Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales Read Free

thirst.’
    ‘That’s not my fault. I came across you by chance. I didn’t have anything to do with your being here. You might make it. I’ll give you a little water, as much as I can spare.’
    ‘No,’ she said firmly, hugging her legs and staring into the fire, ‘you’ll take me with you.’
    He did not answer her, having nothing more to say. Niccolò of course did not want to send her out there, and he knew she was right , she probably would die, but he had no choice. His mission depended on him making the journey safely. To ensure success, he needed to do that alone, without any encumbrances. She would hold him back, drink his water, eat his food, spy on him, probe for his secrets. He would probably have to kill more than one camel to get to the Tower, if he took her along too. It was not in his plans.
    Finally, he spoke.
    ‘We must get some rest, we both need it.’
    Niccolò gave her the sleeping bag and used a horse blanket himself. Once the sun was down, it was bitterly cold, the ground failing to retain the heat. She moved closer to him for warmth, and the fire blocked his retreat. He had not been with a woman for so long, he had almost forgotten how pyrotechnical the experience could be. Just before dawn she crawled under the blanket with him and said, ‘Take me—please,’ and though he knew that the words had a double-meaning , that he was committing himself to 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.’
    ‘Niccolò. 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 as 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