Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [151]
It had not been part of the plan. As chief interpreter, if nothing else, he had been a constituent of every mission. It was Jorge da Silves who proposed otherwise. Lopez should be left to stand by Vicente, who spoke no Mandingua. On land, they could employ the other blacks, who had made such an impression on Gnumi.
Nicholas had hesitated. When Lopez, without hesitating, had politely demurred, the master developed such vehemence that Nicholas, intervening quickly, gave way. Saloum and Ahmad would manage.
The island was low-lying and smelt of the river. Stepping ashore with Bel at her side, Gelis saw nothing but a village of hovels, poorer than Cantor, where the river-folk came to exchange produce. She stood with Godscalc and Diniz while one of the long escorting canoes landed its emissaries. Around her she counted fifteen men from the Niccolò, including Fernão and Vito and young Filipe, and ahead of them, Jorge da Silves and Nicholas with the former slaves. The canoeists, landed, walked ahead and signed to them to follow. They were still smiling and weaponless, and set up a cheerful chant as they went, clapping their hands and occasionally leaping. When she walked, the ground swayed up and down.
Godscalc said, ‘It is God’s blessing. God is with us.’ Jorge da Silves crossed himself but vander Poele didn’t. He was looking about at the trees and the bushes and his face was ruddy with heat. So was that of Diniz. Both were wearing shirt, doublet, hose, cap and cloak.
Gelis said, ‘Let me guess. He’s carrying the forecastle mortar, and you’ve got the balls in your jacket?’
‘More or less,’ Diniz said. His gaze, rapt and intent, was on Nicholas.
Both women saw it. ‘Ye’ll not wean him now,’ said Bel dryly.
It was a long walk. After half an hour in the heat they were stopped and led to a place in the shade where refreshments had been prepared. They were given fruit and juice and bread baked in the sun. Three of their escort went off hunting and came back with some birds. Saloum, who had gone with them, returned laughing and sat to deliver a broken-tongued bulletin. ‘We shall reach the palace in another half-hour. They prepare a feast for us. They say the King is a great man, and generous, and loves horses beyond anything.’
‘Hell and damnation,’ said Diniz. ‘Don’t we have another tent?’
‘We could give him a warthog,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do you think we could get them to hurry? I don’t want to come back this way in the dark.’
In the end, the place they came to, although far inside the island, was not unlike Gnumi Mansa’s riverside clearing, except that there was no village near it, nor any provision for water or ovens. The forest about it was thicker, and instead of a great central Baobab there stood a man-made hut without walls: a low henge of vertical tree-trunks, upon whose bare crooked forks rested a mighty domed roof made of millet-stalks. The airy arena below, sufficient for the congress of two hundred people, was currently being enjoyed by a small flock of goats. Otherwise, entering, they found it quite empty.
Nicholas walked round it once, with Saloum. He said, ‘Ask them. Where is the King?’ Before he fully reached the end of the sentence, he stopped and turned. Apart from Saloum and Ahmad, there were only white faces inside the pillars. No flashing smiles and white caps. No black, assiduous figures racing up to inform, to reassure. The grass before the hut was quite empty. The escort had gone. There was no one for Saloum to ask.
There was someone. There was a voice declaiming outside; a sonorous voice, employing superb Italian.
‘I very much fear,’ said Raffaelo Doria, strolling heavily across from the trees, ‘that the lord Bati Mansa is unavailable. Perhaps I may be allowed to entertain you instead? Demoiselle. Mistress Bel. Senhor Vasquez. How very happy I am to catch up with you.