The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [281]
Since the time of the Pharaohs, a measure had stood, a subterranean column sunk in the southernmost tip of this island. Its base, a millstone, was set at great depth, lower still than the bed of the river. Enclosing both pillar and base was a spacious rectangular building too magnificent to be considered a well, lined with steps and pierced by three tunnels which led to the river, each at a different height. In the centre of this, its weight on the stone, stood the ancient pillar of measure itself.
The pillar and its encasement were presently six hundred years old. Those who had engraved its deep marks had done so only five hundred years after the Romans, two centuries after Constantinople had ruled. Then, as now, the Nile was the bringer of life.
Because the measure stood largely underground, the golden cap of its cupola seemed no more than mushroom-high among the almond blossom and palms of the island; its drum, inlaid with precious materials, having the form of an elegant pleasure-house. Having prayed, the Sultan stepped through the bronze doors and took his place on the concourse within. There the deep pool brimming about the pale, octagonal pillar, the water-light rippling over the surfaces of glass and ceramic, the sun glowing through the ring of carved windows presented indeed the aspect of a summer kiosk. The gentle flux, always moving, kissed the ancient pillar and rare scents beguiled the senses: musk and rose, violet and hyacinth. Light from above and below illuminated the heavy cross-beam with its invocations, and chased the other inscriptions in stone that banded the pit: Hast thou not seen how that God has sent down out of Heaven water, and in the morning, the earth becomes green?
This the Sultan saw. But soon enough, when planting and harvest were over, the waters would recede, and the Watchers, unlocking the door, would step into a foul and echoing chamber, its depleted pit streaming with slime; the upper exquisite arches of its conduits exposed and empty of life. So, when life returned, one rejoiced.
The Sultan emerged, and the Criers announced that the Abundance of the Nile was confirmed. The people cheered, and the feasting began.
‘You can’t be feeling sick,’ said Jan Adorne, relieving his cousin Katelijne none the less of her uneaten melon. ‘The water’s hardly moving. You could walk from here to the shore on the boats.’ A man, proving the point, came clambering over with two handfuls of smoking kofta on skewers.
‘Leave her alone. It’s the heat,’ said Anselm Adorne. ‘Look, the Mamelukes are beginning to move. They’ll be setting off soon. Katelijne, do you want to see the next part? We could go home, if you like. Perhaps you should rest a little before we set out.’
Jan looked at Lambert. ‘We couldn’t,’ he said. ‘How could we, until it’s all over? She’ll be all right.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ Katelijne echoed. Because she wasn’t eating, she kept her veil down. She sounded grim rather than sick. Jan was annoyed, personally. After the Sultan came out of the Nilometer he had seen David de Salmeton escorted across to the island, and some of the chief Muslim merchants; even the Greek Patriarch of Alexandria, a party of Copts, and the Greeks from Abu Sarga and the church of St Barbara, the favourite saint of the Duchess Margaret’s mother. They were all sitting in the flowery shade beside the Nilometer, enjoying the Sultan’s choice table.
They were so close he could see the Vatachino agent gazing at him between every supercilious bite. Or perhaps he was gazing at de Fleury’s men, who sat passively in their boat among the artisans and their wives, holding something they had bought from the pickle-vendors. Once his father had made to call to them, but had apparently changed his mind. Katelijne ignored them.
On the island, people were stirring at last. The emirs with yellow sashes were those favoured, he had been told, on the sports field. They played horse games with six hundred people. He saw the Greeks get to their feet, and a surge of the pale blue turbans