Those days in the crypt were long and tiresome and the heat, at times, was unbearable. Luciana would spend hours peering through the small arrow slit in the Southern Wall. She would describe every movement, every event in such detail that Niccolo and I had no need to watch the death carts as they trundled slowly through the rutted streets, corpses piled high, arms and legs dragging on the flagstones, listening to Luciana's vivid narrations accompanied by the cries of the Becchini echoing through the silent, lockdowned city.
In the first few weeks of our retreat to the crypt, Niccolo had seemingly been content; happy to play chess, practice his letters and wield his small wooden sword, but it was slowly, almost unnoticed, that he had fallen into this silent, crippled decline. His smooth, brown skin had turned a sickly yellow. Within two months, not having left that dismal Godforsaken place, Niccolo rarely spoke and sat on the straw mattress, his back against the damp, lichen wall, his gaze catatonic.
"You must eat Niccolo", Luciana and I had pleaded, attempting to force feed him bread and pottage and warm, steaming goats milk. He shook his head and refused, until Luciana had produced the Cannone, a long, thin tube fashioned from bronze.
