The Unicorn Hunt

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Below, the wooden blocks, hitting the walls, were spinning and dancing. Behind him, the Mamelukes shifted, but David felt no anxiety. Long before this spent man could swim, he would have stopped him. And, indeed, de Fleury was making no effort, except the consummate one of keeping afloat. The other man said, ‘Have I met him?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said David de Salmeton.

  ‘Then,’ said the other man, ‘I imagine it is Anselm Adorne. Tell him I shall await him, wherever I go. And all the rest of you.’

  ‘And Gelis?’ de Salmeton said. ‘Or is that too ungallant, even for you? At least she should take joy in her widowhood. I shall see to that myself. So. Have you changed your mind, my dear Nicholas? Your fortune in exchange for your freedom?’

  ‘Not even if you meant it,’ said the other man. His voice fell attenuated on the air. As the water had risen, so the echo had gone.

  ‘No. I would hardly ask for what I already have. So this is farewell. You can’t be surprised. It was, forgive me, an unequal contest. I am told, however, that drowning is not an unpleasant end, compared with torture. I have to make you my excuse over that. I gave the Dragoman no such orders. However. Will it ease the pain if I set you a task?’

  ‘I shall hear you out,’ de Fleury said. As he tired, he was coughing continuously.

  De Salmeton expressed courteous amusement. He said, ‘You mentioned Sir Anselm. He had something to give you. I have it. Indeed, it belongs to you: you and your wife. Can you guess what it is? All the way from Jaffa to Cairo?’

  And he held up the wedding ring of Gelis van Borselen.

  The reaction repaid all his pains. Now de Fleury tried for the first time to move. Now, using the last of his powers, he attempted to throw himself over the water; seize the steps; snatch the ring.

  It was laughably out of his reach. Nevertheless, at the first movement, de Salmeton pulled back his arm. ‘So dive for it,’ he remarked; and tossed the ring low and far into the water.

  He looked to smile into the glittering eyes but the man had thrown his head back, striving to follow the trajectory; to distinguish the ring as it dropped with an invisible gulp in the darkness. Then there came the sob of drawn breath, and the crash and spatter of water as the other man dived.

  ‘My lord?’ said the Mameluke behind him. ‘Shall we unblock the rest of the conduit?’

  ‘No,’ said David de Salmeton. ‘Let it brim. What is a little water? The Chief Dragoman will not mind. Then, when we are sure, we can open the lock and let the level drop back.’

  He stayed some moments longer to watch. He had, however, thrown the ring deliberately outside the circle of light, and no matter how far he held out the lantern, he could see nothing now but the swaying, chuckling water, completing its rise to the roof. Whether or not he dredged up what he wanted so badly, Nicholas de Fleury would not survive to enjoy it, that was sure.

  He lay in a beautiful mosque. The dome above him was profusely inlaid; damascened with turquoise and gold-leaf and ivory, within which the sacred name unfolded over and over: In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate. From the fretted roundel of windows the amber light of late afternoon suffused the structures of lattice about him, sheening the walls and columns of marble, lighting the deep-carved bands of Cufic inscription: We send down rain as a blessing from heaven, whereby we cause gardens to fruit, and grain to issue to harvest.

  He smiled; moved. He thought of rain, puddling the yard; hissing into the dyevats. Rain alternating with snow, causing Astorre to curse as he dragged his army over the mountains. Rain in depressing, slow slurs which sent the masons obdurately indoors, even though one last course of bricks would see his furnace secure, his plan for Scotland one stage further. Rain in soft, melting torrents dissolving a city; forming a tent for his love …

  Hast thou not seen how that God has sent water …?

  His eyes, half open, dwelled on the inscriptions. God had sent water. He was in the presence of water as he lay. At his hand, beyond a wooden tapestry woven by angels, he saw a white octagonal pillar with curious marks. Leaning a little, he saw that it rose from a rectangular pool, whose surface shimmered and moved in a way that made him uneasy. He recoiled at first, and then came slowly and fully into his senses, to find himself wrapped in shawls and laid upon deep, soft-piled carpets; watched by five men sitting quietly on cushions.

  The two nearest him smiled. One said, ‘Allah-u akbar. We felt we must explore with you further the Platonic interpretation of madina jamaiyya.’

  Voices calling; hands attacking a grille. Other hands bearing him upwards; carrying him choking from water to air, from air to water; from water to oblivion. Students. He said, on a breath, ‘God is great.’

  A new voice said, ‘They saved you. They saved us from getting killed, from making fools of ourselves. We all owe them our lives.’

  Tobie. Tobie sitting with John, crosslegged, quietly, as the central pool dimpled and simmered.

  Nicholas pulled himself up on one elbow. Below the shawls he was dressed, Cairene-style, in white lawn. His bones, too, were of lawn, and where his stomach and head once had been, there was nothing but air. He had swallowed the Nile and, patently, relinquished it; and along with it, all the taut needle-mesh of his torture. His feet and head ached, that was all. He said, still half astray, ‘Where am I? How did you do it?’

  They all turned. The fifth man said, ‘You are in the Nilometer, Nicholas: in the private ground of the Sultan. Men are waiting to speak to you. I have said I will bring you when you are ready.’

  The language was the classical Arabic of the schools. He knew the voice. He knew the face, unwithered by age, of the imam of the Sankore Mosque. In Timbuktu, he had passed his last night under the roof of this man.

  Nicholas said, ‘Katib Musa,’ and, moving somehow, placed himself under his hands. The hands stroked, concealing his tears.

  The voice above him was calm. ‘Nicholas, did you not remember? Timbuktu is the daughter of Cairo. You had only to ask.’ And after a moment, ‘The others have gone. Take your time. We have had a great sorrow, you and I.’

  On such a night of festivities, the Sultan Qayt Bey did not propose to reappear outside the Citadel. Instead, he sent his Grand Emir back to the island of Roda to occupy the pavilion where the Feast of the Abundance had just taken place, and where the professors of al-Azhar, the doctors of law, the religious leaders of his people had advised that a meeting of importance might best be secretly held.

  Seated upon the dais in the innermost room of the kiosk, the Dawadar Yachbak felt no resentment: his wives were insufferable on such occasions; his concubines overexcited. The claims of the Frankish merchants the Vatachino had been expertly debated and, on the best of advice, had been found to excel those of the banking firm with Venetian affiliations. It was known that Franks, needy of God, sometimes went to great lengths to deride or damage a rival, and the truth could not always be distinguished.

  When it appeared that a mistake had been made, he himself had enquired why the Frank from Timbuktu had not gone immediately to al-Azhar the Resplendent, the oldest, the greatest University in the world, and asked them to support his credentials. Three at least of its judges had fled to al-Azhar from Timbuktu and knew the Frank well: his care for that city; his respect for its law and religion; his eminence in the world of trade; his wealth. Especially his wealth.

  The story ran that he had lost his principal wife, and hence his zest for life. Such things happened. A further report seemed to say that the wife was alive, and at Sinai, to which the man was currently hastening. Hence the urgency of this meeting, the Italian doctor had said – the doctor who had come to the University with this news, and whose knowledge of esoteric medical writings, he had been told, was not to be despised.

  He recognised the doctor at once, as the three Franks were now presented before him: short and pallid and hairless. He knew also the man they called John, the Alexandria agent whose black-tinted beard had been glimpsed, now and then, in its true s
hade of inedible orange.

  The man Niccolò, the former Nicomack ibn Abdallah, was crippled, he knew, and therefore permitted to take three steps and make his courtesy from the cushion placed in front of the dais. His companions took their places beside him and the Qadi called Katib Musa stepped to join the secretaries and lesser ulama who sat on either side of the Executive Secretary himself.

  There were no interpreters present: not the Chief Dragoman, nor even the Second. None was required, since the merchant spoke impeccable Arabic. The Dawadar Yachbak said, ‘Allah is great. It pains me that one of my race hath so injured you. When he is found, the servant of the sister of the late emir Tzani-bey shall pay the full penalty.’

  ‘God is great,’ the merchant Niccolò said. ‘And displeasing to God is man’s vengeance. I would pardon him.’

  ‘Thou art merciful,’ said the Emir Dawadar. He approved of what he saw. Thus were Mameluke leaders selected. Discounting weakness, one looked instead for the spirit which kept the back straight, the eyes level, the language and etiquette properly observed and deployed. He said, ‘It is nevertheless a rash man who comes unrecommended. I am told thou holdest no mandate from the beys of Spain or of France or of Burgundy, and bring no charge from the Splendour of the Sect of the Cross, the exalted ruler of Venice?’

  Seated, his hands light on crossed knees, the merchant Niccolò bent his head. ‘I am humble. Yet is not my empty wallet worth more than that of some ambassador dispatched before Negroponte, whose remit has fallen to ashes, and who speaks with the tongue of dead men? I have a Bank. I offer its resources and wisdom against the Ottoman Turk. Its resources, as thou knowest, are founded on gold. Its wisdom consists in belonging to no prince, but knowing the hearts and intentions of many.’

  ‘Thou? A merchant?’ Yachbak mentioned. He leaned back.

  The other remained, his hands lax, his broad shoulders still. ‘Where will the spices go, that travel from Tor this coming month, and what will they bring in return? Who will handle the silks of Uzum Hasan? Who will provide the copper cauldrons for sugar; the round ships full of wood for fine artefacts? Who can supply gold, from which dinars (or ducats) are minted? Who can sometimes say, to this country or that, “Thy desires are indeed great but these are thy debts, and where is the remedy?” ’

  There was a silence. ‘One spoke of timber,’ said the Grand Emir at length.

  Two hours later, at the seventh hour after midday, the Emir Dawadar used his judgement to call the interview to a halt. The scribes wrote on, scratching the paper in their desperation. So much. So much had been discussed, hinted, touched upon.

  Cyprus. How had this man guessed so much of Cyprus? This time Qayt Bey had hesitated to increase the tribute again: this man had shown how it should be done.

  He knew the bey Ferrante of Naples, and was already engaged in the fine cross-negotiation concerning the marriage of his daughter. He could not know – could he? – that a son of Ferrante’s was here, in the Citadel, freely serving as a Christian Mameluke?

  This man, this merchant Niccolò, exchanged messages with Uzum Hasan, the greatest opponent in Asia of the Ottoman Turk. He knew the inner workings of the Knights of Rhodes, and the subtle strife over alum. He knew where timber was to be had, while of course observing the laws which forbade – pronouncements of infidels and idolators! – the release of ship-timber to Egypt. The man had leased two ships to Venice for Negroponte, and when the merchant Niccolò spoke, the bey of Venice often listened. This Frank owned an army. And he – pleasing to Allah – was a man who had wished to save Sankore, and all in the city, and whom the Qadi Musa esteemed not as a son, for such would have been foolish, but as a man of singular strength, for whom a master had yet to be found.

  Towards the end, when the tray of cold carob drinks had arrived, the Dawadar had drawn attention to the importance of the matters raised, and lamented the lack of opportunity to continue their discussion next day. He had been informed, of course, of the lord Niccolò’s plans. He held them in reverence. Nevertheless, despite the apparent delay, he would swear that the lord Niccolò’s journey to Sinai would prove even more swift since, given time, it was in his own power to provide mounts, provisions, guides, protection and permits, as a result of which the flight of a bird would seem slow.

  He did not say, for it was not his place to mention it, that a rival party of Franks had already set out for Mount Sinai, and were presently lodged at Birkat al-Hadjd, for what length of time he had not yet quite decided. He merely assumed that speed had a value, and was unsurprised when the merchant agreed to his suggestion. He had been certain, in any case, of the other two.

  Soon after, being of good breeding, he left the pavilion, his companions following, and without exacting a ritual withdrawal by his guests. They stood none the less, including the merchant Niccolò, to whom the Qadi spoke a few words, receiving and giving the Muslim kiss on the shoulder before turning away. Glancing back from the door, the Grand Emir saw that the sledge had been brought, which would take the man to where he would sleep until he left Cairo. For a few hours at least, his safety depended on being thought to be dead.

  The sledge, hung with awnings and deep in tasselled silk cushions, was heavily scented. Dropped there, experiencing every after-effect of shock, pain and exhaustion, Nicholas alternately shivered and showed a disastrous inclination to laugh. Tobie said, ‘For God’s sake, give him some air. I’ll stay. You go back to the house. De Salmeton’s got to think we don’t know where he is, and don’t much care. He’ll assume we’re both after the gold.’

  ‘He’ll assume you’re after it,’ Nicholas said. ‘You look like an alchemist.’ He breathed quickly a few times and came out with another whole sentence. ‘We did it.’

  ‘We did it,’ said John. ‘You’d have been floating about that precious cistern wrapped up in asps if Tobie hadn’t battered his way round all the pastry-shops and the riwaqs turning out students. Or come to that, Katelijne did it. It was her suggestion.’

  Tobie said, ‘Aren’t you going? You can talk about all that tomorrow.’

  ‘Katelijne?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Suggested the University. Well, kind of. You know her. She wouldn’t let down her uncle. But Tobie had told her about Timbuktu, and she must have seen the connection. So did you, of course, you bastard, but you weren’t proposing to use it. Well I hope,’ said John, who was apparently drunk on carob juice, ‘that you’ve learned your stupid lesson.’

  Nicholas lay breathing. Tobie got rid of John, who could be heard accosting high officials on the subject of boats. The noise over the river was ear-splitting. Tobie returning, said, ‘This is the place. It’s just a pleasure-pavilion for the number three wife. Or something similar.’

  Nicholas laughed, and regretted it, and was got indoors and amazingly, upstairs, where it was cooler. He said, from the mattress, ‘Does Katelijne know?’

  ‘Know what?’ said Tobie, exploring shelves. ‘Water. Sherbet. I asked for some – yes. Here it is. Know we found you? No, she’ll have left Cairo by now. They all left immediately after the Abundance. Should I send and tell her?’ He turned.

  Nicholas said, ‘Adorne may be head of the Vatachino.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tobie. Then he said, ‘You were tortured. He wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘No. That was a mistake,’ Nicholas said. There was another silence.

  Tobie said, ‘I don’t think she’d tell him.’

  ‘It depends,’ Nicholas said. ‘In any case, I’m not sure it matters. When they drain the cistern, they’ll know.’

  ‘I wish you’d killed him,’ Tobie said.

  ‘Adorne?’

  ‘Christ, no. At least – no. I meant David de Salmeton,’ said Tobie. ‘Look, it’s cooler outside. I’ll pull you out to the balcony. Anyway, everyone ought to see it once. Egypt en fête. Cairo celebrating its bloody Abundance.’

  After a while, when Tobie had got tired of fussing and had gone off to find something to eat, Nicholas hauled himself up from his cou
ch and, piling cushions, made himself a nest from which, between the folded-back screens of the mashrabiyya, he could survey Cairo over the water.

  He rested his chin on his arms. He hadn’t yet slept, but the shrieking nerves of his feet had calmed down; and the pain and sickness were beginning to cede to a promising languor. His mind, deadened by the effort of the latter few hours, had begun to stir idly again.

  Behind him, the desert sky had turned red: it was within a half-hour of sundown. Across the narrow skein of river that separated Roda from the city he gazed on a scene hardly changed down the centuries: the people of Egypt thanking their God for the Nile.

  The profile of the Maqattam hills – robbed, they said, to clothe Pharaoh’s granaries – must still be as always it had been; and the sky above it as always tinged rose and lilac and a clear, high, turquoise blue. A muslin moon had appeared beside the towers and domes of the Citadel, now prickled with light, and the viaduct arches descended, as they always had, from there to the river, as if scrawled in thin chalk.

  Behind them and about them were the domes and towers of Cairo; fig and pomegranate, tulip and iris; a Persian garden in mosaic and gilding. Sprays of jewelled glass bloomed, taper by taper, among the great houses, throwing rainbows up into the stucco, blushing upon marble, striking sparks from a fountain, or the silver and bronze of a door. In the last of the sun, carved in stucco, in sycamore, the outlines of chevrons, of stars, of the Name of God in all its forms flowed across the city as if blotted upon it.

  Thus Cairo as he had seen it, alone, in the days of his wandering. Tonight the river and city were one. Tonight, the shore gardens and fields were outlined in silver tinged with the red of the sunset. Date palms rose from arabesques of sparkling water; thickets of herbs stood between silver grids; mosques lay in roseate pools and water moved like an arrow from lake to widening lake, flashing, searing the eye.

  Because of the dazzle, he did not at first notice the boats. He heard them first: a shiver of bells, then the rise and slur of the flute, the finger-drum’s hiccough, the eerie drawl of a fiddle. His eye and ear attuning, he presently saw the vessels themselves, glinting with the jewels of their passengers; the wings of their sails set with lights and with bells. He watched them until, the light fading, they changed into streams of glowing dragonflies mounting the brimming veins of the city; fanning the air with slight music. Fires of joy rose silent over the Citadel and burst like pollen in the last of the sun.