Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [176]
Diniz. Then the voice of Gelis said, ‘Really?’
‘Wake up, Nicholas,’ Diniz said. ‘We’ve arrived.’
The water had reached far up to the terminus, but there was no view of the place, only dunes behind the ramshackle buildings of the wharf. Under a few dusty trees, everyone including the curs seemed to be sleeping, and the empty boats rocked in the heat, reeking of stale nut oil and ordure and fish. Everything stank.
There was a last-minute quarrel, once they had wakened people and hired mules and a couple of porters, because Diniz announced he was coming. It was not expedient. Nicholas couldn’t remember why it wasn’t expedient, except that Saloum said so. He wondered if it was Saloum, in the first place, who had suggested they go first together. He left Diniz behind, scarlet and fuming, with Godscalc and the women and Vito. He was himself worried, for they couldn’t manage without him. He couldn’t manage, either, without them. He had to get the gold back to the Gambia.
The ride was not long, which was fortunate. He had an impression of gaining a rise and seeing a sheet of water before him with the walls of the chief’s house beyond it, made of whitened mud bricks and not brushwood. He thought that this was certainly wise, in a place where goods were stored in the compound. He had heard that the caravans lodged to the north, in sandy plains outside the depot.
He found he and Saloum had arrived at a pair of vast timber gates, studded with iron. One of their porters banged on it, and a voice enquired who they were. It spoke in Arabic. Saloum replied, ‘It is the marabout Saloum ibn Hani.’ He spoke in Arabic, too.
The gates opened. There were armed men inside, with caps and white shirts and trousers, and slippers on their feet. They were black. Saloum said, ‘Send word. Quickly.’ No one asked who Nicholas was. They rode through.
Because of the buildings there was shade, which was a relief, but chilled the sweat on the skin. Nicholas shivered, and opened his eyes. Buildings. That was what was strange. He was riding through the dark of a street, with buildings rising high on either side of him, and lanes running to right and to left, also lined with houses of two or three storeys. Ornate dwellings, with doorsteps and windows; and a glimpse of green courtyards, and curious pyramids stuck over with quills. A square opened out, and another.
There were few people about, with the sun at its height, but those he saw paid them little attention. They seemed well dressed, their garments spotless, their heads covered. They were all black. A carnival, he realised. Was it Lent? Was it February? They passed San Marco. Not San Marco: it was smaller, and had a wall, and gardens, and its towers were red and white and had no mosaic. If it was San Marco, he would be in a boat, and not riding a mule rather badly. In Venice, the streets were not made of sand. They came to a palace.
Here, there were people awake. They ran to take the mules, and lead the porters away. Saloum let them, and Nicholas didn’t complain. It was hard enough to dismount, although someone helped him. They walked up steps between pillars. He thought at first it was going to be like Trebizond, and he would meet the Emperor, and someone would take him to the baths. He thought they might do him some good.
Then he saw that the portico opening ahead of him was more like a pavilion in Castile or Granada, as travellers described them. He had seen something like it in Málaga, but not so magnificent. The floor was of marble, a little untidy with sand, and above the masts … above a harbour full of unmoving columns there rose arches of fragile white stucco-work. He had never had a sugar-cook who could create a masterpiece of that order, or finish it before it had melted.
Between the columns, now he looked, he could see men in robes, some watching, some moving slowly. He thought he saw a woman among them, although she was veiled. Saloum turned from a quick conversation. Speaking, he hid his mouth, Nicholas noticed, to catch the spit from the gaps in his