Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [264]
He was sorrier than he had expected to part with Jilali. He had grown used to the clamour of his voice and the pressing intimacy of his manner. It concealed a shrewd brain, a lively eye, and great courage. Whatever the hardship, Jilali ibn Said had surmounted it with immense noise and equal efficiency; the sight of his solid body and florid features was enough to make the most recalcitrant muleteer quail.
He waved aside expressions of thanks, shaking Nicholas by the hand over and over, and kissing him frequently on the cheeks. ‘Were it another season, I could have taken you to my home at Tlemcen! But here is Mustapha, my young brother, who will accompany you. Unless you will not reconsider, and remain for a while? The houses of pleasure are all remarkable. There is nothing you cannot have. And in three weeks, the date harvest will begin. Ah! Sijilmasa when the fat, fresh, luscious dates come to the table!’
Nicholas refused, but with gratitude. After the desert, the onslaught of noise and colour, not to mention the sudden accession of food, made him feel giddy. He also felt a trifle lost, because the caravan family he had lived with so long had dispersed, albeit with protestations of undying affection.
The new convoy was shorter, and led by Jilali’s plump bearded brother. With some prodding, it managed to leave Sijilmasa in under three days. Mustapha, as it proved, had all Jilali’s enthusiasm, if not quite his efficiency. He also had many friends. They stopped a great deal, pacing up the lush river valley with its ardent hills. In due course, Mustapha hurried them across wastes of stone and swathes of soft, coloured sand; he had more friends in the villages tucked behind rocks, or in unexpected clumps of palm trees: he was energetic and talkative even when ascending the massif, the plateau that would take them to Tlemcen. There, as they camped, Nicholas said, ‘It is nearly the end of September.’
‘You will be in Oran by October,’ Mustapha said. ‘But you will stay with me in Tlemcen first? Oh, the wonders of Tlemcen! You have never seen such a palace, such a mosque. As great as Granada, as Córdoba, with their pillars and pools, their filigree and their cedarwood, their arches like icicles, carved into hollows like honeycombs. I tell you –’
‘I can imagine,’ said Nicholas. ‘But alas, I should hasten to Oran. I may have to wait long for a ship.’
Mustapha ibn Said plucked his beard. He said, ‘They call if they have a cargo, but not often. It depends where my lord wishes to go. Is my lord going to Fleming-land?’
‘Flanders? Anywhere,’ Nicholas said. ‘Flanders, Florence, Venice, Ragusa. I shall take the first ship that comes.’
He didn’t know when he had reached that decision: to make no decision. To leave his destination to fate.
It was October when they came to Oran, and plodded through the great landward gates and into the caravanserai near them. Mustapha paid the caravan dues and found a place for their beasts and their goods and said, ‘I have friends who run a good tavern. If they have room, it will be better than this. And not expensive, even if you have to stay through the winter. Come and see them. Or perhaps you are tired?’
‘A little,’ said Nicholas. ‘Please go and see your friends, Mustapha. We can talk when you return.’
He was tired, but not more than they all were. It was the sight of the city itself that had oppressed him. The forest of minarets within the stout walls; the descending clutter of innumerable houses; the clamour of people. He had braced himself for it at Tlemcen, and he wished to prepare for it now, before plunging into it.
Besides, it was the end of a journey. The end of a very great journey, such as he had never undertaken before, in any land. He had left Venice on a summer’s day three years ago, beset by angry enemies. He had sailed as an army would sail, to seize its objectives. He had proposed to confront his doubting family, and force