Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [252]
‘You think I should go through the Sahara?’ Nicholas said. He smiled, and Umar smiled a little in return.
‘Yes. it is never safe; but for one man, it is better than the long trip to the Gambia and then, perhaps, the wait of six months for a ship. A caravan leaves, and in two or three months, you would be in Barbary; in Bruges or Venice before the end of the year. We shall ask ibn Said. His brother might come to Taghaza to meet us.’
‘Taghaza? Us?’ Nicholas said.
‘The city of salt. The desert post where the salt you see comes from. Of course, I shall go with you,’ said Umar. ‘To Taghaza, but not beyond. It is my terminus, Nicholas, but not yours.’
Chapter 36
IN JANUARY OF THE same year, 1467, the Albanian patriot Skanderbeg died, and much of his army and many of those attached to him were dispersed. In May, the personable manager of the most aristocratic bank in Venice returned from a profitable evening at some ship-owner’s supper to find his private parlour pre-empted by a squat, balding man he had not seen for over five years.
He had been warned as he entered the house. ‘What?’ had said Julius. ‘Who?’
‘Tobias Beventini of Grado,’ said Margot, in the forbearing way that most annoyed him. ‘Niccolò’s physician. He’s finished his work in Albania. He heard he was wanted to testify. He thought Niccolò would be here.’
‘Tobie!’ said Julius. He dropped off his cloak, which had gold-work all down the edges. ‘I haven’t seen Tobie since we came home from Trebizond. Girls. Piss, drink and girls, Tobie used to be interested in. I thought he’d given up Niccolò.’
‘Hasn’t everyone?’ Margot said. They rubbed along well enough, he and Margot, but at times, he wished Gregorio had come and collected her.
‘He’ll come home,’ Julius said. He didn’t entirely believe it. Despite all the curious dispatches from Bruges, he sometimes found it hard to imagine how the former Claes was surviving in Guinea. At other times, he was inclined to the view that, surrounded by nubile natives and heat, no healthy young man of that history would ever want to see Europe again.
Meanwhile his gold had arrived, and Julius was dispensing it. Rather successfully, too, if somewhat hampered by strictures from Bruges. Julius had run the Banco di Niccolò in Venice for almost three years: longer than Gregorio had. Now that they were all rich, he didn’t need Gregorio to keep writing from Bruges. He had the instructions Niccolò had written down, and was obeying them. It did no harm to add a little style to the Bank and its manager. It gave the Serenissima confidence.
The impact on Tobias Beventini, physician, was different. ‘Holy Mary Mother of God!’ he exclaimed when Julius walked in ‘Grass time has come, and the silly sheep with it. I thought I’d come to a whorehouse, till Margot corrected me. So have you spent all the money?’
Julius had never allowed himself to be greatly ruffled by Tobie. He said, ‘The money you made for us with Skanderbeg? Yes. I bought a button with it. Where’s Astorre?’
‘Coming later. Margot says Nicholas has solved the world bullion problem single-handed, but is probably dead.’
‘She keeps saying that,’ Julius said. ‘She knows perfectly well we’ve had word of him.’
‘But not from him. And Father Godscalc is crippled?’ When Tobie felt indignant, the bald part of his cranium turned pink. Now he had reached thirty-seven, the halo of fine, colourless hair had receded and there were purses under his round, pale blue eyes. His face, with its rosebud mouth and small nose, was otherwise sensationally smooth.
‘He’s all right,’ Julius said. ‘Living with Gregorio and the others in Spangnaerts Street. Wouldn’t give a Jacques de Lalaing much of a run in the lists, but he can do all a chaplain usually does. The Pope has praised him and fixed him up with a benefice.’
‘I thought the Pope was a Venetian?’ Tobie said. He scratched under his cuirass, which was dented. The matted wool he wore underneath smelled strongly of ointment and horse. ‘And Nicholas was financed by Portugal?’
‘Not now,’ Julius said.