Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [260]
They had always communicated, Umar and he, in a practical sense. The planning of the future of Timbuktu was only an extension, in a way, of the planning of the plantations at Kouklia. But Umar was also a man widely read and well taught, who had used the years of isolation and exile to ponder in silence. In the schools of Timbuktu, he and Umar had both spoken, and been heard, and continued in private the entrancing deliberations in which they had taken part. Their relationship changed, but their discussions, except for once, had remained general.
On the long transit to Taghaza, walking under the Andalusian vaults of the stars, there was time to talk again now and then – and a need. The clarity of the desert demanded something as rare; demanded truth, vision, honesty of those who walked in it. But it was less possible, now, to divorce their thinking from what they now knew of each other. And when Umar, with hesitation, began one day to speak of his forebears and family, and then, slowly, of his capture and the years that came after, Nicholas was aware that he had finally been given the gift that the other had always withheld.
‘Should I regret it?’ Umar said. ‘It humbled me. I had thought myself learned, of illustrious race, one of the chosen. Had I not been captured, I might have travelled as far, but in Muslim countries, and treated always with respect. As it was, I was made to learn many things, and came to understand more than one religion. We have talked of all this. You challenged Father Godscalc to defend his beliefs, and reinforce yours, but I should guess that you were careful not to disturb him. He needs what he has.’
‘You had no crutch,’ Nicholas said.
‘Yes, I had,’ Umar said. ‘The one I have tried to give you. Understanding, and vision, and peace with oneself. You have to win that war, Nicholas, before you can win any other.’
‘But you would not let me stay,’ Nicholas said.
‘I should not be so bad a friend,’ Umar answered. ‘It is enough to have had what we had. Your departure is the last proof of its worth.’
In return, Nicholas had opened some of his heart. Not more: he could never do that. Never, in any talk that they had, did he speak directly of Gelis and the hopes that he had, or the deepest and most terrible fears. As for his past, Famagusta was still too near, and too deadly. But his wife – his first marriage – that, suddenly he found he could talk of; and the careless ridiculous pleasures of boyhood in the Charetty dyeyard, with Marian de Charetty’s despotic benevolence making everything secure.
‘And then you grew, and she loved you.’ said Umar. After a moment, he said, ‘I did not mean to hurt you. But she gave you so much: you cannot regret it. You must not blame yourself. They are very close, the love of a mistress and the love of a mother. She had both to give, and you needed both.’
It was strange to receive that absolution from Umar, and no one else. As those days drew to an end, Nicholas was conscious of a great relief, as great as the bond he felt with Umar, and a thankfulness as cleansing as the light and peace of the desert. He thought, whatever came, he would be prepared for it.
For the last week of the journey, when the storms seemed to have ceased, and their provisions were fair, and there was only the heat of Hell itself to contend with, the new drovers, too, expressed their relief in the form of languid horseplay and contentious gambling, and burst frequently into long, ululating song as they rode or they walked. The peace of the desert disappeared.
Nicholas said, ‘Can we do as well as that?’ and, heaving a load of peppery air into his lungs, launched into a ditty from Bruges blasphemous enough to earn him a thunderbolt.
Umar joined in. Umar said, ‘I know one worse than that,’ and produced it. They sang a third one together. At the end, Umar said, ‘You did that in fifths.’
‘I know. You’ve too big a range for me,’ Nicholas said. He thought it was obvious. At the next halt, they tried a few more, and then had to stop because their voices