Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [150]
‘I do,’ said Saloum, his bearded face solemn. ‘It is much more. Beyond a great river. Beyond the great lake. This I swear you.’
‘There by Lent,’ said Gelis to Nicholas. ‘What do you wager? Lent by the River of Gems and the Fountain of Youth and the Copts.’
‘I never wager on certainties,’ Nicholas said.
It was a short meeting, and they might as well never have held it. That night, the drumming was loud and peculiarly insistent and the next day, when they crept round the deep bend of the river, clogged with treacherous islands, they found they were without escort or company. The casual water traffic had ceased, and they were alone but for the long, lazy shapes, fifteen feet long, of the giant lizards that watched from the banks. When, twice, they had to bring round the boats and tow the ship by the head, Jorge placed among the rowers four men with crossbows and hackbuts who kept their eyes partly on the water and partly on either bank. They had brought on deck all their arms, lightly covered with sailcloth, and the cannon were already in place, although blanketed too. As yet, they wore no armour.
There was a great deal of noise. The first holms they passed were full of the chatter and screams of baboons, and the fields and villages were a cacophony of birds attracted by the aftermath of the harvest. Clouds of chaff drifted over the ship, light as moths, lighter than the sand of the open sea: the spacious, salt-scoured, safe open sea. They heard elephants trumpeting, and hunting beasts roar.
By early afternoon they knew they were close to the massive island, six miles long and more than two miles across, which occupied that part of the river where Bati Mansa currently was holding his court. The river on either side, Saloum said, was at least a hundred yards wide but narrowed by drying mud-channels. Midway along the north side of the island was an anchorage. He would not trust the caravel anywhere else, Saloum said, overnight.
‘We shall see,’ said Jorge da Silves. ‘And on which bank do you expect the King to be settled?’
‘On either,’ Saloum said cheerfully. ‘Or on the island. It is in the hands of … of …’
‘The Lord God,’ said Lopez gravely. ‘Or of Bati Mansa, if my sight serves me well. Or are these breakers ahead?’
It might have been surfing waves over rocks. It might have been the froth beneath a line of felled and jostling timber, but it was not. On either side of the island ahead the river was blocked by a flotilla of war-canoes. They lay in the afternoon haze, glimmering white from the dress of the oarsmen and suffused with the sparkle of metal. Vicente said, ‘Senhor Jorge? Do we fire?’
‘No!’ said Godscalc.
‘Not yet,’ Nicholas said. ‘I see a canoe coming this way. Bring the Niccolò round. Let them parley.’
‘Poison arrows?’ said Vicente.
‘Perhaps,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I think they would have shot them already. I shall speak to them, with Lopez.’
No one disputed the privilege. The canoe approached, and it was seen that its double line of black, white-capped oarsmen were without weapons and smiling, and stood knee-deep in gifts, ranging from a pack of fine hyena hides to a great elephant tooth that took four men to heft up to the Niccolò. Then the two dozen men came on board themselves, shy and eager and anxious to reply to Loppe’s questions. The King Bati Mansa had heard that the esteemed Portuguese lords wished to trade in his region, and would lead them to safe anchorage, and invite their presence at his palace on the island.
‘Palace?’ said Gelis.
‘Something with a roof to it,’ said Bel. ‘And guards outside, to keep off the lions. Same as everywhere.’
‘Has he any wives?’ piped Filipe, adding, in Portuguese, a number of brazen specifics.
He was going ashore. Twenty-three of them were, since this time good management seemed to suggest a large landing-party. Of the nine who remained on the San Niccolò, Vicente was chosen to hold the command, with Melchiorre to act as his deputy. It meant that at worst they could sail, since two helmsmen were also aboard: the same solid