Spice and the Devil's Cave (5 page)

What
would
the Girl's voice sound like? Abel pondered. If Ruth hadn't suggested it, he would never have thought of such a thing, but now he began to feel a growing curiosity to hear it. Perhaps if he approached her, spoke to her very gently .. . But so far she had persistently clung to Ruth, and had shrunk from him.

As he worked, his mind alternated between ways to persuade her to speak, and the mystery that so completely wrapped her. There was a last possibility that Ferdinand might have got hold of some clue.

But when Ferdinand finally appeared, late that afternoon, Abel saw at a glance that he had been no more successful than himself.

“That girl must have got here on wings,” the boy declared, “for I was down at the docks first thing the morning after, and there wasn't a sign of anything like a slave cargo. I made sure of that: I got the name of every craft that had tied up here, where she hailed from, what stops she'd made, and what she was carrying. After that I inquired at the inns to find out who'd come in to town in the last day or two.”

Abel nodded. “Just what I did.”

“I saw something odd while I was hunting a clue down on the quay,” Ferdinand continued. “Some merchant had just found a shortage in a consignment that a Venetian galleon had brought, and he was cursing Venice and Venetians for cheats and thieves, when, from behind him, up comes a young fellow with blood in his eye; says he's a Venetian and wants to know what the man means.” Ferdinand stopped to laugh at the recollection. “In another minute I expected to see fists fly, when, all of a sudden, I noticed the young chap smile to himself, and pull out his wallet. ‘I'll stand your loss, sir,' says he, and then there was some more about his being a friend of the captain who was responsible for the cargo. Well, you should have seen the merchant back water: money was nothing to him – it was just the ‘principle' of the thing!”

“Nevertheless, he took the money?” Abel drily insinuated.

“Oh, of course! And then he couldn't do enough for the Venetian chap, told him where to find an inn, and so on.”

“That young man has brains, Abel admiringly observed.

Ferdinand nodded. “At first glance you'd think him a bit of a dandy, from his pointed shoes and the gold button on his cap and the fur collar of his cloak, but when you saw the swell of his chest under his doublet, and the buttons of his hose all strained out at the calf . . . And he's plucky, too. I met him afterward – in The Green Window, you know – and he told me he had left Venice because he believed Portugal was going to have it all her way with trade.”

“Oh, so?” Abel exclaimed, with fresh interest. “That's the kind of citizens we need. Bring him here some time, Ferdinand. Did you get his name?”

“Nicolo Conti. Of course he's anxious to meet Master Diaz.”

“Conti . . . Conti . . .” Abel mused aloud. “I wonder if he's any connection of the Venetian traveller of that name.”

They returned to the search for the Girl, and Ferdinand admitted he was at a standstill.

“If she would only talk!” said Abel.

The boy laughed. “One of these days she will – being a woman!”

“But suppose she doesn't know our language?”

Ruth came into the room in time to catch Abel's last words. “If she wanted to tell us about herself, she'd find a way even if it was only by signs. My guess is that she's hiding from someone who's so crazed her with fear that she doesn't dare tell anything to anyone.”

“There's no doubt that she was trying to hide, and meant to disguise herself,” Ferdinand agreed. “I took her for a boy, myself, until I saw her long hair.”

Ruth nodded reminiscently. “Those eyes of hers are just the same as they were that first night – they stare and stare into space as if they were looking at ghosts. But the rest of her is different, I can tell you, in the new dress I've made her! You know, Ferdinand”– she became confidential –“I hunted the shops over till I found the right stuff, all shim-mery and gauzy, like . . . like moonlight on a misty night … or like those lilies, out there at dusk.”

Abel shot an astonished glance at her. Was Ruth, the practical, turning poet? Was there, after all, a love of beauty, hidden deep within her, that had welled at last to this sweet outlet?

“Anyway,” Ruth pursued, “she's as lovely a sight as you'll ever see!”

Ferdinand's face lighted with sudden mischief. “Let me see her, Aunt Ruth – I'll get her to talk!” He sprang up and pretended to make a dash for the next room.

“You young jackanapes!” She caught his sleeve and pulled him back. “You'd frighten her so, she'd never open her lips!”

“Then I'll be going.” He pretended to sulk, while he winked at Abel behind Ruth's back.

“She'll talk,” Abel comfortably observed, “when she feels at home with us – feels that she's safe.” But to himself he wondered what would have happened if they had taken the lad at his word and had let him see the Girl!

Ferdinand lingered in the door for a last word. “Your cousin, Master Abraham Zakuto, said he and Gama would be up here tonight.”

“Good!” Abel was genuinely pleased. “I haven't seen Abraham in some time. How is he?”

“Oh, Manoel and he are thick as thieves – Manoel's always consulting him.”

“I'm glad Gama's coming – if for nothing more than to lend Abraham an arm up the stairs. On any account, though, I'm glad – I think a great deal of Vasco.”

“I'd like him more,” Ferdinand rejoined, “if he were keener on exploration – seeing as his father was to have commanded an expedition to India, if he hadn't died. Another thing: Gama's as stubborn as a mule – never gives you an inch in an argument.”

Abel laughed indulgently. “Why should he, if the argument's worth anything? No – I like him for standing his ground.”

“Well – have it your way,” the boy retorted. “But when I'm his age,” he shot back from the gate, “you won't see me content to dawdle around Manoel. Not while there's seas to sail and lands to be found!”

From the door of the workshop Abel's eyes affectionately followed him. “What should we do, Ruth, without that lad running in and out all the time?”

She came and stood beside him. “The saucy rascal!” she laughed. “Talking about the King and his court with no more respect than if they were common human beings!”

Abel chuckled. “Perhaps you'd do no better if you lived with Manoel day in and day out as Ferdinand does!”

She gave him a searching look: “I sometimes think, Abel, you haven't much of an opinion of Manoel.”

“He seems to be treating Abraham as well as we could wish,” he replied, evasively.

“You hit it just right,” she declared, “when you thought of getting Abraham in as court astronomer.”

“I doubt if I could have manoeuvred it without the help of Manoels physician. It's lucky he and I are old friends, for Manoel will do anything he advises.”

“Poor old Abraham!” Ruth sighed. “Thank God he's sure of peace and safety here as long as he lives.” A look of suffering crossed her face, and Abel knew she was thinking of those days of horror when they had seen thousands of Jews, driven from Spain and fleeing into Lisbon, starved, crazed creatures ravaged by disease. It had been months before Ruth could nurse Abraham back to even a semblance of himself.

“There's something unforgivable in persecuting an intellect like Abraham's, let alone his body,” Abel sombrely mused.

“I can't bear to think of what our people have gone through,” Ruth burst out. “It was wicked – wicked! Oh, Abel –” she turned troubled eyes to him –“what if King Manoel should drive us out of Portugal?”

“He won't, my dear, he won't.”

She murmured something about supper, and left the room. Slowly Abel's eyes roved between workshop and court. Suppose that which had happened to his people in Spain should suddenly happen here, and he should be torn from this house, where he had brought Ruth a bride; from this court that together they had planted and set out.

He felt his heart contract; then, what a fool he was to borrow trouble, he sharply told himself, for hadn't Manoel always been friendly with his Jewish subjects? Hadn't he sought their advice and openly laid the country's commercial prosperity to the Jewish financiers? No, Manoel wasn't the man wantonly to drain his kingdom of the very sources of that prosperity. Spain had done exactly that, when she had driven out her Jews and Moors; but then, Ferdinand and Isabella were religion-mad, and Manoel wasn't, at least, that.

Rage surged through Abel at the thought of the paupered exiles, which Spain had made of her most useful subjects. Paupered, they who had made Spain rich! Homeless, who had made it famous for its learning and its scholars! It was hard to think calmly of them as wanderers, as cold and hungry, these people who had been so open-handed to encourage their country's progress. No one had had to urge them, he recalled, to give – and generously – to Columbus' first expedition. His face hardened as he remembered how the second expedition – after their expulsion-had been financed: from confiscated Jewish estates!

He became aware of a growing coolness in the air. The sun had set, and dusk was falling, while he had let his thoughts run away with him! He turned from the doorway, and began to put away his work. Shavings and sawdust were no matter, but a tool out of place-never!

It was dark enough now to light the great lamp, but Abel decided to wait till after supper. He liked to sit, quietly, by himself, in the half light, his chair tilted against the wall.

He found himself thinking of that strange night that the Girl had come. He was gazing out into the court, as he was now, he recalled, when, like a phantom, she had flashed on the square of darkness framed in the doorway.

It had always pleased his fancy that it was the workshop where she had first appeared-where the talk was always of the undiscovered and of the unknown. In a curious, mystical sense she seemed to fit the spirit of this room. She, who was as baffling as anything that had ever been discussed around the big table and over the maps! If only, Abel whimsically mused, some chart might be found to reveal her mystery! By heaven – as that idea suggested another –
that
might work!

His tilted chair came down on all fours. He would send a message to Ferdinand by Abraham or Gama.

Yes,
that
might work!

¹
A magnetized piece of iron floating on a raft of cork or reeds in a bowl of water,

²
Prince Henry of Portugal called The Great Navigator.

CHAPTER 4

The Two Abels

B
Y
keeping in sight its row of windows, Nicolo found the hillside house that Pedro had pointed out. Though the person who answered his knock acknowledged himself to be Abel Zakuto, Nicolo looked doubtfully at him. This spare, youngish-looking man with sawdust clinging to his breeches and to the turned-back sleeves of his plain round jacket, was like no banker Nicolo had ever known; nor was the whimsical smile lurking in the boyish eyes that were so oddly at variance with the high forehead. This was no banker, said Nicolo to himself – never in the world; more like a skilled artisan, or possibly a scholar, he looked, with that black silk skull cap.

“I've often heard, sir, at home, in Venice, of Abel Zakuto, the Lisbon financier,” Nicolo began, “but here I was given to understand that it was not banks you were interested in, but navigation – exploration – something of the kind. Are there two Abel Zakutos? And have I come to the wrong one?”

“There
are
two Abel Zakutos,” laughed Abel, “but they both live”– he tapped his forehead –“under the same roof. One of them is a banker – you're right about him. The other is a conscienceless fellow who steals most of the banker's time to do things that don't bring in money! But come in!” He pulled down his sleeves, seized Nicolo's arm and guided him toward the workshop. “You say you're from Venice? I wonder if you aren't the Nicolo Conti of whom Ferdinand was telling me?”

“Ferdinand Magellan, you mean? You know him?”

“Oh, for years; he's always running in and out.”

Nicolo took the chair that Abel pushed toward him, while he glanced about. Tools . . . compasses . . . gay little ship models … a work bench littered with fine shavings. Yes, it fitted Pedro's comments about Abel: “A kind of a sailor-fellow on land; always pottering with navigation instruments.”

“I understand from Ferdinand,” Abel bantered, “that your first taste of Lisbon wasn't too pleasant!”

“Oh – that little matter of the sugar barrel? Well, it did seem foolish of that merchant to get heated about a few pounds of sugar, when we'd successfully brought him some thousands of pounds.”

“Did you make any stops on your way?” Abel asked.

“No; that is –” Nicolo smiled at the recollection of the pirates –“no official ones!”