Spice and the Devil's Cave (19 page)

He nodded, his eyes soft, as always, when he looked at her. “I expect, child, we'd hardly know it in a few years. As far as I can see,” he meditated aloud, “the whole world's going to be made over!”

“And all,” Abel threw over his shoulder, “all, for a fragile thing of wood and canvas that is daring the unknown!”

“It's the same to me who gets the blasted spices,” Scander observed.

“What?” protested Nicolo. “You wouldn't care, for instance, if Gama failed, and some other country stepped in on the spice trade ahead of Portugal?”

Scander took time to spit. “No, I wouldn't care, knowing it's as sure as I sit here that whoever gets the spice is going to settle for it in blood. But Master Gama's failing – that's something else. I'd give a year of my life to see him walk in here, this minute, and tell us he'd found everything as we “– he jerked his head toward Nejmi –” as we said ‘twas!”

“You will see him!” she declared, with that look in her eyes as of sunlight in a deep, deep pool. “Some day you'll watch him sail up the river!”

Ferdinand's head suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Watch whom?”

“Where did you come from, so early?” Ruth asked him, as he stepped into the room and nodded to everyone.

“Oh, the King thought it was too warm to drive out, so I'm off duty for a while.” He stood for a minute near the open door, and mopped his forehead.

“Summer's here, full force,” he declared. He turned to Nejmi. “Who was that you were saying would ‘sail up the river'?”

She was bending over the map, and hardly looked up to answer him: “Master Gama.”

“I thought so! Do you know,” he went on half talking to himself, “as I came up here I was thinking about the day he went away. My, but it seems a long time! People have begun to talk, too, about it's being too long – going on two years.”

“Come see how this map's gone ahead since you were here,” Abel broke in with apparent irrelevance. But when he had pointed out the freshly inked outlines, he quietly observed, “He could hardly have taken less than a long time to go as far as that, could he?”

“Still, sir, there's no denying it's being whispered around that Gama said he shouldn't return, if he didn't find the way to India.”

“Yes,” Nicolo agreed, “a man was complaining to me, today, that business hadn't come up to people's expectations, when Gama first went away. This chap had bought up land for warehouses, but now he didn't know whether or not to build.”

Abel laid down his quill, and sat back in his chair, and in his face was a look of bitter reminiscence. “They've forgotten the time they were climbing over each other to get information about the Expedition, so they could make something out of it! I remember someone's coming to my office about that very matter of new warehouses.”

He broke off, and there was a conscious silence in the room, for this was one of Abel's rare references to the office and the business he had given up in those black and terrible days of Manoel's decree against his Jewish subjects.

“That's just it!” Ferdinand contemptuously burst out. “All that they thought of was the trade Portugal was going to get from Gama's finding the Way, instead of the glory of just
finding
it!”

“I suppose,” Nicolo shot back, with some heat-for somehow, he felt that Ferdinand was covertly thrusting at him –” that you'd be satisfied to give Portugal the glory, and Spain the trade.”

“You're both right,” laughed Abel. “Ferdinand hates to see adventure made into business – and Nicolo asks what good is it unless it is?”

“Well, what is there to exploration,” Nicolo insisted, “if it's not put to use? You heard what Scander said about the Red Sea when the Cape route gets started. Those who don't follow the current are left in the backwash. If Venice doesn't take care,” he added, “that's what she'll come to.”

Ferdinand looked up, as if to reply, when Scander playfully nudged him. “The trouble with you, youngster, is that all you can think of is to go to sea and find something!”

“And just as soon as I'm through my tour of duty,” Ferdinand retorted, “you'll see me go!” His eyes returned to Nicolo. “Speaking of Venice,” he said, “Manoel and your ambassador are having a good deal to say to each other these days. It seems that Venice wants to know if we're going to keep a rigid monopoly on the Oriental trade – just in case Gama finds the passage to India!”

“What?” Nicolo exclaimed. “I thought Venice scouted the idea of the Cape route!”

“Then some of them must have changed their minds. And that's not all, either,” Ferdinand chuckled. “I even heard that if we don't let Venice keep her monopolies in the East, she'll get Egypt to make trouble for us!”

A minute of dumbfounded silence followed this
amazing
announcement. “It may be just gossip,” Ferdinand added.

“Gossip or truth,” Abel said at last, “it's astounding. Does Manoel appear to be disturbed?”

“Well, he isn't in as high spirits as when Gama went away, especially since people have begun shaking their heads over Gama's long absence. What with these rumours from Venice, and England's having sent Cabot on two voyages, and Columbus back from his third voyage – and yet never a word from Gama . . .”

“Bah!” snorted Scander. “What'd Cabot have to show for his two trips? A snare or two, and some fish-net needles that a civilized Arab'd laugh at. If ‘twas any part of the Orient that he struck, ‘twas the part next to nowhere! Anyway, John Cabot's dead, this half year; out of the way for good. And Columbus … a few pearls! Why, talk about pearls, I'll lay you those things he's showing around Granada would look like pebbles ‘side of what I've seen in the bazaars.”

“I suppose,” Ruth ventured, “that the Queen's dying so soon after they were married has something to do with Manoel's low spirits.”

Ferdinand grinned. “Not so you'd notice it! Already he has his eye on her sister.” His face changed, and he thoughtfully observed, “But there's no doubt that he misses talking to Gama and Master Diaz; and I've even heard him say –” he stole a look at Abel –“that he wishes Master Abraham were here to consult the stars about what's happening to Gama.”

“Humph!” A dull red spread over Abel's face, and it was several moments before he said, “It's precisely my opinion of Manoel that he'd be willing to use poor old Abraham after he'd done him all the harm he could.”

“Is he-poor?” Nejmi asked, and Nicolo saw that her eyes were very tender.

“Well, you know he could take nothing with him,” Abel reminded her, “not even money. But he's happy enough, I dare say, there in Tunis, and at least he's doing what he likes best: writing the history and genealogies of our people.”

Ferdinand cleared his throat, and fidgeted in his chair, his eyes watching Abel. “Would you,” he at last blurted out, “would you, sir, come to Manoel, suppose he asked you?”

Nicolo saw Ruth drop her sewing with an exclamation, and Nejmi glance wonderingly from Ferdinand to Abel. Even Scander was stirred to sit up with new interest.

“I?” Abel's brows were scornfully raised. “I go to Manoel?” Suddenly, he gave Ferdinand a shrewd look. “What made you ask?”

Ferdinand laughed a little sheepishly. “Fact is, sir, I've heard Manoel hint that he meant to get you to read the stars for Gama's fate!”

“H'm!” was all that Abel had to offer to this confession, and then, as if indifferent to the incident, he asked Scander a question which brought their heads close together over the table.

Ferdinand moved up to watch them, and Ruth went on with her sewing. Nejmi had left her place by Abel and, with her back to the room, was leaning out of a window.

From his seat, near the door, Nicolo studied her. Soft, dark braids against the pale gold of her dress. . . . Where did Ruth find those clinging, foreign-looking stuffs that she made into Nejmi's dresses? Invariably of some shade of gold, and unmistakably chosen for the delicate, ivory face. By the droop of her head he knew the look in her eyes: the shadow of sadness that hinted the reality-the remnant of the old fear.

He was debating joining her, there by the windows, when he saw her slip noiselessly into the next room and, presently, appear in the court. Apparently, no one but himself had noticed her go. He watched her as she wandered from flower-bed to flower-bed, gathered a spray of this or that, fastened a straggling runner, stripped off a faded bloom.

It was characteristic of her, he reflected, that she never stayed long, even in their intimate group. Spoken to, she would answer smilingly, but, as it were, from afar. Sometimes she volunteered a comment, but, again, from afar. The same delicate aloofness, the same exquisite remoteness, symbolic of her name. Was it intentional, this elusiveness, or instinctive, inherited? Hadn't Scander once said something about the reserve of Arab girls? Now and again, Nicolo recalled, she had let him come near, but the next time she was sure to offset the seeming intimacy. If he should go to her now, moving about in the flowery fragrance . . .

Someone brushed past him into the court – Ferdinand! . . Now he was sitting beside Nejmi under the old fig tree. He, too, had seen her leave the room, but had acted while he, Nicolo, had deliberated! He felt his cheeks burn in fury at himself, at Ferdinand. He suddenly realized that he was staring at them, and turned his head. He mustn't appear to watch them, but from where he sat in the doorway, he could plainly hear them.

Abel's and Scander's talk resolved itself into monotone, occasionally broken by Ruth's higher key. He became conscious that Abel was raising his voice, as if he were repeating something.

“What's that, sir?” Nicolo hastily asked.

“Why, I was calling Venice pretty high-handed, demanding to know what Manoel proposed to do about the Indian trade. What do you think?”

“Oh, she's had her way in trade so long that she's a good deal like a spoiled child. I fancy it won't take Gama long to give her an answer. But that other business that Ferdinand mentioned, of threatening to get Egypt's help against Portugal –”

Abel nodded. “Ugly.”

“Well,” Ruth comfortably contributed, “I expect those that live in palaces relish a bit of gossip the same as common folks. Probably that's all it is: gossip.”

“I don't know, ma'am,” Scander objected. “'Twouldn't be so out of the way for Egypt to send forces down the Red Sea, and waylay our fleets off India. And in that case –” he paused to rub his chin between thumb and finger –“you'd find I was right about the price I've always told you you'd pay for spice!”

“I hadn't thought of Egypt's attacking us from that end,” Abel ruminated, “but I can see it's feasible; far fetched, though. I should hardly worry. By the way, Nicolo, do these things that people are hinting about Gama's long absence affect your business?”

Nicolo pulled himself together and replied, “Not a bit, sir.”

He had just overheard Ferdinand's eager young voice –” Oh, Nejmi, why couldn't I have gone with him?” Speaking of Gama, he had thought, and had been listening for more, when Abel had broken in.

“Rodriguez was saying, a day or so ago,” Nicolo went on, “that
The Golden Star
never lacks for full hatches. But he agrees with me: no more new ships till we're sure of the Devil's Cave!”

“I won't be sorry when that time comes,” yawned Scander. “These maps are well enough”– with an apologetic glance at Abel –“but give me oakum and a mallet that I can bang all day!” He stripped a tattooed arm and vigorously flexed it.

Abel rolled up the map, and carefully fitted it into a brass tube. “Arthur Rodriguez,” he said, as he stood it on a shelf of others like it, “always had the name of being dependable. How do you find he wears, Nicolo?”

“Better all the time, sir! In the year we've been partners his judgment has always proved sound. So far, we've kept busy with colonial trade, but of course I'm hoping to spread out into spice. My funds, with the help of your investment, will more than finance building any extra ships we need.”

It was characteristic of Abel, Nicolo reflected, that he never referred to the capital he had entrusted to him when he had closed out his banking interests. Characteristic, too, that he had no comment whenever Nicolo reported its increase. Money never had meant much to Abel Zakuto. And as for active business, he, like those of his race here, was done with it. But at least, Nicolo thankfully reflected, Abel would never now leave Lisbon, rooted as he was, in this beloved house, with Ruth and Nejmi.

Her voice! . . . The impulse to turn his head almost conquered him. But he must keep his eyes away from the court-listen, with the appearance of not listening.

“Why do you want to go, Ferdinand?” she was saying. “To bring back gold . . . spice?”

For a moment there was silence. Then, a low, rapid outburst: “I hate that, Nejmi! I know trade must be, but it just isn't in me. To seek the unknown, for its sake only, seems so clean and sweet!”

Something clutched at Nicolo's heart. This talk against trade, his chosen calling! Did she, too, “hate” it?

Ferdinand's voice, low, passionate: “Can you keep a secret, Nejmi? Can you? . . . Some day I'm going to find where Sunset takes Dawn in his arms, and Day is born of their flaming kiss! I'm going to find where East and West meet . . . where there is no East and no West! Do you understand, Nejmi?”

In spite of himself, Nicolo turned his head. Ferdinand's eyes had the look of inward fire as on that first day, at The Green Window – glowing, smouldering. Ah, under this talk-this strange talk – of East and West, he was pouring out his heart to her! Yet, curiously, he seemed not to see her, but something beyond her: something hidden from physical sight, like a distant, beckoning vision – a radiant, solemn vision. And Nejmi was leaning toward him with the strangest smile of – of frightened happiness!