Spice and the Devil's Cave (4 page)

“There was something else that you said: that Lisbon was going to get all the trade. What makes you think that?”

“What I've heard about Diaz. I believe he's on the right track to India.”

Something leaped in the boy's eyes, and his hand shot out to Nicolo's. “Diaz is the greatest man in the world! I know him … if you'd like to meet him.”

“Would I! – That's a chance in a lifetime.”

“Then I'll arrange it. Now,” with a little grimace, “I must be going back to the palace.”

Nicolo rose and walked with him to the door.

“Where is the palace?” he inquired. “Up there on top of the hill?”

“That? Oh, that's the Castle of St. George – old citadel that dates back to the time of the Moors. Here –” Magellan drew Nicolo from the doorway –“step out where you can see. Might as well begin to get your bearings! Now, that big bulk of a building with the dome and arches, half-way between us and the Castle, is the Sé Patriarchal.
¹
That's where St. Vincent's tomb is-Lisbon's patron saint, you know. Some say it used to be a Moorish mosque.”

“I noticed it first thing and wondered if it weren't the palace.”

“Why, the palace is in the other direction!” exclaimed Magellan. “It's down by the harbour, you know – faces square on the Tagus. You must have seen it this morning.”

“I'm afraid I was too busy with the empty sugar barrel!” laughed Nicolo.

The other grinned sympathetically. “Don't know that I blame you! But the next time you're down at the water front, take notice of a great three-sided building with an enormous square in the middle that opens on the river. That's Manoel's palace.”

“Where you pull on the royal stockings, and pick up handkerchiefs that the ladies drop!” bantered Nicolo.

The boy made a face. Then, a little bashfully, he asked, “Perhaps I'll see you here soon again?”

“If there's a chance to see
you,”
Nicolo said heartily. “And what do you say we exchange names?”

“Oh, I know yours, already! I heard your captain say it; Nicolo Conti, isn't it? And mine's Magellan – Ferdinand Magellan.”

From the door of The Green Window Nicolo looked after him with a warm little stir at his heart. Those brilliant, brooding eyes . . . that lovable frankness, even if indiscreet . . . the sensitive colour, and, again, those altogether extraordinary eyes!

He stepped into the alley way and stood, for a moment, stretching himself in the warm sun and exultantly breathing in the tang of the clear air. He had made no mistake in leaving Venice for Portugal. Here the future was in the shaping, with a chance to share in the process; in the result, too. For the moment, Life seemed a joyous effervescent that foamed gloriously over the edge as he drank. He was glad to be here. Glad!

He started to walk on, when an idea occurred to him. He turned, amusedly contemplated the big green window in the tiny front; then he re-entered the inn.

Pedro was giving a final scouring to the long board top of a table. He had taken it off its trestles, the better to clean it, and, now, as Nicolo watched, he lifted it back.

“You forgot something, perhaps?” he asked, as he suddenly perceived Nicolo.

“I was just wondering if-well-I don't suppose you'd consider a lodger, would you, Pedro?”

“I've never taken lodgers, Senhor. I have nothing but a small room overhead.” The tone was deprecatory but Nicolo could see that the kind eyes were pleased.

“Let me see it,” he said. “All I want is a place to sleep in. I'm sure of good food here at any rate”

Eventually it was agreed that he should move in at once. The room was small, but it was clean and sunny and had a tolerable bed.

“I'll have my box brought here,” Nicolo concluded, “shall I, Pedro?”

Pedro nodded. “If you're satisfied.” Then, “Are you staying in Lisbon for long?” he inquired.

“For always, I hope!” Nicolo told him, good hu-mouredly.

“So! Then you have friends here?”

“Only one, so far – the young fellow I was talking to, downstairs. But presently I expect there'll be more. There's a banker here that I mean to look up, a Master Abel Zakuto. You don't happen to know him, do you?”

“Of course! Who, in Lisbon, doesn't? A kind of a sailor-fellow on land, he is; always pottering with navigation instruments, and hobnobbing with anyone who's either been to sea or is going.”

“Oh, that isn't the Zakuto whom I've heard about at Home,” Nicolo broke in. “My man is a banker, a Jewish banker.”

Pedro nodded. “He's that, too, a Jewish banker; same person. Yes, I can show you where he lives.”

Directed by a graphic finger, Nicolo's eyes finally made out, high on the hillside, a certain house at the head of a long stairway. Along the front a row of windows were bright gold in the afternoon sun. It struck Nicolo's fancy-perched up there with an air of satisfaction at having out-climbed all those other climbing houses! He would go there some day soon and make acquaintance with this banker that he'd heard of in Venice – Abel Zakuto.

¹
Old Lisbon's Cathedral.

CHAPTER 3

Abel Zakuto's Workshop

A
BEL
quietly let himself through his gate, and crossed the court to the workshop. A little breathless from the last few stairs, he sat down and reviewed this morning's work.

It had been just another fruitless search for some clue to the Girl. He could think of nothing more to do, and he had to own himself completely baffled. Presently Ruth would come in to inquire if he had any news. He could hear her moving about in the further end of the house. Whatever she was doing, he knew she was near the Girl, for from the first she had watched over her with a fierce tenderness that amazed, while it touched, Abel. Later, perhaps, Ferdinand would drop in, with some light on the mystery.

Meanwhile – the whole of a golden afternoon with his tools and his instruments, and the blossoming court lovingly watching him through the open door!

He looked about the room like a boy who has successfully manoeuvred an afternoon for play – triumphant, but a little guilty; for, after his morning's search, he had deliberately come home instead of going to business. A feeling of happy seclusion and security stole over him. It was like a fortress, this room of his, high above streets and noise, and the wide outlook from its windows gave him a sense of command. Beneath him lay Lisbon's hills, and, in the blue bowl of a harbour that the widening Tagus had made at their feet, he could even distinguish the flags of the crowded shipping. He could, too, look directly down on Manoel's palace; on the massive wings and the huge colonnaded quadrangle open on the south to the river front.

He never gazed through his windows without recalling his friends' comments and Ruth's protests at his choice of large panes of clear glass in face of the fashion for mullions. He had let them talk. But he had gone on fitting those panes into casements that ran the width of the workshop – for one of Abel Zakuto's necessities was a view.

They'd laughed a little, too, when he'd made such a huge lamp to hang over the table. But when he'd got it done – a sturdy column of wrought iron and glass – they'd all admitted that it made studying the maps at night as easy as by day. “A regular lighthouse” someone had laughingly dubbed it – and the name had stuck.

But he must get to work; before he knew it, midday would be afternoon. There was so much to do . . . the astrolabe . . . the compass box. He opened a cupboard, and stood looking at two plates of copper within. Gently he took one up – almost as if it were alive – turned it in his hands. No, not that today; too much else to be done. Besides, before he could cut the copper into the proper discs, he must first put on paper the design that he had pretty well in mind. Already he could see in its completeness the new instrument that he had in mind: a metal astrolabe like those the Arabs had used for centuries, but as yet unknown to western navigation. This was Abel's newest and most precious secret, and that was why his fingers trembled a little, as he put the plate back into the cupboard.

He'd better go on with the compass box, he decided, since it was begun; but the piece of mahogany on which he'd started was so hard that first he must sharpen his saw.

As he began filing, he had a mental picture of Ruth – Ruth as she would presently stand, in the doorway, fix him with her bright, black eyes, and say – he knew well enough what she would say: “The time you waste in this workshop of yours, Abel! . . . Think of the money you could be making!”

Ruth had a heart of gold, he reflected, but when it came to imagination, one had to be patient with her. Besides, to do her justice, she wasn't alone in her opinion; for he knew it was said, here in Lisbon, that Abel Zakuto's astuteness could have made him rich even in this city whose Jews were known over Europe for their sagacity.

“Rich!” Abel snorted contemptuously. “Money!” What money could buy the wealth of this room? Poor enough it might look to some with its bare table and plain chairs. But think of the men who'd sat around that table! . . .

Diego Cam, with his first glowing tales of how he'd seen the Congo's vast flood rush far into the sea, of how he'd set up at its mouth the stone pillar of Portugal; Christopher Columbus and John Cabot, who'd come here, sad and disheartened by King John's indifference, but who'd gone away fired with the courage that they'd found here in the workshop; and Pero d'Alemquer, chief pilot of the Diaz expedition to the Cape; and Martin Behaim, the German. Conceited Martin was, Abel reflected, but such charts as he had made, with such German thoroughness! Would these men have gathered in his workshop, if he'd been only a money maker? Would Bartholomew Diaz come here night after night, if he, Abel Zakuto, had been merely a rich man?

He laid down the sharpened saw, and stood up to reach a partly worked piece of mahogany. He lingered to survey a row of shelves on which were ranged delicate tools and packets of metal and blocks of fine-grained wood. There was one shelf that ran entirely to compasses. Mentally Abel contrasted them with the unwieldy “Genoese Needle”
¹
– and gave a sigh of content. . . . Not but what he could improve on his present workmanship – and would!” Getting money,” he mused, “when one could be making instruments to help find new worlds!”

His eyes roved to a niche in the wall, and lovingly dwelt there – his precious, even if tiny, library! What wealth would tempt from him those parchment treatises on astronomy and geometry, or that volume of Marco Polo's
Travels
transcribed from the very copy once owned by the Great Navigator,
²
and bound by Abel's own hands in boards half-covered with sheepskin.

He sat down at his carpenter's bench and made fast the mahogany block. This was to be a compass larger than those on the shelf, and in his mind it had already been dedicated to a certain enterprise – another of his secrets. By and by, he ran on to himself, when he had finished it and the astrolabe, then,
then
–
he
was going to make maps . . . Maps!

He sawed on, till the severed block fell to the floor. Then he laid down his work, slid open the table drawer and began to lean over his copies of maps, inscribed with such signatures as Giovanni Leardo, Fra Mauro, Cadamosto. One of these days, he promised himself, he, too, would make maps – not, as these other chaps made them, as they fancied or hoped the earth was – but as it really was; but for that, of course, he would have to wait till Diaz put the final link in the sea route to India, and could give him facts.

He closed the drawer and went on with his sawing. Then – as he had foreseen – Ruth stood in the doorway.

“Abel –”

When Ruth began that way, and then paused, it was a sign that her mind must be unloaded.

“Yes, Ruth?”

She came into the workshop, and sat down, without so much as a glance at the litter of sawdust to which she usually objected. “Abel – I'm worried about that child. Why doesn't she talk?”

Abel took up a chisel and ran his thumb over its edge. Vaguely he was wondering at Ruth's silence about the sawdust. He stole a look at her. Her face was anxious, softer than he remembered.

“Shouldn't you think she'd talk,” she continued, “and tell us what frightened her?”

“No, I shouldn't. Just think of the terror that was in her poor face; that still is. The child is simply beyond speech.”

“Beyond speech, Abel? You don't mean –”

“Oh, nothing but what'll right itself,” he hastily assured her. “By and by, when she feels at home with us –” He was absorbed, as he applied the chisel to an uneven edge.

Ruth watched him in silence. “I wonder,” he heard her say, as if she were talking to herself, “I wonder what her voice will sound like.” And not waiting for him to comment, she left the room.