Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [164]
Nicholas said, ‘Stay with him. I must go back, or they will think it’s bad luck.’ And back he went, playing and singing, but returning to Manoli’s side every so often. Just before dawn, the man died. He had been with Nicholas since the Ciaretti. After a few hours’ sleep, they went on.
The terrain was not in itself physically difficult. It was Sahel country in December: undulating plains of yellow grass, sometimes shoulder-high; velvety wastes of crazed mud; a dotting of trees, sometimes green, sometimes skeletal. It was not physically difficult except for the sun. Away from the river, the heat had increased by a third, although by night it was cooler sometimes than was comfortable. But they dare not travel at night.
They covered themselves against sunburn. Godscalc and Bel anointed great angry rashes and chafe-marks. Nicholas bartered their frayed cloaks and sweat-sundered garments for cotton and coarse thread and thorn-needles and, instead of wearing chemises and hose, the men thrust their heads through cloaks formed of joined sheeting, and made themselves voluminous breeches caught at waist and at calf with rush-string. For boots and caps, they had skins.
Bel kept her stout, frayed garment longest of all, and wore her cloak as a veil from the sun. Gelis, abandoning the useless fine cloth of her mourning, grimly requisitioned two squares of coarse cotton, one to wrap as a skirt and the other, slit for her head, to drape her upper body and arms like a kerchief. What was left, made a Muslim-style headcloth. They spoke little to one another. They were too tired, and saved their strength for survival. But wherever they went, they cast about for the red marks of Lopez and followed them as Jorge followed the planets. The donkeys stumbled.
They were a day behind, Saloum said. It revived the seamen, but however they hurried, the day never seemed to be made up. Saloum, being black, could not look as worn as they did, but his eyes had sunk, and his hair and beard dulled. At the end of a week, they seemed no nearer their quarry and another man had fallen ill. Lying roofless that night, Godscalc said, ‘How long must this continue? We are not overtaking. Doria will find the mines, and Lopez will be killed, and these poor men are dying for nothing.’
‘Doria is not near the mines,’ Saloum said.
Jorge da Silves had overheard him. With heat and low diet the lean face had become leaner, the folds deeper, the eyes brighter still. ‘Not near them?’ said Jorge.
‘Not yet,’ Saloum said. ‘It takes time.’
Jorge said, ‘How do you know? Do you know where the mines are? If I thought you knew where they were, and hadn’t told us, I would pitch you into that ant-hill.’
‘Be quiet,’ Nicholas said. ‘You’ll rouse the others. Of course he doesn’t know where they are. He’s helping us follow Lopez.’
‘And of course, that’s all you want,’ Jorge said. ‘Not the gold. You’re worried about the good health of Lopez.’
‘And you are not?’ Nicholas said.
It was later, when Jorge had fallen asleep, that Godscalc crossed and sat beside Nicholas. He said, ‘What did Saloum mean? Do you know? Is Lopez misleading Doria?’
‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Nicholas. He lay on his face.
‘But Lopez knows you are following,’ Godscalc said. ‘Isn’t he leading you to the mines?’
‘Jorge certainly hopes so,’ said Nicholas. ‘I can’t tell you anything, except that it’s vital to hurry.’
‘You will kill us on the way,’ Godscalc said.
Nicholas rested his head on his hands. ‘We’re dead anyway, without Lopez to lead us.’
Three days after that, they came to the river. On its banks was a settlement larger than any they had yet come across; one surrounded by harvested meadows and cattle with upcurving horns, and whose thatched huts were shaded by silk-cotton and Baobab trees and defended by fences and matting. They dismounted and waited outside, as they always did, while Saloum conferred at the barrier. He eventually passed inside, taking Nicholas with him.
Seated