Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo

by Dorothy Dunnett

  In the hand of Muhammed ben Idir, Timbuktu-Koy, governing prince of the city, reposed a sceptre of the weight of ten pounds of pure gold, and beside him stood tables laden with articles of his treasury: bowls and ewers and plates, cups and vases, all of the same metal. To one side lay a saddle, studded with rubies, and a set of horse-harness, also worked, and recently, in brilliant gold. The styles suggested smiths from every quarter of Europe and the East, and the glow of it was like the glow in the clouds over Murano. Umar led the way forward.

  But for a space in the centre, the chamber was full. All were men: dark-skinned Negroes or Berbers seated in silence on cushions; some of them dressed and turbaned in white, some in turbans of extravagant silks and sumptuous coats of the kind Nicholas had been given. They looked at the Europeans as they passed as they might have looked at a consignment of salt.

  Envoys and those making supplication approached the Timbuktu-Koy on their faces, and pouring dust over their heads. Nicholas walked forward and knelt, his neck bowed. At his side, Umar prostrated himself and then stood. The Timbuktu-Koy addressed him in Arabic, and Umar answered. At a sign, Nicholas rose, and bore the Governor’s peering scrutiny with resolute calmness. The Koy was an old man, and in his lined face could be seen both the broad bones of the Negro, and the liquid eyes and prominent nose of the Sanhaja Berber. Muhammed ben Idir had ruled Timbuktu for many years.

  ‘Approach him,’ said Umar. ‘You may cause your gifts to be brought in.’

  Already, walking up to the dais, Nicholas had taken note that Akil was there, the enemy who had tried to seize them three days ago. Beside him was a group of his henchmen, but none of them seemed to bear arms. He looked, without seeming to look, at the merchant princes, and wondered which of them, if any, were among those who had intercepted Jorge da Silves’ men at the silent trading, and had come back disappointed because the Wangara natives had killed Doria and fled with their gold.

  The wealthy patricians sat together by household, their kinship obvious in the colour and cast of their faces, in a place where the tilt of an eye or the quality of a tuft of hair declared everything. The parochial leaders, the scholars, the marabouts, the judges held together as well, in mellow patches of white. He saw Saloum among them. The dark-skinned man nearest the dais must, he thought, be the Katib Musa, the religious leader and imam of the Sankore Mosque. Umar had impressed the name on him, he didn’t know why. Heat and heavy scents eddied about him; his head swam for a moment, and then steadied. The servants entered, bearing his gifts to the Koy.

  Nicholas had lost virtually all the goods he possessed on the Gambia. To placate the Timbuktu-Koy he had nothing to offer but a single small box saved, with three larger, from a hidden bulwark of the San Niccolò, and a felt satchel, much worn and stained, containing a heavy object given him that morning by Umar. He knew what was in it. When he remonstrated, Umar had only said, ‘It is just.’

  To a ruler, the offerings were insultingly small. The soldiers around Akil looked at one another and smiled. Nicholas took the satchel and, approaching the dais, held it up in both hands to the old man. One of the sons lifted it; a stout olive-skinned youth a little older than Diniz but younger than himself. He held it with distaste, as if about to cast it on the ground.

  The imam said, ‘My lord, wait.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘It has travelled far, your packet. What is its nature?’

  ‘It is a manuscript,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Ah!’ said the imam. ‘And, if it is permitted to ask, in what tongue?’

  ‘It is written in the Arabic language,’ said Nicholas, ‘but is of great age. It would delight me if the Timbuktu-Koy himself would receive it.’

  ‘My lord Umar is about to present it on your behalf,’ the imam said. ‘Lord, the trader Niccolò gives you a book. Your son will open the cords.’

  The youth had big hands, not overclean, and even as he ripped open the ties the half-rotted material gave way so that the object within would have fallen, had the Timbuktu-Koy not caught it and laid it on his knees. It consisted of many sheets of thick vellum, covered with elegant writing in several colours. The last time Nicholas had seen it was in his cargo at Kerasous. He had been told a dealer had bought it in Venice. He hadn’t known until now that the dealer was acting for Loppe.

  The youth Umar said, ‘You give short measure! Where is the cover? The jewels? The boards?’

  ‘No, no,’ said his father. ‘Here is surely something of worth. Katib Musa?’

  The imam joined him quietly on the dais. He said, ‘I have never seen this, although I have heard of it. It is a scribe’s copy, a Greek scribe who was familiar with Arabic. It is a copy made ready for translation, but perhaps never transcribed. Would I be right?’ He looked at Nicholas.

  Nicholas said, ‘It came from Baghdad to the Empire of Trebizond, before it fell.’

  ‘It will be the jewel of my lord’s library,’ said the Katib Musa.

  ‘And this?’ said the Timbuktu-Koy in his courteous way, indicating the box that still remained.

  Nicholas opened it. The two pairs of lenses glimmered from their silk beds, and struck with light the frowning faces of the Timbuktu-Koy and his heir. Nicholas said, ‘If my lord will permit,’ and, lifting a frame, set the box down and, in turn, mounted the dais. He said, ‘Give me leave,’ and touched the Koy’s face and retreated.

  The Timbuktu-Koy, puzzled, turned his head, and where his eyes had been, there flashed circles like mirrors. Throughout the hall, men drew in their breath. The imam Musa said, ‘My lord, the Venetian has given you sight. Lower your eyes to the book.’

  The great turbaned head bent, heavy on its aged stem. A horn-tipped finger touched the page, and then travelled down it. Muhammed ben Idir said, ‘I am reading the words of Abu Abdallah ben Abderrahim of Granada, and my heart is filled with joy. How can such a treasure as this come from Trebizond?’

  ‘Through trading,’ Nicholas said. ‘And a trader has brought it back. I would stay in your city, and exchange my wealth for your wealth, so that all may prosper. Do I have your permission?’

  The old man lifted the spectacles from his nose and looked at them closely. His hand shook. He said, ‘You have come for gold. How will you pay?’

  ‘I am fortunate,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have many shells.’ He spoke with confidence. He had not so many, but the Timbuktu-Koy didn’t know that.

  ‘And manuscripts?’ said the old man.

  ‘Certainly. They will be sent for, as soon as my lord makes his wishes known,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘But you have no more of these,’ said Muhammed ben Idir, touching the heavy rims under his hand.

  ‘That,’ said Nicholas, ‘is what I have brought to offer for gold. But first, I should have to see the extent and quality, forgive me, of your supplies. Gold is not hard to find, but few of the princes of Europe have ornaments such as these. They are made in secret, and are bought by great men, so that others may know they are great. Also, they buy so that their scribes can read and copy and paint, and the words of holy men may be multiplied.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Timbuktu-Koy. ‘I am attracted by your proposition. But the city owns many traders, and on a matter as vital as this, I must seek their advice. I would have approach the lord Akil ag Malwal, the lord And-Agh-Muhammed al-Kabir, the sons of Muhammed Aqit and the imam Katib Musa. What say you? We, by tradition, trade across the great desert with the peoples of the north. Here is a trader who comes to us from the west, from the sea. Behind him may come many more. He wishes gold. What is your answer?’

  The men he called were those most richly dressed, except for the imam, and the Tuareg And-Agh-Muhammed al-Kabir was as aged as himself. It was he who said, ‘I trade with Florence and Venice. I do not wish to lose my trade to strangers from Portugal. Let them pick up the dross from the coast.’ Round his neck, on a mismatched chain made of gold, he was wearing a short silver whistle.

  ‘It is my thought,’ said Akil the commander. He had sound teeth, often displayed.
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  ‘I agree,’ said a young man of the Aqit family. ‘But we pay at present whatever the Venetians or Florentines ask. Would they not offer more, if they knew they had rivals?’

  ‘What!’ said Akil the commander. ‘Would you place wealth above the souls of your fellows? These men are infidels, and that man is their priest. But for Umar, they would have extorted from us the secret source of the gold, and returned with mighty hordes to wrest it from us. You know this.’

  ‘Forgive me, but I, Umar, do not know this,’ said Umar-Lopez. ‘There were Europeans so desirous, but they are dead.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said And-Agh-Muhammed, and, lifting the chain from his neck, tossed both it and its appendage to the ground. ‘Most of them are dead: my own family killed them.’

  ‘Most?’ said Nicholas. In place of carpets, the floor had been strewn with fine leopard skins. Jorge’s whistle glinted through dusty fur, the words San Niccolò plain on its side.

  The old man looked at him. ‘Were they of moment? One escaped, a young boy.’

  ‘They were of no moment,’ Nicholas said.

  Umar glanced at him, and away. He said, ‘The lord Niccolò had no wish but to trade with you. He will tell you whether or not hordes will follow him. I do not think it likely.’

  ‘Umar is right,’ Nicholas said. ‘The journey from the sea has cost many lives, and few if any will want to follow us. I tell you this as a Fleming and a Venetian, although my ship and part of my cargo are owed to Portugal. I have no wish to destroy whatever bargains you have made with other nations. Nor do we wish to do more than honour your faith. It is not our purpose to subvert your peoples.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said the imam Katib Musa. ‘It is not the news I have heard from the Gambia. Your holy man has not confined himself to addressing those of his own faith.’

  Godscalc lifted his head. Shaved, his chin showed corpse-grey below the tan on his cheeks. Umar said, ‘He has remonstrated, as you have, with witch doctors, and with as little success. It is true, he competes for the souls of the heathen. Do you fear the power of his preaching?’ He was smiling.

  The imam smiled in return: at him, and then at the chaplain. ‘I respect him,’ he said, ‘but I do not fear him. Until he learns our language, perhaps.’

  ‘Then, as to the gold?’ the old man enquired.

  It was the man of the Aqit family this time who replied. ‘My lord knows that there is a little in store. In three weeks or four, the salt caravan will arrive, and its goods pass to the market. In four weeks after that, the gold for which it has been exchanged will come back. There will be a great deal. I have no objection to the white traders paying for part of it.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said the Timbuktu-Koy. He, too, was smiling. The smile faded. ‘It does not please you, I see.’

  ‘Did I hesitate?’ Nicholas said. ‘Only because then we cannot leave in the spring, but must beg your indulgence to establish our party here until autumn. If such a thing can be done, you see me happy.’

  ‘Naturally it can be done,’ the Timbuktu-Koy said. ‘Yes, my lord Akil? Agreed, my lord And-Agh and those of Aqit? Katib Musa?’

  ‘You have my agreement,’ said the Katib Musa. ‘Although it seems to me that, did you desire it, you could take the gold that is here and sail before the rains come. But rumour says that you have plans to journey east?’

  ‘We are strangers, and curious,’ Nicholas said, ‘but we mean no harm to anyone. As to the gold, we do not know whether to wait for the greater portion or not, but consider it wise, having come so far, not to hasten home unless we hear of a reason. And positioned where we are, that is unlikely.’

  ‘Positioned where you are?’ said one of the young men of the Aqits. ‘Are we off the edge of the world? A caravan takes only six months to come and go from the Maghgreb. A message can travel from Fez to Timbuktu in two months. If you have an agent, you will have news from him.’

  Nicholas stood very still. ‘Yes, I have an agent,’ he said. ‘A man in Madeira. If he writes, can I reply?’

  The older man answered. ‘You may reply,’ said And-Agh-Muhammed, ‘but it is unlikely that the answer will reach him. From the south to the north are many hazards. Lord, are these matters settled? I wish to make water.’

  ‘They are settled,’ said the Timbuktu-Koy. ‘We propose to retire. We thank the imam and judges, and invite our guests and fellow-merchants to join us.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Nicholas said to And-Agh-Muhammed in a comradely way. ‘If you’ll show me the custom. Where are the ladies?’

  ‘They have gone to the harem,’ Umar said. ‘And-Agh-Muhammed will take you when you are both ready. I am glad that you have what you wanted.’

  Nicholas stood still. ‘You meant the book for someone. Who?’

  ‘The imam,’ Umar said. ‘He knows, and does not regret it. Nicholas, it is a time for rejoicing.’

  ‘Now it is,’ Nicholas said. ‘And you have made it so.’

  Gelis van Borselen, it had to be said, had withdrawn from the chamber under protest: it was with a great deal of displeasure that she found herself, with Bel, in another courtyard while the vital conference was still under way, and before she knew what was happening to Nicholas.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ had said Bel obtusely. ‘Wabbit but fine. He’s got over these fevers before.’ Gelis, scowling, had marched after the large black men who had obstinately diverted them.

  The courtyard they finally reached was in fact delightful, and the corridors of lustreware azulejos that led to it were better swept than the rest, and carried the word Baraka, divine grace, repeated over and over, for that, explained the hostess who welcomed them, was the motto, the soul of the city.

  There seemed to be many hostesses. That is, the rooms adjoining the courtyard were full of women, from young children to crones bundled in veiling. All but the latter were nude, and most were beautiful. Among them was the young Negress who had so taken Diniz, the first day they had moved through the city.

  The girl had stopped to speak to a man. It was one of those men who had led them here. With a start, Gelis saw there were many men present. She made a discovery. She said, ‘Bel, they’re eunuchs.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bel.

  ‘So we’re in a harem,’ Gelis said doubtfully.

  ‘Right,’ said Bel again. ‘And they want ye to take off your gown.’

  ‘Why?’ said Gelis.

  ‘So that you’ll be comfortable,’ said Bel of Cuthilgurdy. ‘And I don’t see why not, you’ve a nice shape to ye. I’m exempt. They let ye off if you’re old or you’re married.’

  ‘But they’re Muslims,’ Gelis said. ‘Muslims go about veiled, except to their fathers and husbands.’

  ‘The great thing about Islam,’ Bel remarked, ‘is that it’s adaptable. It got so flexible in Malian days that all the girls stayed the way they were born, including the King’s own unmarried daughters. Ye could say the Maghsharen are a little less lax, but they’re fairly easy. People say it makes for civilised conduct. If there’s cake on the plate all the time, ye don’t feel the urge to devour it. Are ye going to strip?’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Gelis said. Someone was lifting the veil from her hair. She remembered the Senagana and the King’s wives plucking at Nicholas, and wanted to laugh. She remembered what she had learned about Nicholas and didn’t want to laugh after all. They were unfastening her gown.

  ‘Umar told me,’ Bel said. ‘It’s all right. The women don’t unless asked, and the men canna. They want to know if you’d like a steam bath. They’ve got a few jets to work.’

  All the fountains were rusted, Gelis had noticed. She said, ‘I’ll go in if you do.’

  Nudity had never concerned her. The waters were scented and warm; she emerged from them refreshed, and let them lead her into the garden, where the silken awnings floated yellow as honey, and divans had been set among the rioting flowers and beside the long, lilied pool with its impotent sprays. She lay on her side, her hair coiled like wax ov
er her shoulders, and let her fingers fall among flowers. A child wafted a fan, and she shivered with pleasure.

  They were all as she was, except for those who, like Bel, had bathed fully dressed and now lay damp and idle under the silk. One of the young Negresses, smiling, said, ‘Here are sweetmeats, and men. Praise Allah, that life should be wondrous.’

  Gelis looked where she pointed. Slaves had entered, bearing platters enough for a feast. And it was true, there were men, standing in light, lustrous silks under the honeycomb arch at the end of the pool. Men, fully dressed, were drifting into the courtyard. Turbaned men, old men and young, with black skins and brown. Men with caps and white skins glazed by the sun, among whom were Diniz, and Godscalc, and Nicholas vander Poele. Not eunuchs, but men. Gelis said, ‘You knew this would happen.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Bel of Cuthilgurdy. ‘He’s a cantankerous, argle-barglous young man, but sometimes he’s afraid. He may as well see there is nothing to be afraid of. Or is your belly so precious, that ye would like my wet cloak to conceal it?’

  ‘No,’ said Gelis. But the scents pulsed from her skin as if her heart were a pestle compounding them.

  Diniz noticed her first. To begin with, Nicholas saw only the Negresses, lithe as eels on the cushions, their voices merry as raindrops on bronze. Then he thought he saw, long-limbed and languid and pale, the luminous form of Primaflora as he had seen her, white against black, in the noseless woman’s palace in Cyprus; after she had seduced and betrayed him, over and over. Primaflora, his wife, whom he had taken to save Katelina and who, perhaps, could not therefore be blamed.

  Then he saw it was not his wife – his second, his temporary wife – or Katelina; and that Katelina’s sister was not like Katelina at all.