Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [261]
The day after that, walking in front of him, Umar unexpectedly drew breath and sang, alone, the beautiful ‘Deprecamur te, Domine’ that he had sung once before, in the icy snows of the Alps.
He was parched, but the splendour of the great voice was only dimmed. He ended, and the last note sank into the heat, and the camels plodded beside them.
Nicholas said, ‘Now teach me to sing the Koran like that.’
Umar turned his head and considered him. ‘It is to one God,’ Umar said. ‘Listen.’ And he began to sing, very carefully.
Nicholas knew what he sang. Standing troubled in Trebizond, outside the church of the Chrysokephalos, he had tried not to listen to this, the great Akathistos Kontakion, intoned by many voices. He had never heard it since. After a moment, not to seem graceless, he joined his voice to his friend’s.
It was plainsong, its refrains repeated over and over with the subtlest variations. He didn’t notice when Umar ceased to sing, but became aware of his voice stealing in, softly, to merge into a later refrain. Nicholas stopped.
His fellow singer, slowing his pace, fell back to his side. ‘I thought so,’ Umar said. ‘You have a gift being wasted. It goes with numeracy.’
‘What does?’ said Nicholas. Despite himself, he spoke with reserve.
‘You heard that music only once? Let me find something you don’t know.’ Umar half sang the start of an introit, and when Nicholas shook his head, went on singing, beckoning him to join in. It was too high, again. Nicholas tried fifths, was dissatisfied, and began to experiment. He stopped when he found Umar, laughing, shaking him by the shoulder. ‘My voice has gone, and it is time to make camp. You know that is called a descant?’
‘No. Yes, I do. I don’t want this,’ said Nicholas.
The camels had stopped, and so had they. ‘Then you need not have it,’ said Umar, his eyes attentive. ‘Or not in that form. Anyway, the drovers are becoming impatient. Tomorrow, nothing but coarseness.’
After that they did sing together quite a lot, but always bawdy pieces, or love songs, or drinking songs; and as the moment’s aberration receded, he and Umar settled to talking again, and the last days were long. When, standing in a peony dawn, Nicholas saw a diamond wink in the wastes far ahead, he did not break into the silence with the news that the journey was over.
‘Taghaza,’ said their guide, who was not blind. ‘The arsehole of the world, believe me, but where would all you filthy rich people get your money from, but for places like this? Nothing to see but the salt mines, and the depot, and the places where the camel-drivers and muleteers wait about to rob honest people. If you want mules, I have a cousin who’s reasonable.’
‘That,’ said Nicholas, ‘is unexpected.’
It was the end of the peace. By the time they stopped next, Taghaza had grown to the size of a diamond brooch on the sand dunes; a handful of crystal, crushed beneath someone’s heel. When, finally, they halted to share their last meal, its walls were plainly in sight, and its gates could be seen to be open. Specks emerged: specks which became a troop of armed Tuareg on camels, followed by a stream of running black figures. Nicholas rose.
‘They think you have gold,’ said the guide. ‘Or food. Millet, they hope for. They have a few salty wells, but there is no food grown in Taghaza, and no living soul for twenty days in any direction. If no one brings them in food, then they starve.’
‘They look energetic enough,’ Nicholas said. The riders were almost upon them. They were screaming, and waving their swords.
‘These men are mounted, lord. They can get away when they wish. They are the Mesufa Tuareg who own Taghaza. The blacks are the miners who live here. My lord should wave back in greeting.’
‘This is a welcome?’ Nicholas said.
The black, naked figures were still running. Passing them, the camels arrived and, skidding, were made to stand in a circle, while their riders still shouted. The leader, blue-turbaned, commanded his camel to kneel, and descended. Another did likewise: a portly middle-aged