Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [179]
Now it was morning and their host – their captor? – had indicated that he did not wish to leave the building today, or have them leave. Pressed, he delivered a blunter reply. ‘It is customary,’ Lopez said, ‘for guests of Timbuktu to remain indoors until summoned by the governor, the Timbuktu-Koy, to his residence. When Nicholas is well, you will go.’
‘I do not wish to wait,’ Godscalc said. ‘I propose to ride round Timbuktu this morning, either with you, or without you. Vito can sit beside Nicholas.’
He didn’t expect Umar-Lopez to agree, but he did. He had not, therefore, total power over their movements. No less than the others, Godscalc was concerned over Nicholas, but it was necessary to go out and take bearings. Held indoors, they were dependent wholly on Lopez. Now, however brief the tour he allowed, they would at least see where they were and, when Nicholas woke, move towards independence if necessary. It was imperative to believe that Nicholas would recover, and soon.
Godscalc and Diniz, Gelis and Bel made their journey through Timbuktu mounted on small Arab horses and veiled, robed and gowned in the style of the country. The ride was to be short, and unobtrusive. ‘Or?’ Diniz said. His arm was paining him.
‘Or you cannot stay in Timbuktu,’ had said Umar-Lopez regretfully.
In the semi-dark of the previous evening, they had registered little. Now, all was unexpected and new. Emerging from the yard, their horses stepped out upon sand between high walls of coated mud-bricks, shaded by trees and heaped with creepers and flowers. The lane they had entered surprisingly led to another, and another.
They reached a fine open space, strung with awnings and shaded by trees, which proved to be a market of produce, rather larger than might have been expected, and displaying a bounty of both river and pasture. There were heaps of rice and millet and tamarinds, piles of kola nuts, sacks of Baobab flour, calabashes of honey and wax and soft cheeses. There were dates and fresh and smoked fish, goatskins of milk, and stout yellow gourds of sweet juices.
Goats bleated, and tied chickens flapped, while vats of palm oil sizzled and smoked and children skipped about, shouting. The sellers and buyers were of every colour from chestnut to black, and many were naked. They sang and chattered and laughed. It was a place of enchanting gaiety.
‘They are of different tribes,’ said Umar-Lopez, ‘and come daily. You will hear Songhai, Tamashagh and even classical Arabic. There is another market, for pots and baskets and bowls from the craft-shops.’
‘The dealers are there?’ Diniz said. They moved away from the market.
‘No,’ said Umar. ‘In Timbuktu, the merchants deal from their houses. We are reaching that quarter now.’
‘That quarter?’ said Diniz. He was tolerant, until the street turned. It widened. There were mansions planted on either side, some of them walled and enclosed, others confronting the street with immense, glittering doors, their flanking walls fretted with openwork. The road between them was marbled with light.
‘This is a town!’ Diniz exclaimed.
Umar-Lopez looked at him. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said.
There were people here, too; many of them. Some walked, black and naked and smiling, with bundles on head or at hip, or driving goats, or sheep, or a cow. Some rode on mule or donkey or camel and were enveloped in clothes; booted men robed like the nomadic traders of Arguim and masked by the double blue headcloth, so that only the measuring eyes could be seen. There were men in coats and dark turbans, who might be brown-skinned or black, hairless or bearded or wearing moustaches. There were men, brown-skinned or black, in white gowns and swathed heads who walked soberly, a cane or a scroll in their fingers.
There were groups of black-eyed women in veils, followed by servants who were wholly black, and neither women nor men. There were black servants of both sexes or none escorting black women who were not only young and unveiled, but without any garments whatever. One such cort