He was seated, his knees apart, his crucifix in his hands. ‘To sweeten my temper,’ he said. His large-boned face with its wiry black hair was sallow.
‘The only thing wrong with your temper,’ said Bel of Cuthilgurdy, ‘is that ye should have lost it with that one long ago. Ye let him play with you. Ye let him play with you because you’re convinced he’s a prodigy. He’s twenty years younger than you are.’
‘I am aware of it,’ Godscalc said. ‘And has taken no vows.’ He paused. He said, ‘He knows I envy him.’ He stopped again, and said, ‘My only hope is that I think – sometimes I know – that he envies me.’
There was a silence. Bel said, ‘None the less, ye had the right of it, surely. There were youngsters to think of. And fornication is not a general rule of the Church, even though it seemed natural enough to the King, and he may take more kindly to the Trinity for finding us so heartily equipped with good taste. Forbye, ye couldna have stopped it, even if ye’d had a heid for their drink.’
He groaned, and she pushed the cup of herbs towards him until he lifted it and drank and then set it down and covered his face. She wondered if he had seen Diniz that morning, and assessed his state of sparkling, expansive delight. She wondered if he had noted Lázaro’s manner greeting Filipe: not conceited or scathing but comradely, like that of the other seamen; like a man with nothing to prove. She wondered if he had heard the obscenity with which Filipe had rebuffed his former idol. She understood, as well as Godscalc, the terrible dilemma inseparable from any man’s dealings with Nicholas. She said, ‘How did he take it?’
‘He was respectful,’ Godscalc said. ‘And made no excuses. So now I find myself making them for him. It was a travesty of a mission: his part, if you like, was at least honest.’
‘But ye hope for more from Bati Mansa the pagan? Father,’ said Bel, ‘ye can’t need me to remind you. This particular man may loathe Christians. The Fortado will have put him against us. And if ye mean to take another party on land, you’ll have to peg down the crew who missed the rut at Tendeba, or they’ll storm ashore and surprise the King’s wives whether they’re tendered or not. Is it worth it?’
‘Nicholas has agreed,’ Godscalc said. ‘And Jorge da Silves.’
‘No doubt. And that ends it?’ said Bel.
‘No,’ said Godscalc. ‘I have decided, and that ends it. And this time, I want you and the demoiselle to come with us. Unless she is too shaken.’
Bel reflected. She said, ‘No. Ye have to remember she’s not your sheltered flower, and has van Borselen cousins. Paul’s a devil already, and Charles showed his prowess well enough at Louvain before he died at thirteen. Nothing much can shock Gelis.’
She stopped too late: he was already looking at her with dismay and clutching his glum medicinal cup. She regretted, in her practical fashion, that she hadn’t simply brought him another flask of palm wine.
Godscalc of Cologne was a priest who did not understand women, whereas Nicholas of nowhere in particular was a banker who did. His hilarious reception by Gelis had been fully appreciated for exactly what it was. For a space – a timeless portion of a strange African dawn – Nicholas had just been a man, to be teased and tolerated and even liked for his weaknesses. Of course, he had not come near her since, and she had not laughed with or at him.
In general, the escapade at Tendeba didn’t prove as divisive as the wise among them might have feared. Although his elders from the Ciaretti might chaff red-haired Vito, neither Melchiorre the second mate nor his fellow seaman Manoli resented his luck. The two helmsmen were content to jeer at Fernão’s account of his conquests while Vicente, the short-tempered comito, was neither laughed at nor envied. Diniz, in between cherishing his three remaining lean horses, preserved – hugged to himself – a well-bred Scotto-Portuguese reticence. He did, however, regard Nicholas with a new light in his eye.
The only unrest noted by Bel, aiding Godscalc with the sick men below, was provoked by the genial (and clinically improbable) recitals of Luis, which his fellow seamen both demanded and heard in a mood of lubricious jealousy. And above deck, observed by Gelis herself, there hung a constraint which, even through the vivid terrors and delights of the voyage, could be traced to the master, and to his relations with Nicholas and the three Negroes, but more especially with Lopez.
It was understandable, and vander Poele recognised it, she perceived. As a consequence, or so she thought, he passed little time in the company of Lopez in the days after Tendeba. On the other hand, the conversations he did hold with Lopez were so superficial, so markedly impersonal, that Gelis refined and revised her conclusion. It was not Jorge da Silves but the Negro himself who was vander Poele’s prime and almost exclusive concern.
They sailed for three days and passed three nights at anchor without molestation, but in increasing heat. For the first part of the voyage, the canoes of Gnumi Mansa accompanied them, paddled by shouting, laughing young men. Word of their harmlessness seemed to have restored the usual traffic of the river: troughs of varying sizes passed and repassed, sometimes laden with provender; sometimes bearing a group of chattering women and children with their bundles.
The trees, the green, dripping tunnels of choked and mysterious creeks, the looming mangroves, their roots slippered with oysters, began to thin and pale as the estuarine flush fell behind them. Instead, on either side was bush and rolling savannah studded by cabins, and they saw ape-watch towers stamped like runes on the red of the sunset; stamped like runes, or the windmills of Flanders.
On the second morning, they viewed their first elephants: a group of grey beasts in the shallows, each as wide as a siege-engine and as high as the ship, and spraying water upon themselves from the tail suspended under their eyes. The following day, Saloum pointed over the water to the boulder-like heads and piggish ears of submerged water-horses: he said they could upset a canoe, and that oarsmen warned them off by rapping their boats with their blades.
Navigation of the narrowing river, with its bends and its shoals and its islands, kept them sufficiently occupied; and the evening landings for food and fodder, through mud and gnats and lurking dangers from beast and from man, taught them to depend on each other. At Cantor, more than one hundred and forty miles from the mouth of the Gambia, one of the sick seamen died, and they went ashore, a solemn and united company, to bury him.
The market of Cantor was as far up this river as Diogo Gomes had travelled; here he had obtained gold, and here he had been told of the caravan routes to the Sahara and to the east which in season met on this spot. The settlement still existed, and the traders, but there were no Christians among them to share in the service, nor any who wished to listen to Godscalc, and the sheds and warehouses were empty, swept clean as elsewhere by the Fortado.
‘She is upriver,’ said Loppe, on their return to the ship. ‘Two days from here, at the place of the baboons, is how they describe it. They say they distrust her, and believe she will employ any force or ruse to find out and carry back the secret of the gold.’
Twenty miles beyond, gossip also informed them, the King Bati Mansa might currently be found. And two days’ sail beyond that was the rock barrier and the falls beyond which neither caravel could penetrate, and the way (three hundred leagues to the east, rumour insisted) to the kingdom of the lord they called Preste João.
‘So here are the choices,’ Nicholas said, perched on the after-deck with twenty-seven fit men and two women around him. ‘We may leave the ship here, with a guard, and set out east on foot, avoiding the King and the Fortado. Or we may continue to sail to where Bati Mansa lies between us and Doria, trusting to the Fortado’s ill reputation and our success with Gnumi Mansa to encourage the King to make us welcome. Or thirdly, we may sail past Bati Mansa without putting his goodwill to the test and proceed as far upriver as we can.’
Loppe’s voice, responding, clashed with that of Jorge da Silves. Remarkably, they both said the same thing. The master spoke first, and Loppe elaborated.
‘
We should sail to Bati Mansa. It isn’t true that Ethiopia is so near. To set out so early on foot would waste our time and our energy. Also, Senhor da Silves and Father Godscalc must be permitted to take the cross to this King, who may protect us from Doria. Threats were made at the Senagana with good cause. Doria has pride, and we tricked and shamed him with the gold and the Ghost.’
‘We have cannon,’ Nicholas said. ‘And he has a full cargo. Will he risk an attack at suicidal close quarters, with nothing to gain?’
‘That was,’ said Gelis van Borselen, ‘the received wisdom on the Ghost, as I remember. Just before Signor Doria turned his guns on us. He seems to be touchy.’
‘Forbye, if he’s full and finished his business, why is he waiting?’ said Bel of Cuthilgurdy.
‘To see where we go,’ said the master. ‘Or so I believe.’
‘In which case,’ Nicholas said, ‘he’s unlikely to harm us. He may even mean to sit where he is, and waylay us when we come back. So what do we do? We’ve heard nothing from Bati Mansa but surely, like Gnumi, he wants to court Portugal. I think as Lopez does—we should keep to the water. We have arms. We can reply if we’re threatened by Bati. By the same token, we can deal with the Fortado if we have to. She may not fire. We might even manage to persuade her to leave.’
‘How?’ said Diniz.
‘There are ways,’ Nicholas said. ‘We could invite the crew to listen to Luis. And if they don’t go, we’ve still made provision. We disembark the horses. Our special boats can be carried. Once past the rock at the falls, we can take to the water again and outstrip anyone who wants to follow us. And when the Gambia peters out, we can make a portage to the Joliba, and the great lake everyone speaks of which leads to the east. Does that seem reasonable?’
‘Not,’ said Gelis, ‘if you pass Ethiopia on the way. Who says it’s more than three hundred leagues off?’
‘I do,’ said Saloum, his bearded face solemn. ‘It is much more. Beyond a great river. Beyond the great lake. This I swear you.’
‘There by Lent,’ said Gelis to Nicholas. ‘What do you wager? Lent by the River of Gems and the Fountain of Youth and the Copts.’
‘I never wager on certainties,’ Nicholas said.
It was a short meeting, and they might as well never have held it. That night, the drumming was loud and peculiarly insistent and the next day, when they crept round the deep bend of the river, clogged with treacherous islands, they found they were without escort or company. The casual water traffic had ceased, and they were alone but for the long, lazy shapes, fifteen feet long, of the giant lizards that watched from the banks. When, twice, they had to bring round the boats and tow the ship by the head, Jorge placed among the rowers four men with crossbows and hackbuts who kept their eyes partly on the water and partly on either bank. They had brought on deck all their arms, lightly covered with sailcloth, and the cannon were already in place, although blanketed too. As yet, they wore no armour.
There was a great deal of noise. The first holms they passed were full of the chatter and screams of baboons, and the fields and villages were a cacophony of birds attracted by the aftermath of the harvest. Clouds of chaff drifted over the ship, light as moths, lighter than the sand of the open sea: the spacious, salt-scoured, safe open sea. They heard elephants trumpeting, and hunting beasts roar.
By early afternoon they knew they were close to the massive island, six miles long and more than two miles across, which occupied that part of the river where Bati Mansa currently was holding his court. The river on either side, Saloum said, was at least a hundred yards wide but narrowed by drying mud-channels. Midway along the north side of the island was an anchorage. He would not trust the caravel anywhere else, Saloum said, overnight.
‘We shall see,’ said Jorge da Silves. ‘And on which bank do you expect the King to be settled?’
‘On either,’ Saloum said cheerfully. ‘Or on the island. It is in the hands of … of …’
‘The Lord God,’ said Lopez gravely. ‘Or of Bati Mansa, if my sight serves me well. Or are these breakers ahead?’
It might have been surfing waves over rocks. It might have been the froth beneath a line of felled and jostling timber, but it was not. On either side of the island ahead the river was blocked by a flotilla of war-canoes. They lay in the afternoon haze, glimmering white from the dress of the oarsmen and suffused with the sparkle of metal. Vicente said, ‘Senhor Jorge? Do we fire?’
‘No!’ said Godscalc.
‘Not yet,’ Nicholas said. ‘I see a canoe coming this way. Bring the Niccolò round. Let them parley.’
‘Poison arrows?’ said Vicente.
‘Perhaps,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I think they would have shot them already. I shall speak to them, with Lopez.’
No one disputed the privilege. The canoe approached, and it was seen that its double line of black, white-capped oarsmen were without weapons and smiling, and stood knee-deep in gifts, ranging from a pack of fine hyena hides to a great elephant tooth that took four men to heft up to the Niccolò. Then the two dozen men came on board themselves, shy and eager and anxious to reply to Loppe’s questions. The King Bati Mansa had heard that the esteemed Portuguese lords wished to trade in his region, and would lead them to safe anchorage, and invite their presence at his palace on the island.
‘Palace?’ said Gelis.
‘Something with a roof to it,’ said Bel. ‘And guards outside, to keep off the lions. Same as everywhere.’
‘Has he any wives?’ piped Filipe, adding, in Portuguese, a number of brazen specifics.
He was going ashore. Twenty-three of them were, since this time good management seemed to suggest a large landing-party. Of the nine who remained on the San Niccolò, Vicente was chosen to hold the command, with Melchiorre to act as his deputy. It meant that at worst they could sail, since two helmsmen were also aboard: the same solid family men who had preferred not to go on shore at Tendeba. To work the ship they had a couple of seamen, weak but recovering, and two more – Luis and Lázaro – who were altogether too healthy for shore-leave. And last of all, they had Lopez.
It had not been part of the plan. As chief interpreter, if nothing else, he had been a constituent of every mission. It was Jorge da Silves who proposed otherwise. Lopez should be left to stand by Vicente, who spoke no Mandingua. On land, they could employ the other blacks, who had made such an impression on Gnumi.
Nicholas had hesitated. When Lopez, without hesitating, had politely demurred, the master developed such vehemence that Nicholas, intervening quickly, gave way. Saloum and Ahmad would manage.
The island was low-lying and smelt of the river. Stepping ashore with Bel at her side, Gelis saw nothing but a village of hovels, poorer than Cantor, where the river-folk came to exchange produce. She stood with Godscalc and Diniz while one of the long escorting canoes landed its emissaries. Around her she counted fifteen men from the Niccolò, including Fernão and Vito and young Filipe, and ahead of them, Jorge da Silves and Nicholas with the former slaves. The canoeists, landed, walked ahead and signed to them to follow. They were still smiling and weaponless, and set up a cheerful chant as they went, clapping their hands and occasionally leaping. When she walked, the ground swayed up and down.
Godscalc said, ‘It is God’s blessing. God is with us.’ Jorge da Silves crossed himself but vander Poele didn’t. He was looking about at the trees and the bushes and his face was ruddy with heat. So was that of Diniz. Both were wearing shirt, doublet, hose, cap and cloak.
Gelis said, ‘Let me guess. He’s carrying the forecastle mortar, and you’ve got the balls in your jacket?’
‘More or less,’ Diniz said. His gaze, rapt and intent, was on Nicholas.
Both women saw it. ‘Ye’ll not wean him now,’ said Bel dryly.
It was a long walk. After half an hour in the heat they were stopped and led to a place in the shade where refreshments had been prepared. They were given fruit and juice and bread baked in the sun. Three of their escort went off hunting a
nd came back with some birds. Saloum, who had gone with them, returned laughing and sat to deliver a broken-tongued bulletin. ‘We shall reach the palace in another half-hour. They prepare a feast for us. They say the King is a great man, and generous, and loves horses beyond anything.’
‘Hell and damnation,’ said Diniz. ‘Don’t we have another tent?’
‘We could give him a warthog,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do you think we could get them to hurry? I don’t want to come back this way in the dark.’
In the end, the place they came to, although far inside the island, was not unlike Gnumi Mansa’s riverside clearing, except that there was no village near it, nor any provision for water or ovens. The forest about it was thicker, and instead of a great central Baobab there stood a man-made hut without walls: a low henge of vertical tree-trunks, upon whose bare crooked forks rested a mighty domed roof made of millet-stalks. The airy arena below, sufficient for the congress of two hundred people, was currently being enjoyed by a small flock of goats. Otherwise, entering, they found it quite empty.
Nicholas walked round it once, with Saloum. He said, ‘Ask them. Where is the King?’ Before he fully reached the end of the sentence, he stopped and turned. Apart from Saloum and Ahmad, there were only white faces inside the pillars. No flashing smiles and white caps. No black, assiduous figures racing up to inform, to reassure. The grass before the hut was quite empty. The escort had gone. There was no one for Saloum to ask.
There was someone. There was a voice declaiming outside; a sonorous voice, employing superb Italian.
‘I very much fear,’ said Raffaelo Doria, strolling heavily across from the trees, ‘that the lord Bati Mansa is unavailable. Perhaps I may be allowed to entertain you instead? Demoiselle. Mistress Bel. Senhor Vasquez. How very happy I am to catch up with you.’