Scales of Gold (47 page)

Nicholas stood and looked at Father Godscalc. He said, ‘I have lost Melchiorre.’

His voice turned Bel cold. Diniz halted. Godscalc stepped forward and took Nicholas by the arm, drawing him to stand on the mud. His feet were bare and cut, but the blood on his shirt was not his own. Godscalc said, ‘You saved everyone else.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘I have lost Melchiorre. Will you search the beach? Who is fit? Diniz this way, with a brand, and you, Vito, go there.’ His voice lost momentum. He added, ‘Saloum is still on board.’

‘And Lopez?’ said Jorge da Silves. ‘Shall we look for him, too?’

‘I have looked already,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then come and sit by the fire,’ Godscalc said. The wounded lay there already, and the others moved about nervously, looking at each other and at Jorge and Nicholas. Two fireflies far down each beach were the search parties, in quick counter-motion. Behind, the bush loomed and threatened.

Jorge da Silves said, ‘Well, talk, man! Sit if you must, but for God’s sake, tell us what happened! I have men here to think of.’

Godscalc lifted a large arm and pushed. Jorge staggered, and snatched at his scabbard. Gelis said, ‘Listen.’

From far away, Diniz was calling. Nicholas woke from his trance. He was running before the rest started.

They had found Melchiorre. Melchiorre the Florentine second mate; the good, competent seaman who had sailed with Nicholas on the
Ciaretti
. He lay where the river had cast him, with a hackbut hole drilled through his back. Nicholas knelt by his head; Godscalc joined him, and Bel gave them light. The man gasped. Nicholas slipped a hand under his neck and, when the priest nodded, moved him a little, the soaked hair rolling into his hand.

Melchiorre opened his eyes. ‘My lord, I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It was my fault,’ Nicholas said. ‘Was it Bati’s men?’

‘Mostly. They have him.’

‘Lopez?’

Melchiorre shut his eyes and opened them. He said, ‘The
Fortado
has gone. Downstream. With Crackbene. The pinnace eastwards. With Lopez.’

‘Don’t talk,’ Nicholas said.

Godscalc leaned forward, hands busy. ‘I need my box from the ship.’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Bel.

‘No,’ said Nicholas. He was easing Melchiorre free of his rags. ‘Someone else.’

Godscalc stopped and looked up. He said, ‘You’ve lost them all. You’ve lost them all, Nicholas?’

‘No,’ Nicholas said with great patience. ‘They are all on the ship.’

They were, all of them, still on the
San Niccolò
. Esteväo was yet at the helm, cut down perhaps while trying to save her. The other helmsman had fallen defending him. The sick men had both been beheaded: one below, one by the hatch of the hold, a bloody knife in his hand. Vicente stood on the forecastle – stood, because arrows piercing his chest and his belly had transfixed him to the foremast. And below where his open eyes stared lay the heavy body of Luis, his whoring ended, his last story told, and his hand gripping the dead hand of Lázaro who lay, a slow-match quenched in blood at his side.

Bel found them when, flouting authority, she and Gelis arrived, with da Silves. Saloum helped her aboard. The blood, the splinters, the gougings were proof enough that Vicente’s men had fought for their lives, but there were no enemy wounded or dead lying anywhere. They had been removed, along with all that a native would value.

The cabins and chests had been ransacked. The holds were empty, but for some barrels of water and pig lard. And the pens and stalls were deserted as well. All the livestock had gone, and the three precious horses, saved with such pains to carry them on the rest of their journey. All that remained were some random objects, dropped in haste or overlooked in their places of stowage, Godscalc’s travelling box being among them. And, apart from her boats, the ship and her gear had been spared.

‘They were Muslims like you,’ Gelis said.

‘Muslims,’ said Saloum. ‘But not like me.’

She said, ‘This we know, for you saved us. You are wise. What are we to do? Melchiorre is alive. He says Lopez went with them.’

‘They took Lopez,’ said Saloum. ‘The Genoese took him by force.’

‘How do you know?’ She was filthy; her face had the soiled sheen of soapstone.

‘He expected it. He told me. He left a mark in the cabin.’

‘Show me,’ she said. Bel followed. It was a strange mark: cabalistic; drawn on the bulkhead in what was certainly blood. Gelis said, ‘Does that mean you can track him?’ Bel stared at her.

Saloum said, ‘I am not meant to answer.’

‘Wait,’ said Gelis. The lamps had been stolen, but there was a makeshift fire in the sandbox: its light, flaring, showed her his face. She said, ‘What do you mean? You may have a chance, by this sign, to trace Lopez. Why should you tell no one else?’

‘In case they fall into danger,’ said Saloum. ‘Lopez is concerned for his friend. For this Nicholas.’

Bel said, ‘Never mind danger to yon one. If there’s a way to track Lopez, you do it. Come, lass. The physics are needed.’

Jorge punted them back to the shore. From the ship, the bonfire looked small, Godscalc tiny. Melchiorre had been brought and set with the other three wounded. An insect appeared on the strand: a log boat from some fisher village village with their own men carrying it. Bel said, ‘What d’ye think, Senhor da Silves? Yon’s a tragedy. Maybe it’s a sign we should turn.’

He dug the oar in. ‘Maybe you should,’ he said. ‘The ship will repair. Gnumi Mansa is friendly. He’d give her a berth and watch over her. You could sail back to him and then wait for us.’

‘You are going on in spite of what’s happened?’ Gelis said. ‘If Doria’s alive, he’ll surely follow us. And if he’s dead, the
Fortado
couldn’t rest, could it, until we’re all put away?’

‘No. Not at all. Havers,’ said Bel, ‘you’ve forgotten the gold. Never mind us: they’ll come and mop us up afterwards. But first, they’ve got what they wanted: someone – Lopez – to lead a team to Wangara. If Doria’s alive, he’s not daft. He won’t go back to his ship. He won’t waste effort on us. He’ll march upriver straight off, and join the gold-hunting party with Lopez.’

‘Which,’ said Gelis, with animation, ‘might do us some good. If we keep to our own journey east, we might miss them.’ She tilted her head. ‘How reassuring. Is that your idea, Senhor Jorge?’

‘My idea,’ said Jorge da Silves, ‘is to trace Doria’s gold-hunting party and kill them. I think you will find Messer Niccolò of the same mind.’

‘Before Ethiopia,’ said Gelis.

‘Before they have time, quite simply, to turn on us.’

‘And Lopez?’ said Bel. Gelis was smiling.

Da Silves was not. ‘They will kill him,’ he said. ‘There can be no other outcome. But first, he will lead them and us to the mines.
And now we know, thanks to the demoiselle, that Saloum can track him. You are quick, senhorinha.’

‘Too damned quick,’ muttered Bel. She stared at the bonfire. They were close enough to see Nicholas. He was talking.

Gelis had seen him as well. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Look at him. You know he won’t let Lopez escape, or the gold, or Doria. The senhor is right. I’ll wager your comb to my kerchief that we’ll be on the gold-hunters’ heels before dawn, and until we’ve come at Wangara, Prester John and the padre can whistle.’

She broke off. She said, ‘Do you realise that that’s all we
can
wager? We have no means of support, and hardly a garment between us?’

‘And I the same,’ said da Silves. ‘But we are not destitute. We have the fruits of the wild. We have some means to purchase necessities. We have all these fine barrels of fat.’

‘Pig lard,’ said Gelis. ‘For Muslims. You couldn’t give it away.’

‘Neither you could. Fancy,’ said Bel. ‘So what, would you say, have we hidden there?’ It pleased her to see Gelis jump.

They had arrived. Da Silves put down his paddle. Men came running to pull them aground. ‘In the lard? Cowrie shells,’ he replied. ‘Thousands and thousands of cowrie shells. So that if we do come across gold, we can buy it.’

He smiled bleakly and made ready to land. He had said nothing of his seven murdered men. He hadn’t mentioned Vicente. He had shown no passion over the fate of the ship. He had been attacked and mortified by Raffaelo Doria, for which he wanted revenge. He also wished to stop him from finding Wangara.

Bel stared at da Silves, and then, looking more closely, was struck by other signs she had missed: the hollow eyes, the lines of weariness, the genuine pain. For him, this was a pilgrimage. He had wanted the slaves brought to grace: it had been he who had urged Father Godscalc to carry the Cross to Bati Mansa. If he coveted gold, it was only partly for himself: it was chiefly for the Order of Christ and his masters. She wished that she liked him.

Then she stepped carefully ashore and carried the box to Godscalc and Melchiorre, taking Gelis pointedly with her. She slowed, passing Nicholas, in order to listen; but his senses appeared to have returned to him. He was regulating, in a voice she found unusually grating, the party which was to refloat and man the
San Niccolò
and appointing (as of right) the group which, with Saloum’s help, would find a suitable boat and proceed with him into the interior.

Chapter 24

I
N
ELECTING TO GO
upriver with Nicholas, it seemed very likely to Godscalc and to Bel that they were choosing death, and violent death, of the kind they had seen for the first time at close quarters today. To Diniz, already blooded, it appeared merely a glorious extension of the adventure to which Nicholas had introduced him. To Gelis, the added danger, the change of purpose, meant nothing.

They had all four been given the opportunity to turn and sail back to Gnumi Mansa on the rehabilitated
San Niccolò
. Halfway through the operation to refloat her, which lasted nearly till daybreak, Nicholas had come back to the fire on the beach along with Diniz and Godscalc, and had put to them all, with indifference, the question of their future.

Gelis had been asleep, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the knowledge that sentries had been posted. Waking suddenly she saw that Bel, too, had recoiled from the three grotesque, firelit faces suspended above them. Nicholas let himself down, his hose ripped, his shirt tattered. ‘It’s us. It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Doria’s gone, and if Bati’s men were going to attack us by night, they’d have done so. But I want to get away before morning. What do you want to do? If you wish to come with me, you can. Or you can wait for four months on the
Niccolò
. I’m not sending her north to risk losing her.’

‘No, why should you?’ said Gelis. ‘How do you know Doria has gone?’ Her gown, although weak at the seams, was reasonably intact, and her hair had kept most of its pleating. Her muscles had stiffened.

‘Ahmad went back to the hut,’ Diniz said. ‘He reads footprints. Can you imagine it? Doria just abandoned his dead and disabled. Ahmad says six survivors have gone off downriver as if to board the
Fortado
, and four, including Doria, went east. We think they’ve
gone to join the pinnace with Lopez, and get ahead as fast as they can to the gold mines. Nicholas says they’ll sail day and night, but Lopez will try to delay them.’

‘How trusting of Nicholas,’ said Gelis. ‘But even so, can a bark canoe catch a pinnace? Doria has a long start.’

‘I know. We had to refloat the ship,’ Nicholas said. ‘We’ll catch Doria on land, I should think. Do you want to go or stay?’

Bel cleared her throat. She said, ‘It isna a matter of Ethiopia any more, is that right? The gold mines come first.’

‘Lopez comes first,’ Nicholas said. ‘And speed is everything. Anyone sick will have to be left until later. I’d prefer to take a fast party myself, but as a group we’re safer together.’

‘Until we catch up with Doria,’ Gelis said. ‘How many men will he have? Since we seem to be embroiled in your war?’

Tonight, nothing really came near provoking him. He said, ‘Melchiorre saw three men in the pinnace. By now, Doria will have added himself and three more.’

‘And Lopez,’ Gelis said. ‘Eight. And your party?’

‘So far thirteen,’ Nicholas said. ‘Jorge of course, and seven crewmen, including Filipe. Saloum will come with me, and Vito and Manoli; and Diniz I think has decided. The padre is still consulting his conscience.’

‘Two-thirds of your strength. I should have guessed,’ Gelis said. ‘Leaving an altruistic eight on the
Niccolò
, either too sick or too high-minded for gold-hunting. Plus, you are suggesting, Bel and myself?’

Nicholas said, ‘Our caravel has no cargo to rob, and if you stayed, Gnumi Mansa would attempt to protect you. The
Fortado
is full, so, unlike us, Doria has had to leave the bulk of his seamen to guard it. Both ships could sail if they had to.’

‘If no one comes back,’ Godscalc said. It was the first time he had spoken. He had probably been making his opinions known, Gelis thought, all the time he and Nicholas were shifting the
Niccolò
.

‘Padre?’ said Bel. ‘Are ye for going?’

‘I have been invited,’ said Godscalc. ‘It has been made clear that I shall find no Christians, since no Christians have ever come here. And that, should I pause to offer my doctrine to the princes of Guinea, I shall be left behind.’ Brawny, filthy, half-naked, he spoke with precision.

‘Until we find Lopez,’ said Nicholas.

‘And Doria,’ said Godscalc. ‘I assume you will now kill Doria; unless he pre-empts you. But eight against fourteen, he can have little hope.’

‘Fourteen? You are coming?’ said Nicholas. ‘And the ladies?’

‘Answer first,’ Gelis said. ‘What will you do to Doria?’

‘In detail?’ said Nicholas. ‘It rather depends on what he has done to Lopez.’

‘So we’re coming,’ said Bel. ‘Sixteen against eight. Against seven, if we’re lucky. And all the heathens and wild beasts of Africa.’

‘Good. I have to go,’ Nicholas said. ‘We have a canoe. We should leave in an hour. Listen to Diniz. He will give you your orders.’

They launched the great hollow bark an hour later, and scrambled aboard, all sixteen of them, with their puny provisions. They were five hours behind Raffaelo Doria. The torch at their bow illumined the dark, ripping water and the backs and snouts of the river-horses, awake and moving about to their grazing. Behind, the
Niccolò
fretted and swerved, not yet ready to leave, her reflected flares swirling below her. A group of men stood on her forecastle, their arms waving, their farewells reaching thinly over the water. Every plank, every seam of the
Niccolò
was familiar. Eight weeks ago, to gunfire and trumpets, she had set out on her virginal voyage from Lagos. Godscalc said, ‘Let us pray. We need God’s help, and God’s forgiveness. Let us make supplication for the
Niccolò.
’