Scales of Gold (55 page)

In isolation. A man from Bruges or Venice or Lisbon, each with its flourishing hinterland, could only wonder that such a thing could be possible: that a crossroads occupied by a dozen races on the edge of the desert could become a centre of wealth; and although never a city-state, could contrive to rule its own destiny.

Nominally, Timbuktu had had several overlords, and once had belonged to the kingdom of Mali. Few princes troubled to visit it often. When Mali weakened, the Tuaregs had seized control once again, but for thirty years had been content to rove the Sahel and the Sahara, leaving the day-to-day labour of ruling to the present excellent Timbuktu-Koy, who paid himself a third of the tax levied from rich traders. The other two-thirds were the privilege of the garrison lord and his army.

They had met this man, the Tuareg Lord Akil. The Timbuktu-Koy, said Umar, was an old man, Muhammed ben Idir, who had been clever enough over many years to keep control of the city, and prevent Akil from interfering on his sudden descents. The Koy’s son and natural successor was a young man with a young man’s impatience who, it could only be hoped, would prove as cunning. They would be offered food and drink after the audience, and might partake, even the ladies. In Timbuktu, Umar said, the segregation of women (except for business) was not insisted on.

The Ma’ Dughu was the palace seen once by Nicholas in his fever. Now, mounting the steps between the palms and the acacias, he knew it was not a dream of his, but of the great King of Mali who, proceeding to Mecca with a fortune of gold sufficient to destabilise the entire Egyptian market, had brought back with him from Cairo the architect Al-Tuwaihnin who had caused a new mosque and a new Alhambra to rise in the desert, its materials brought stone by stone on camelback from the north.

Over the hundred years that had passed, the sun and the climate had distorted the dream. The marble steps of the Ma’ Dughu were broken and warm to the foot, and while the snowy air from the Sierra Nevada was blowing cool through the halls of Granada, the dust of the harmattan blasted the fine onyx pillars in Timbuktu, and scoured the carvings and stucco-work in its corridors, so that the bands of Koranic writing were half-erased by dust and by
light. Light pounced like a lion through the vaults and arcades of the Ma’ Dughu and hung shimmering over courtyards sprawling with flowers where the pools were half full of sand, and creepers drooped from the tiles.

Only the hall of ceremony was cool, for trees shaded its walls, and deeply carved doors admitted the emissaries of Venice and Portugal from the leafy dusk of a garden.

Inside was another dusk, made of gold. Gelis drew in her breath, and even Nicholas stopped for a moment, so that Umar, leading them, checked and looked back. Then they moved between silent men into the chamber, sixty feet long, that the architect Al-Tuwaihnin had built a hundred years before for the King of Mali, and which his master’s successors had been pleased to adorn with the wealth of their city.

The carved ceiling might once have been painted, but it was the soiled gold of its leaf-work that glimmered down on them now, matched by the darkened gold of the plates on the wall, within which candles burned, revealing the hung skins and cracked tiles behind them. Gold touched the running bands of calligraphy – austere Cufic, and sensuous cursive – which, blemished and stuttering, proclaimed
Allah alone is Conqueror
along every wall.

But the massy blaze which drew the eye to the end of the room came from the dais, draped in silks, upon which stood a gold chair occupied by a bearded man, half Negro, half Berber, wearing a great golden headdress and jewelled robe and surrounded by gold-accoutred soldiers, and by younger, unarmed men who might have been his sons. Behind the chair stood two children, black and naked, each stirring the air with a great, long-stemmed plume of white ostrich feathers, and beside it lay three beautiful hounds, wearing bells and collars of gold.

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.

‘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.