Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [243]
Having no official position, all that he did required the sanction of the Timbuktu-Koy or, latterly, as the old man grew feeble, of his son, whose name was the same as Umar’s. A heavy youth of limited intelligence, the Koy’s heir made few objections, unless the proposed improvement threatened to cost more than he thought worth his while. Matters were helped by the fact that Umar himself – Loppe – was now teaching, and held a post of some little power. And even without the Koy’s experienced, if erratic, hand on the helm, the city was still being centrally run, from the magnificent palace of the Ma’ Dughu.
Visiting the Koy, Nicholas was conscious, even in weakness, of the pleasure – the virtue – he received from its sweet columns and shining tiles and carved arches, its painted ceilings and grilles, from its pools and fountains and the heady, strange pot-pourri of its inward life: the camels tied in its yards, the petted apes, the bright birds, the extravagant leopard skins strewn in its chambers; the sounds that mingled the voice of the jungle, the rainforest, the savannah with the clear, miraculous voice of high learning.
He felt in no sense superior. He knew that not only Umar but many of the thoughtful, witty men whose conversation he sought had passed many years in the world outside the Land of the Blacks; they, as well as he, knew the singularity of what they and their forerunners had created.
He walked therefore with an open heart as well as an open mind, and accepted all that was offered his senses: the beating drums, the braying African horns mingled with the ululation of Arabic voices; the clank of gold, crude and solid as iron, hung upon naked, slender black bodies; the chanting voice of the storyteller and the singing voice of the imam, reciting the Koran. As the season changed and, once more, coolness returned to the night, Nicholas rested by scented fires in the Koy’s flowery courts and watched unfold, beguiled, the spontaneous expression of many kinds of happiness, from the clapping hands, the rhythmic, light-hearted dancing of the young to the gentle ambulation of the Negro philosophers in their spotless white turbans and robes, agreeably discoursing, or exchanging verses, or drifting to repose in some bower to take their ease, and refresh themselves, body and spirit.
It was what Timbuktu offered. Umar had known. Umar, through Saloum, had wanted to draw Nicholas here. Nicholas remembered his words. It will bring you what your heart and your soul both have need of.
Umar had meant Timbuktu. He had called it the terminus.
Chapter 35
BY THE TIME the rainy season had come, Nicholas knew that it was true, and that he was indeed free.
Wisps of information always reached Timbuktu from the caravans. Sometimes several copies of the same packet would arrive; sometimes only part of one would get through. The most reliable were those addressed to ibn Said, although these were narrow in scope, and referred almost entirely to the doings of Tommaso Portinari, manager of the Bruges branch of the Medici bankers, and counsellor to Duke Philip of Flanders and Burgundy.
From these, Nicholas heard that Duke Philip still lived, although his heir’s wife had died, and there was a scramble afoot to replace her. Tommaso thought the new bride would be English. Tommaso knew all about that because France, too, wanted English marriages, now it looked as if the Yorkist King was going to be permanent. Tommaso did some work on the side for the King of France. Or appeared to. France and Burgundy were virtually at war, and Tommaso could be useful to both sides.
He sent, as usual, some bales of casually packed silks with a large invoice attached. ‘The lady was struck by these terms. By the