy," said NiccolЄ.
He could see he was right by the expression on her face and he grabbed her
and pulled her to her feet. She immediately struck him a sharp blow with
the heel of her hand behind his ear, then as his head snapped to the side,
she kicked him in the groin. He went down in the dust, excruciating pains
shooting through his neck, a numbness in his genitals which quickly turned
to an unbearable aching.
She had been, after all, a soldier.
"Don't you dare try that again," she cried. "My mother was an assassin.
She taught me the martial arts. I could kill you now . . ."
In his agony he didn't need to be told.
By the time he had recovered, she had gathered his statuettes, carefully
wrapped them in their protective rags, and tied them inside the pack. He
hobbled over to it and inspected the knots, satisfying himself that this
time they were correct and tight. Then he swung himself into his saddle,
winced to himself, and then gestured for her to follow on with the camels.


"Those figurines," she said, obviously trying to make friends with him
again, "they're very beautiful. Where do they come from?"
"I carved them myself," he said, "from the finest block of marble the
eastern quarries have ever disgorged."