The Tower by Valerio Massimo Manfredi Page A

entire structure collapsing behind him. A cloud of dust filled his lungs and nearly suffocated him and a hail of stones threatened to crush his legs, but with a final effort he pulled himself through to the tunnel outside and took a long gulp of fresh air. He hacked and coughed at length before he could catch his breath, then rubbed his aching, bloody legs. Thank God, it didn’t look like he had any broken bones. When he had recovered, he put his ear to the wall. There was nothing but silence on the other side. He must have killed them. All three? A sensation of distress engulfed him and his limbs felt numb.
    His lantern had broken and was useless to him, but he managed to find his way back out by sparingly using a cigar lighter and then the matches from his haversack.
    He emerged into the monastery crypt harrowed by the fatigue, pain and upset he had suffered. The skulls piled up in their niches greeted him with grotesque grins. Right then they looked to Philip like the smiling faces of old friends.

    P HILIP MANAGED TO GET to the service exit that led to the laundry and then out to the garden. He tidied himself up as best he could and limped towards the hotel. It was the middle of the night and the streets were completely deserted. He tried to pick up his pace, gritting his teeth against the pain; he couldn’t wait to get back to his room, take a bath and collapse onto his bed.
    However, he was soon forced to acknowledge that this endless day was not yet over. The sound of footsteps accompanied his own, stopping whenever he did. A few steps later, at the end of an alleyway dimly lit by gaslight, Philip found his path barred, both in front and behind, by shadows which had materialized out of nowhere.
    A voice said, ‘Drop your haversack and get out of here. You won’t be harmed.’
    That voice! Philip flattened himself against a wall, shouting, ‘Help! Help me!’ But none of the windows in the nearby houses opened. No one came to his defence. There was no way out. Not only had the man escaped, he’d managed to get out before Philip! And now he wanted to take away everything Philip had struggled so hard to get, cutting him off for ever from all trace of his lost father. Could he mean to take his life as well? Who could he be?
    Philip grabbed his pickaxe and backed up against the wall. He’d go out fighting. Shadows began to emerge into the halo of light projected onto the ground by the lamp. There were four of them, thugs, armed with knives, but the man who had spoken remained hidden in the gloom at the head of the alleyway.
    The attackers were very close now and one came forward brandishing his knife, while another made a move to snatch the haversack hanging at Philip’s side. Philip landed a kick, screaming out at the pain in his own leg, and escaped the blade slashing towards his right arm by a hair’s breadth. He swung his pickaxe, forcing the cutthroats to back off, but he knew he had no chance. He cursed his foolishness; had he removed the film from the camera he could have dropped the haversack and tried to break away, but it was too late for regrets now.
    The four thugs were just steps away from him and their knives were teasingly close when a man appeared from a dark passageway behind him: a figure cloaked in black, his face covered. A deep voice rang out with a syncopated accent – ‘ Salam alekhum, sidi el Garrett! ’ – as two dark hands shot from under the cloak: the right held a scimitar and the left a jatagan.
    One of his assailants, the first to spin around to meet the newcomer, took two deep cuts to his face and fell to the ground howling, hands clutching at his cheeks, which had been slashed from temple to jaw. Another was hamstrung before he could even turn and he collapsed in a twisting, screaming heap. The two remaining took to their heels.
    The warrior regained his stance instantly and sheathed his weapons. He turned to Philip and bowed his head, briefly touching his chest, mouth and