They spoke of marvels, of course: of the monstrous horse-fishes and lizards; of the tattooed women with gold-burdened ears, or stretched lips, or pendulous breasts, or of the kings with thirty wives each. That had to be listened to. But the advice Nicholas wanted was harder to come by, even from Diogo Gomes.
Africa? Jorge there knew all that he did. The Moors lived in the north – Diniz knew that, he’d fought them at Ceuta, good lad. But walk out of the back door of Ceuta, and there was the Sahara desert before you, stretching south for fifty-two days to the Sahel. And what was the Sahel? A belt of scrubland with rivers and grazing and trees, that divided the sands of the north from your tropical Land of the Blacks, a place of heat and rain and forest not even a madman could penetrate.
‘So that’s your interior,’ said Diogo Gomes, drinking up his cup of sweet wine. ’That’s the way the caravans go, north to south, taking silk and silver and salt down through the desert to these damned tricky marts of the Sahel and then plodding back north, your camels bow-legged with gold.
‘That is, not your camels. Christians are barred from that route. But being brighter than most, we found we could sail round the edge of the desert and, landing from time to time, entice some of the gold to the coast. All right so far as it goes. But why not go further, you ask, and cut into the north-to-south traffic?’
‘Ca’ da Mosto tried it,’ said Nicholas. ‘He said it couldn’t be done.’
‘And you didn’t believe him,’ said Gomes. ‘Well, I’ll show you. Where’s the map?’ And he put his cup down and, leaning over, stabbed a scarred finger.
‘There. There is Ceuta. There’s your north African shore in the Middle Sea. Follow me west through the Straits to the Ocean. Watch the African coast, how it bends to the south and the west – still green, still full of unchristian peasants, the devils. These are fishing villages. And now, see?’
He shifted his cup, and Diniz caught the map as it began to roll up. The commander flattened it with a broad hand, drinking absently. ‘Now look at the coast. Flat and pale, the sign of a damned, waterless land fit for no one but nomads, for you’re sailing down the edge of the Sahara with a steady north-easterly pushing you, and the sea with more sand than water in it, as your lead-line’ll tell you. There’s Cape Bojador, which men thought couldn’t be passed. A hundred miles south of the Grand Canary, that’s all it is, but nasty with rocks, keep well clear. Keep off the whole God-damned coast, watch out for rips, and don’t flatter yourself there’s a place safe to anchor.’
‘The current is south-west,’ said Jorge da Silves.
‘You want me to show you where it isn’t? You wait,’ said Diogo Gomes. He was red, but only partly from wine. ‘But now, you want to keep going south, and there’s the Rio de Ouro which you ought to know is a gulf, not a river, and leading straight into the desert, where the only gold is already on camel backs. Correct? And so go on until you’ve made three hundred miles since Bojador, and you’re coming to the good white stone of Cape Blanco and within it, the gulf we are speaking of; the first place for a thousand miles that will give you quiet nights and fresh water, for all it’s as bleak as a legless man’s toe.’
‘Arguim,’ said Nicholas. ‘Where Ca da’ Mosto went inland by camel.’
Diogo Gomes looked up. ‘You met him; you know what he found out. The gold travelling north passes through a market called Wadan that lies six days inland from Arguim; and six days beyond that, there’s another, better market called Taghaza. But that’s twelve days into the desert, in a land without water and full of robbers and nomads. You set up a trading-post there, and you have to set up some means of providing it with water and food and enough men and arms to protect it. You think you could do that?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas.
‘No. If you want to tap the real wealth, sure enough that’s where some of it is. But meanwhile we have to content ourselves with what the dealers fetch to the coast. The Tawny Moors bring the stuff from Wadan to Arguim and sell to Christian ships with a Portuguese licence, and to nobody else. Pirates are hanged. Traders who sell arms to the Muslims are burned for heresy. Business isn’t quite what it was – in the Prince’s time you’d find the warehouses full, and fifteen caravels would load every year. Soon, it may be like that again; but meantime you’ll still find the odd ship in the anchorage, and you should get enough gold to make it worth your while, and the King’s. Gold and whatever else you may be after.’
Diniz said, ‘Could you reach Prester John from Wadan?’
The map rolled up with a smack. Diogo Gomes sat back and looked from him to Nicholas. He said, ‘Did King Alfonso require it?’
Nicholas paused. Diniz said, ‘No, but the Pope did. The Pope freed a galley, and asked the King to give Senhor Niccolò all his assistance to reach Ethiopia.’
‘I see,’ said the commander. His eyes in the unshaven face were watchful and narrowed. ‘So now what will you do? That is, you’ve heard, I assume?’
‘No,’ Nicholas said. He laid a hand on Diniz’ arm. ‘The Pope?’
‘The Holy Father, God rest him, is dead,’ said Diogo Gomes. ‘And the Crusade from Ancona is halted. The fleets and the armies have gone.’
‘But,’ said Diniz, ‘the threat from the Turk still exists.’ Nicholas took his hand away.
Diogo Gomes said, ‘Naturally.’ He recovered, and repeated himself, rather slowly. ‘Naturally, to link hands with Prester John and his Christian armies is still Holy Church’s great desire. Any man who did so … You have this in mind, Senhor Niccolò? This? If so, you would have to sail much further south than Arguim. You would have to penetrate the interior from the Sahel.’
‘The land my lord Diogo knows better than anyone,’ said Jorge da Silves, his hands laced hard together. ‘Where the rivers begin. The rivers outlandishly named, any one of which may be the great Nile, and the highway we are seeking.’
Diogo Gomes took the flask in his hands and held it ready to pour, his face scanning them all. ‘Is that what you want?’ said the commander. ‘Then I shall tell you what I found out, and willingly. I believed you had your eyes set on the gold mart at Wadan.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘The Franciscans have drilled me too well. But I won’t hide from you that I need to find gold if I go to the Sahel. I have funds to replace.’
‘The marts are there,’ Gomes said. ‘As I told you. It is where the northern caravans come to unload. They might sell to you, if you are circumspect, and if you reach there. There are many dangers; curiosity being the greatest.’
Nicholas said, ‘You travelled further inland than Ca’ da Mosto ever did. Two hundred miles?’
‘And turned back,’ said Diogo Gomes. ‘Men become frightened, and sicken, and die. There must be enough to man your ship home. Men ask incautious questions.’
‘About Wangara?’ Nicholas said.
The seaman’s eyes rose to his. ‘You know the name?’
‘Many people know the name,’ Nicholas said.
‘Then forget it again,’ said Diogo Gomes. ‘Unless your friend Lopez here is going to betray it. Is that why you have brought him?’
It was Loppe who answered, unruffled as ever, dignified as ever. He said, ‘My lord, if I knew it, I should not tell that secret to my worst enemy. I sail as an interpreter, nothing else. Senhor Niccolò seeks a way across the Sahel to the land of Prester John, and he has come to you for the kind of help which I cannot give him.’
The hand on the map slackened, and for a moment it seemed that the scroll would be allowed, for the last time, to close. Jorge da Silves suddenly spoke. ‘But this is so. The King has confided a new caravel to the venture, and his trust. I, as sailing-master, would fear to lead it so far without his Treasurer’s wisdom.’
Pride against obsession. Better than anyone, Jorge da Silves knew how loyalty and instinct could compete. For a moment, no one said anything. Then Diogo Gomes heaved a sigh. He said, ‘Why not. It is what the Prince would have wished. Only, you understand, in his day he chose the c
aptains. We knew them.’
‘You know me,’ said Jorge da Silves.
He had flushed. He didn’t say, as he might have said, that some of those same captains had been robbers and murderers. Gomes made no apology. He only said, ‘Well. Let us pass round the flask, and I shall tell you what I can, and you must ask what you will. For it is a far land, and a dangerous one, and you will have little armour but your intelligence.’
It was late when they left, and Diniz rode with them for some time in silence. After a while he said, ‘The old man. He wished he were going to sea again.’
Nicholas didn’t look round. He said, ‘This sea is for fit men who will leave no grief behind them.’
‘You expect to return,’ Diniz said.
‘I leave men behind me,’ said Nicholas.
‘My mother has Simon,’ said Diniz. ‘My uncle Simon may be in Madeira.’
‘Your uncle Simon is not Portuguese,’ Nicholas said. ‘You are your mother’s man. You and no other.’
There was a long pause. Diniz said, ‘What is Wangara?’
Loppe said nothing, and the captain was silent. Nicholas said, ‘The source of the gold.’
‘Where is it?’ said Diniz. This time, Loppe looked at him sharply.
Nicholas said, ‘No one knows. Those who try to find out are killed. That is another reason why you are not going to Guinea.’ And the boy said nothing more.
It was a relief when they came to the place in Lagos where their roads parted and Diniz, turning abruptly, rode up the steep hill to his home. In the ten days that were left, Nicholas doubted if he would see him again, and was annoyed and sorry together. But he had undertaken to convey him to his parents’ house in Madeira, with the baleful Gelis, and Bel of Cuthilgurdy, their coffers and servants. He had promised nothing else.
Before supper that night Father Godscalc strode in to confront Nicholas and Loppe in their parlour, a thick scroll riding under his arm. There was ink on his thumb, and a great blotch of it under his chin. He said, ‘I’ve reached a conclusion. You don’t go to Madeira.’
It had been a long day, but that should never matter. Nicholas remained with his expensive hose stretched before him, and his elbows hung behind over the only chair in the room with a back. He said, ‘Because of Simon, because of Diniz, because of Gelis, because of David de Salmeton, or because of St Pol & Vasquez? I can’t afford to agree with you.’
‘Yes, you can,’ Godscalc said. The map had flattened under his arm. He drew it out and threw it warm on a table and then sat down, his feet splayed, his two large toes braced in their leathers like bombards.
He said, ‘Tell Diniz you can’t take him to Madeira. Leave the Borselen girl. They won’t sell to David de Salmeton; you can persuade them. In any case, miss out Madeira. I thought Simon might see sense and join with you, but now I doubt it. I will not have you confront him, the boy at your side. Go straight to Guinea, or call at the Grand Canary if you have to. But, Nicholas, go past Madeira.’
‘I can’t,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have to meet the Ghost from Sanlúcar, and she’s already halfway there.’ He waited.
Godscalc said, ‘The old Doria you got out of Ceuta. You’ve renamed her?’
‘It seemed advisable. And not so old. Built in 1460 for Jordan de Ribérac, from whom his son Simon purloined her. The Vatachino thought her worth a great deal of money.’
‘I see,’ said Godscalc. ‘And will a new name stop Simon from recognising her in Madeira?’
‘Perhaps, if she anchors far enough out,’ Nicholas said. ‘In any case, she’s got a good spread of sail and few to chase her. We need her. In Prince Henry’s time, the San Niccolò would have been sailing in convoy.’
Godscalc sat as still as a monk in a psalter, a large hand on each knee of his gown. He said, ‘The old Doria. She’s a big ship for an escort. With a big cargo space. Fifty times as large as the Niccolò. What have you loaded her with?’
‘Horses,’ Nicholas said. ‘And a few things intended for Ceuta. She also has a new master: Ochoa de Marchena.’ Nicholas picked up the thick scroll and pinched it judiciously. It produced an ample sound, like a pea pod many times magnified. Inside was a chart of the Canary Islands. He sat down and looked at it. He needed Godscalc, that was the trouble.
‘Ochoa de Marchena is a pirate,’ Godscalc said.
Nicholas said, ‘Do you think I’d risk an honest man’s skin in an ownerless ship? Although he is honest, I’m told, in his way.’
‘As Mick Crackbene?’ Godscalc said. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t ask him.’
‘Are you indeed,’ Nicholas said. ‘So is that all?’
‘Yes,’ said Godscalc. ‘Provided you agree to leave the girl and Diniz in Lagos, and pick up the Ghost in Madeira without going on shore. And provided that you tell me what you’re going to bring back in her hold, seeing that you can’t sail a roundship across Africa.’
Nicholas inflated his lungs. He unhooked his arms and, assembling his feet under his knees, leaned forward and clasped his hands gently. He looked up. ‘You’re telling me that you’ve heard the Pope’s dead.’
‘You must be glad,’ Godscalc said. ‘Your vows are void. You don’t need to locate any Christians.’
‘I don’t need to,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I’m told that if I go upriver from the Sahel, I may come across them. I’m also told I’ll find baptisable heathens. I thought that was why you were here.’
‘Oh, yes. To baptise them for what?’ Godscalc said.
He had waited so long for the question that, now it came, he let his exasperation show. ‘As you mentioned,’ Nicholas said, ‘the roundship has plenty of cargo space. They wouldn’t be crowded.’
Loppe jerked up his head, and then said nothing. Nicholas outstared the priest. Godscalc said, ‘Nicholas, I am sorry, but I can’t follow your mind any longer. I hope I’m mistaken. But for Loppe’s sake, the question has to be asked. Are you trading in slaves?’
Nicholas said, ‘Prince Henry engaged in it. The Vatachino will, if they can buy their way in.’
‘What are you saying?’ said Godscalc. His hands, sliding upwards, gripped his powerful thighs till his fingers were barred pink and white. ‘That it will continue, so why not take part in it? That there are degrees, within which some sort of purchase might be palatable? That there are savages who, out of despair and starvation, would already be willing to come, and others, gifted like Loppe, who would come gladly, but that they have no idea what good fortune awaits them? What are you saying?’
I am saying, go away and don’t meddle. Except that he couldn’t, aloud. Nicholas said, ‘That neither Loppe nor I can give you an answer. Either the consoling answer you’d like, or the other you don’t want to think about. Why do you think Loppe wants to go back?’
‘To join his family,’ Godscalc said. His gaze, painfully fierce, moved between Nicholas and the African, where it rested.
Loppe returned the look with composure, his eyes the colour of egg-white and ink; his skin smooth and black within his Venetian clothes. He said, ‘I have no family, Father. I was taken at Taghaza, and batch-sold in Tangier for Lagos. I have no one to support. If I went back, all I could bring of value is what I have learned, and I don’t know what I have learned, for I only know half of it. I have to see the rest for myself. There is slavery and there is service. I have worked beside men far from home, who are nevertheless contented.’
Godscalc didn’t at once respond. The silence was one of compassion. Then he turned to Nicholas. ‘Go on with this, if you want him to hate you.’
Nicholas smiled and Loppe, catching it, smiled in return. Nicholas said, ‘I’ll take a chance. Persuade him out of it, of course, if you like. Persuade Diniz, too, while you’re at it. I don’t quite know how you’ll stop him going to Madeira, short of tying him up.’
‘You won’t do what I ask?’ Godscalc said.
Nicholas stood. ‘No. But now, you don’t need to come.’
He thought the priest would answer at once; but
he just rose to his feet, and stood in silence a moment. Then he stretched out his hand for the roll and, collecting it, walked from the room.
Loppe said, ‘Ah, Nicholas.’
Nicholas said, ‘He is better away.’
He looked up at the silence. Loppe said, ‘But he isn’t away. He has to come now. You have compelled him.’
Chapter 12
IN THE THIRD WEEK of October, the Governor came to the wharf with his gentlemen to bid Godspeed to the Venetian merchant and banker who, by His Christian Majesty’s grace, was about to take the word of the Lord to the heathen, and bring back from the converts many comforts.
The Governor had hopes of this expedition. He had exerted himself, the previous night, to hold a banquet of some splendour for the near-gentlemen who were to lead it, and this morning, despite the hour and the rain, felt confident he would not regret it. Nicholas kissed his hand and embarked, glittering, on one of the San Niccolò’s boats.
With him were Gregorio his purser, Loppe his steward and the self-contained figure of Father Godscalc, his apothecary and chaplain. Already on board was the determined group of his Madeira-bound passengers. Father Godscalc, if he had tried, had not dissuaded Diniz Vasquez from coming, or Gelis van Borselen and Bel her companion. Neither had the priest gone back to Venice, although he had stood long at the quay and watched the Ciaretti turn home, fully laden. He had left then, in silence, to prepare for this, his unhappy voyage as the pedagogue, the conscience of Nicholas.
The ship rode in deep water, her masts rocking, her passengers out of the way as she made ready to sail. They had practised this, the formal routine of departure, and Nicholas knew it by heart. He took his place on the high vestibule of the poop, watching without seeming to watch as the orders passed from captain to mate, and from mate to the helm and the mariners. The bare feet thudded on deck: stowing the companionway; hooking the tackle and hoisting the ship’s boats inboard.
Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 17