Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [181]
Her gaze did not challenge. ‘How many people live here?’
‘Forty thousand,’ he said. ‘You are in a city the same size as Florence, the same size as Bruges. Bigger than Genoa or Cologne; twice the size of Pavia or Lübeck. A melting city built upon gold.’
‘Melting?’ she said.
Umar said, ‘You have not been here in the rain. Mud-bricks dissolve; rough-cast crumbles. Limestone here has a life of a hundred years, not much more. The marble, the pillars, the stucco are for today, not tomorrow. Tomorrow, we build them again. We should go back to Nicholas.’
‘Did he know?’ Gelis said.
‘Of the nature of Timbuktu?’ Umar-Lopez said. ‘I did not tell him.’
On the way back they passed another great mosque, but Umar would not allow them to pause, or later to glimpse more than a gleam between palms of the exquisite building he had called Andalusian. They smelled flowers, and heard water, and caught sight of gardens. Godscalc said, ‘You are in a great hurry.’
‘I am concerned about Nicholas,’ Umar said. He was looking ahead. Before them, they saw, was the trampled parade ground, the high walls and flat roofs of the city garrison. ‘I am sorry,’ said Umar.
‘Why?’ said Godscalc, and then stopped, for he, too, saw the cavalry flooding out of the gates and spreading out to encompass them.
What took them all by the throat was the suddenness of it, and the silence. One moment their path was clear; the next it was blocked, before and behind, by a circle of blank, faceless horsemen, their heads wrapped in the blue cloth of the Tuareg. No one spoke. The garrison horses, tightly held, stamped and fidgeted. Every rider was armed: their swords rattled. One man began to ride forward.
Umar said something under his breath. The word was Flemish. Diniz said, ‘Who?’
‘The commander of the garrison,’ Umar said. ‘He has heard, and come back into town.’
‘Heard what?’ said Godscalc.
‘That Christians are here,’ Umar said. ‘Conceal your faces. Leave this to me.’
They could do nothing else. Gelis and Bel bent their heads, their faces covered. Godscalc and Diniz, armed with their pitiful Arabic, watched the commander rein in and speak.
The man wore the same clothes as his soldiers, but his gazelle shield and bow and sword were heavily encrusted with gold, and his lower veil had been loosed from the beak of his nose, baring a thick black moustache and russet skin pitted with scars. Round his shoulders lay gold chain thick as a cable. He said in Maghsharen Arabic, ‘You seem amazed. Would Akil ag Malwal neglect to share the joy of the umma at the return of a son of the city? Greetings, Umar.’
‘Greetings, my lord Akil,’ Umar said. ‘No, I was certain you would not neglect it. You are well?’
‘Assuredly. And these are your wives, and this your eunuch. He is singularly well provided with hair. And the young man has the colouring of a bidan from the Maghgreb. Your secretary, your servant perhaps? Or a friend for your pillow?’
The man reached out towards Diniz and touched his cheek with the butt of his whip. Diniz glared, his fists tight on his reins.
Umar spoke in his voice of untrustworthy honey. ‘Being absent, lord, you could not share in my gladness at the Timbuktu-Koy’s message of welcome to me and my companions. They are worthy souls: a party of traders and map-makers, travelling east. They have paused to rest, and to scatter joy, gifts and alms in the halls of the Timbuktu-Koy. He will tell you.’
‘I go to him now,’ said the commander. ‘Your women are traders? Praise be to Allah. I go to him now to learn his wishes about your companions –’
‘I have told you,’ said Umar. His voice was deeper by several degrees than the other’s.
‘But of course, except that the Koy has not yet granted them audience, as I understand. They cannot therefore be said to have been accepted. Deception is possible. You yourself may have been