Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [165]
They all knew. She had no need to say it. It was the Senagana, the river at the mouth of which, three weeks before, she had been heartily embraced by King Zughalin. ‘So we appear,’ she added, ‘to be travelling in circles.’ She was in pain, for the same reason that had led her once to bite Nicholas in the hand. It pleased her to deal with it all without mentioning it.
Diniz had learned when not to reply. He slumped, his back to a tree. Perhaps tonight there would be a hut. The headman was a person of consequence: the chief of Boundon reserved some of his wives here. It was unlikely that he would behave like Gnumi Mansa. Even if he did, few of them could take advantage of it. Diniz remembered Nicholas at Tendeba and the display of cheerful simplicity so unlike anything he had seen in him before or since. It had seemed to be genuine.
And now Nicholas and Saloum were in there, reduced to begging for food and shelter for thirteen. That was their whole number now: Jorge with his four handpicked seamen and that fool Filipe; Nicholas with Saloum and Vito and himself; and the padre and the two stupid women. For the rest, their Christmas Mass had been a funeral service.
It was almost true that they were travelling in circles. They had followed Lopez north-east until they had actually intersected the Senagana. Had it been navigable, and had some prophet warned them, they might have saved all these last weeks of travail.
Gelis had intended to say so, until she saw Nicholas return, and watched Godscalc lift himself to his feet, waiting for him.
Like them all, the priest had lost weight, and the big frame beneath the crumpled cotton was blotched and lumpy with bites and abrasions and his boots patched with blood. He hadn’t shaved for ten days. All the men were the same, and most of them grumbled but bore it. The lure of the gold was enough. In Godscalc’s case there was no lure, Gelis saw, only a growing despair, watching the feverish race: Jorge competing with Nicholas in how much speed might be made; Jorge resenting the younger man’s nominal dominance, all the more as it became apparent that it was actual dominance – that Nicholas possessed somewhere the kind of rare sense that told him how to lead.
She had not, herself, expected that. In the political battles of Bruges she had studied the unattractive qualities that made for plebeian success; extreme ambition being the foremost. She had looked to find it in Nicholas, as well as the common attributes of the soldier: physical stamina, physical boldness, a convenient coarseness of feeling. These, she thought, were all there, but present also was something inborn that advised him in his dealings with people.
On the voyage, he had got his own way with guile. Now he gave orders. No one, placed as they were, could disobey him, but his objectives were not necessarily theirs, and the result could have been gloom and resentment. He had worked to make sure it was not. He endured the same hardships, and worse. He excelled Jorge in concise exposition, so that they knew what they were doing, and why. He taught Filipe the use of a crossbow and took lessons from Vito in butchering. He gave each man his due, and when rest was imperative, he contrived the best of comfort and food he could manage. He supported Bel and Godscalc in their doctoring, and talked them through and over each death. He did it all, as she knew, because he wanted to get to the gold.
Now he walked over to Godscalc and said, ‘We can spend the night here. Doria came, but passed over the river. Saloum has gone to see where.’ His white surtout was smeared with tree-climbing, and Bel had sewn him a brimmed goatskin hat with hanging strings on it. His beard and moustache had come in daffodil-yellow, and already the dimples were covered.
Godscalc said, ‘I was afraid they had escaped us by water. Was Lopez still with them?’
‘And Doria,’ Nicholas said. ‘And six bearers with all their spare clothes and food. Or so we gather. Saloum isn’t sure of