Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [188]
In the hand of Muhammed ben Idir, Timbuktu-Koy, governing prince of the city, reposed a sceptre of the weight of ten pounds of pure gold, and beside him stood tables laden with articles of his treasury: bowls and ewers and plates, cups and vases, all of the same metal. To one side lay a saddle, studded with rubies, and a set of horse-harness, also worked, and recently, in brilliant gold. The styles suggested smiths from every quarter of Europe and the East, and the glow of it was like the glow in the clouds over Murano. Umar led the way forward.
But for a space in the centre, the chamber was full. All were men: dark-skinned Negroes or Berbers seated in silence on cushions; some of them dressed and turbaned in white, some in turbans of extravagant silks and sumptuous coats of the kind Nicholas had been given. They looked at the Europeans as they passed as they might have looked at a consignment of salt.
Envoys and those making supplication approached the Timbuktu-Koy on their faces, and pouring dust over their heads. Nicholas walked forward and knelt, his neck bowed. At his side, Umar prostrated himself and then stood. The Timbuktu-Koy addressed him in Arabic, and Umar answered. At a sign, Nicholas rose, and bore the Governor’s peering scrutiny with resolute calmness. The Koy was an old man, and in his lined face could be seen both the broad bones of the Negro, and the liquid eyes and prominent nose of the Sanhaja Berber. Muhammed ben Idir had ruled Timbuktu for many years.
‘Approach him,’ said Umar. ‘You may cause your gifts to be brought in.’
Already, walking up to the dais, Nicholas had taken note that Akil was there, the enemy who had tried to seize them three days ago. Beside him was a group of his henchmen, but none of them seemed to bear arms. He looked, without seeming to look, at the merchant princes, and wondered which of them, if any, were among those who had intercepted Jorge da Silves’ men at the silent trading, and had come back disappointed because the Wangara natives had killed Doria and fled with their gold.
The wealthy patricians sat together by household, their kinship obvious in the colour and cast of their faces, in a place where the tilt of an eye or the quality of a tuft of hair declared everything. The parochial leaders, the scholars, the marabouts, the judges held together as well, in mellow patches of white. He saw Saloum among them. The dark-skinned man nearest the dais must, he thought, be the Katib Musa, the religious leader and imam of the Sankore Mosque. Umar had impressed the name on him, he didn’t know why. Heat and heavy scents eddied about him; his head swam for a moment, and then steadied. The servants entered, bearing his gifts to the Koy.
Nicholas had lost virtually all the goods he possessed on the Gambia. To placate the Timbuktu-Koy he had nothing to offer but a single small box saved, with three larger, from a hidden bulwark of the San Niccolò, and a felt satchel, much worn and stained, containing a heavy object given him that morning by Umar. He knew what was in it. When he remonstrated, Umar had only said, ‘It is just.’
To a ruler, the offerings were insultingly small. The soldiers around Akil looked at one another and smiled. Nicholas took the satchel and, approaching the dais, held it up in both hands to the old man. One of the sons lifted it; a stout olive-skinned youth a little older than Diniz but younger than himself. He held it with distaste, as if about to cast it on the ground.
The imam said, ‘My lord, wait.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘It has travelled far, your packet. What is its nature?’
‘It is a manuscript,’ Nicholas said.
‘Ah!’ said the imam. ‘And, if it is permitted to ask, in what tongue?’
‘It is written in the Arabic language,’ said Nicholas, ‘but is of great age. It would delight me if the Timbuktu-Koy himself would receive it.’
‘My lord Umar is about to present it on your behalf,’ the imam said. ‘Lord, the trader Niccolò gives you a book. Your son will