Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [231]
The voice said, ‘You have found some tiles, madonna? They are very old. I have a few in my shop.’
The Italian was perfect, like Umar’s, but it was not Umar’s voice. She looked up.
It was a Berber. Or no, it was a bearded man of the Maghgreb with bold, high-coloured features closer to those of a Tunisian Arab. He wore a magnificent turban, and his boots, under her nose, were of embroidered crimson kid under a robe of – she would have sworn – Lucca velvet.
She straightened. She said, ‘We have not met before,’ in Italian. All the circle beamed and murmured with pleasure.
The man said, ‘No. I have been with my brothers in Tlemcen. I came back with the spring azalai.’
She had seen it: the biggest caravan from the north. It had been fifteen miles long. She said, ‘You are a trader? With the Italians?’
He said, ‘Would the madonna care to see the silks I have brought? My humble house is nearby, and my wife would be honoured to offer refreshment. My name, as all around you will tell you, is Abderrahman ibn Said, and I am a merchant of Timbuktu. And you are madonna Gelissa from the King of Portugal’s ship, about whom everyone in this city has told me. Pray come. If the tiles intrigue you, my boy will stay and dig for you. He will bring what he finds.’
She accepted. In his large, well-furnished house, she met his wife and his family: ‘This is the madonna from Lagos who is a friend of Umar ibn Muhammad al-Kaburi, and of Saloum ibn Hani and many others.’ Then, as they sat on cushions fingering sweetmeats and supping sherbet: ‘This is the lady who likes to see how the maize grows, and the rice, and the sorghum, and who ponders our storehouses and likes to watch which irrigation channels silt up, and how bricks are made, and baskets woven, and leather cured. This is a lady of many talents.’
‘I am curious,’ Gelis said. ‘I am fortunate, to have time to spend in your city.’ Neither of them had mentioned her fortune in gold.
‘You prefer, as I do, practical matters. And, of course, matters of history. You were right. The tiles were precious, even broken. You also read?’ said the Arab. He hadn’t mentioned Nicholas, either.
She said, without answering, ‘I should be interested to see the silks you spoke of. One brought cloth to my house, perhaps from these very stockrooms in your absence. Someone buys them for you in Europe?’
‘Ah yes,’ said the man. A little ape jumped on his lap, and he tickled its chin. ‘A man called Benedetto Dei. He travels on the Cyprus galley this year, but I hope to tempt him to Timbuktu when next the fleet comes to Barbary, or passes with alum for Flanders.’
He set the ape aside. ‘But all is upset now, after the death of the old man. Cosimo de’ Medici, father of Florence. A loss, a terrible loss. The son is proving a hard man on his managers; Tommaso, who thought to have all his own way, is in despair. You come from Bruges. You can imagine.’ Somewhere, someone was milking a goat.
‘Tommaso Portinari?’ said Gelis. It was the sort of naivety she used to deplore in Diniz Vasquez. She shut her lips quickly.
‘Of course. We are all Medici agents,’ said ibn Said. ‘I and my brothers; Benedetto Dei; Tommaso Portinari, who, of course, also manages the office in Bruges. We all import from the firm of Medici, and execute orders. You will realise, therefore, that the silk is of the first quality.’
She examined the silks. She expressed a wish to see all his imports. She said, ‘Forgive me if I have not understood you. You do not purchase these goods direct from their source, but you receive them from the Medici agents and then resell, paying commission to the Medici?’
‘That