Otto caught the sight of riders coming along the shore toward them. There were a dozen men, heavily armed, and mounted on camels. The strongman sidled over to the wagon, feeling for an old blunderbuss which was mounted on brackets beneath the steps.
Keeping his eyes on the riders, Signore Rizzoli cautioned the big German, “Stay away from that weapon, Herr Kassel, we are heavily outnumbered. Don’t run to the wagon, ladies, they have already seen you. Please remain calm, everybody.”
Mummo began backing Poppea into the wagon shafts, casting a dubious eye over the mounted men. “I don’t like it. What if they are slavers, or robbers?”
La Lindi extinguished the fire by kicking sand over it. “Let’s just hope for the best, maybe they’ll leave us alone.”
The camels lolloped, splay-footed, up to the troupe and halted. The leader, a tall, hooded man, tapped his mount’s front legs with a quirt. The camel knelt, allowing him to dismount. Throwing back the hood of his burnoose, the leader pointed the quirt at Otto.
“Are you in charge here, big man?”
Smiling and bowing, Signore Rizzoli stepped forward. “Signore, I am Augusto Rizzoli, these are my troupe of entertainers. We are merely passing through here.”
The man swept his quirt in a wide arc. “All these lands belong to my master, Al Misurata. You are trespassing without his permission!”
The showman spread his arms apologetically. “Commendatore,14 pray forgive us, we meant no harm or insult to your master.”
The man rapped the quirt against his pantaloons, staring at each of the troupe in turn. “Hmm, travelling entertainers, eh? Well, let’s hope you put on a good show. I am Bomba Shakal, my master is a lover of diversions and entertainment. We will see if you can amuse him. Pack your belongings and follow me!”
Signore Rizzoli masked his reaction to Bomba’s overbearing manner. Still smiling, he nodded to his companions. “Do as he bids, we will entertain his master.”
Ned sat on the back steps of the wagon with Otto and the two clowns. Inside the wagon behind them, Mamma, La Lindi and Serafina leaned on the sill of the open half-door. Signore Rizzoli sat in the driver’s seat, holding Poppea’s reins, while Bomba rode at the horse’s side, making sure the wagon was on course.
Buffo stared at the outriders surrounding their flanks and rear. “Well, my friends, it seems we’ve been given an invitation which we can’t turn down, eh?”
Mummo shrugged. “Bomba wouldn’t look kindly on refusals. I wager he’d kill us at the blink of an eye.”
Mamma nodded grimly. “Let’s hope his master is a more reasonable man.”
Buffo grinned foolishly, waving at the outriders and shouting in Italian, “Is Al Misurata a jolly old buffer, you clod-faced sons of she-goats?”
The riders’ dark eyes stared back at him over the black cloths they wore to shield their faces against blowing sand.
Buffo continued calling to them. “Nice to know you don’t speak good Italian. Hah, you probably just grunt, like sows around a trough!”
Leaning over, Mamma cuffed his ears lightly. “Don’t push them, who knows what languages they can speak. Anyhow, they haven’t harmed us so far.”
Otto ground his teeth audibly. “Ach, I feel so helpless, sitting here like a chicken that is being brought back from the market!”
Even though the strongman could not hear him, Ned agreed. “We’re all chickens, mate, surrounded by hawks!”
6
FOR MORE THAN TWO DAYS, BEN HAD been locked in the cellar, though he had lost all count of time in the total darkness. Sleep was out of the question—rustling, scrabbling, scratching and other odd noises warned him about the presence of other living things moving round in the blackness. Insects, scorpions, rats, maybe even a snake, he could not tell. Whenever he sensed anything coming near he would fling handfuls of sand and snarl like a wild animal to keep the unknown creatures at bay. His eyes were sore from rubbing to keep them open, his lips were cracked and his tongue dry and swollen from thirst. He had given up trying to contact Ned mentally.
All his prayerful pleas to the angel seemed to be of no avail; he was completely alone. Feeling constantly dizzy and disoriented, he crouched against the wall, wondering. What had compelled him to argue with Al Misurata? This was something he could not explain, though maybe it was because he rebelled against the feeling that he was being treated as no more than an animal. A dumb chattel, something to be bought and sold offhandedly. However, the time he had spent being punished for his words had completely subdued him. He felt beaten and defeated by hunger, thirst and worst of all, loneliness.
Ben grunted with surprise as the lock grated and the small door swung open. Sunlight caught him in a golden shaft, temporarily blinding him. Men entered the cellar, two guards crouching low. He was grasped beneath the armpits; unable to resist, the boy slumped limply, his feet scraping the floor as he was hauled roughly out into the daylight. Groaning, Ben shielded his eyes against the sun’s midday glare. He looked down and saw a pair of handsomely tooled Cordovan boots. The boy’s eyes travelled slowly upward, until he was staring into the pitiless gaze of Al Misurata. The Barbary pirate placed his boot heel against Ben’s chest, shoving him flat into the dust. The slaver’s voice challenged him ironically.
“So, my little bleating goat, do you feel like lecturing me further on the subject of my wealth and your views on it?”
Ben could only gaze up dumbly at his interrogator.
The boot heel pressed harder on the boy’s chest. “Answer me, do you?”
Ben shook his head. The pirate smiled thinly.
“Don’t spare my feelings, just say if you wish to continue the argument. Then I can send you back to the cellar.” He saw the look of fear on the boy’s tear-grimed face. “Well? I’m waiting.”
Ben shook his head a second time. It seemed to satisfy his captor, who turned to the guards.
“Let him bathe, give him something clean to wear. Have Jasmina feed him. She can instruct him to wait upon me at the evening meal.”
The guards walked Ben to the moat and pushed him in. They stood watching impassively as he washed and drank at the same time. After awhile, Jasmina appeared. The stern-faced woman dropped a loose white gown on the bank of the shallow moat. Leaning forward, she wagged her stick threateningly at Ben.
“Finish splashing about, now, put that on and come to the kitchen. Any more insolence from you, boy, and I will wear this stick to a splinter on your back. Understood?”
Ben nodded, but she had turned away and gone inside the house. One of the guards chuckled.
“Be a good little frog, or Jasmina will take the hide off you. She knows how to use that cane.”
Ben completed his bath in silence.
Jasmina was seated at the kitchen table. She indicated two bowls, one filled with water, the other with food. “Eat, drink and listen to what I tell you, infidel.”
The food was plain, but good. A sort of warm semolina, with scraps of boiled goatmeat in it. Ben used his fingers as a scoop, alternating with gulps of cold, fresh water as he listened to his instructor.
“This evening you will serve the master. Kneel on one knee beside his divan. Do not look about, keep your eyes lowered, as a good servant should. Do not speak, but watch the master’s left hand. If he rubs his fingers together, bring him a bowl of scented water and a hand towel. If he holds his goblet out, you must fill it quickly. I will be watching to see if you spill any drink. If he points to any food, fruit or meat, bring the dish to him. Hold it close so he may choose from it. When he waves his hand then you must remove it immediately. Do you understand?”
For the first time in days, Ben ventured to speak. “I understand, madame.” He winced as she rapped the cane sharply against his arm.
“What did I tell you? Either nod or shake your head. Slaves only speak at the command of their superiors. Now, do you understand, boy?”
This time Ben nodded his head once. Jasmina touched his chin with the end of her cane. “Y
ou will learn.”
For the remainder of the afternoon she allotted various tasks to Ben: fetching, carrying, cleaning dishes and sweeping the stone floor, then sprinkling water around to keep down the dust. If she caught her pupil looking up, even briefly, Jasmina rapped the tabletop with her cane. “Eyes down, slave!” Ben would drop his eyes swiftly. He wished he had never let her, and all the others, know of his skill in speaking different languages. Then he would have avoided their attentions, and merely been left with the other prisoners. He permitted himself a quick, humourous thought: Slaves, especially servants, must become experts on flooring. After all, they spent most of their time just staring at what was beneath their feet.
It was late afternoon when Ben heard the main gates opening. He detected the sound of animals, men’s voices and the creaking of a wagon. He had thought Jasmina was taking a nap, but she was watching him like a snake with a bird.
“The little pig has big ears, eh? What goes on outside this kitchen does not concern an infidel slave. Clean under this table, it’s covered with dust and crumbs. Move!”
Ben scrambled beneath the table and began brushing. Finding himself facing the open doorway, he risked a fleeting glance. Beyond the little moat bridge, but obscured by a date palm trunk, he glimpsed the hooped canvas top of a wagon. It was covered in crude artwork, with the name Rizzoli emblazoned in prominent letters. Then the wagon rolled out of view. Jasmina’s cane tapped the sole of his bare foot, so he lowered his gaze promptly. Returning to his task, Ben wondered what a Rizzoli could possibly be. The stern taskmistress interrupted his thoughts abruptly.
“Lie down now where you are, take some rest. You’ll be no good falling asleep this evening.” Jasmina’s chair scraped back as she rose from the table.
Ben lay on his side, watching as she spread a dark blue cloth over the table. Its tasselled fringes reached down to the floor, cutting off everything within sight. Ben was not unduly bothered. He was very tired. Closing his eyes, he fell into a slumber, still thinking about the name. Rizzoli? Again, the strange boy’s inherent humour crept out of his thoughts. A man maybe? The Great Rizzoli, master of magic and mystery? He drifted into sleep with a smile on his lips. An animal maybe? See the only Rizzoli in captivity! The smile faded. Poor Rizzoli. Like him, it, too, was a captive.
Al Misurata looked out from the windows on the second floor of his big house. Beside him stood another man. This one was slightly older than the pirate, and more simply garbed. By his manner and bearing he was obviously a man used to seafaring. Ghigno the Corsair was first mate of Al Misurata’s ship, Sea Djinn. He was Sicilian, and the name Ghigno15—Italian for sneer—was an apt title for him. He had received a dreadful wound in a stiletto fight many years ago; from cheekbone to jaw a deep, ragged cut had severed the lower facial muscles. When it healed, he was left with a permanent sneer on his face. Ghigno was Al Misurata’s second in command, often deputising as captain of the Sea Djinn. The two men had known each other since their wild young days. They stood sipping wine, watching as the cavalcade, with the wagon at its centre, entered through the main gates.
Ghigno shook his head in mock bewilderment. “What has Bomba brought you now, amico?”
Al Misurata caught Bomba’s eye and beckoned him to come up. “I’m not quite sure, Ghigno, but we’ll soon find out. That Bomba, he’d sell his own mother if she were still alive.”
Bomba shed his cloak as he came into the room, accepting a goblet of wine from Ghigno. He pointed his quirt at the troupe emerging from the cart. “Well, Master, what do you think?”
The pirate stroked his beard thoughtfully. “What am I supposed to think? Who are they, where did you find them and why have you brought them here?”
Bomba bowed, touching chest, lips and forehead. “For your amusement, Lord, what else? They are travelling entertainers whose path I crossed along the shoreline. Tonight they will perform for you.”
Al Misurata assessed the troupe in the compound below. “They came of their own free will, I take it?”
Bomba smiled expansively. “Well, of course they did, merely to entertain the great Al Misurata. They require no payment, merely some food and lodging for the night.”
Ghigno interrupted. “How many are they?”
Bomba counted on his fingers. “Four men, three women, a horse, a dog and a snake.”
Al Misurata smiled mirthlessly. “What need have I of a horse, a dog and a snake?”
Bomba warmed eagerly to his explanation. “The animals count for nothing, Lord, but look at the people. Did you ever see such a fine, strong specimen as that big shaven-headed fellow? Also there are two clowns, and the small round one, their leader, is a fine singer. The woman is his wife, she is of no account. Look at those two females, though—the older one is a snake dancer, probably a contortionist, too.”
Al Misurata was gazing steadfastly at Serafina. “The girl, who is she?”
From his fingertips, Bomba blew a kiss into the air. “Ah, that one, a princess of Africa, is she not? Limbs as graceful as a gazelle, teeth like milk pearls, and look at those eyes, twin oases in the desert night. Such a vision, Lord, does she need to do anything but stand and look as she does? Perfection!”
The pirate’s eyes were still keenly glued to Serafina. “For once, Bomba, I agree with you. What do you think, Ghigno?”
The sneer on the Corsair’s face deepened, indicating that he was smiling. He uttered a single word. “Dreskar!”
Al Misurata held up his goblet. “My clever Ghigno, a perfect choice. Dreskar, of course!”
Bomba looked dubious. “But Dreskar is very far away, master.”
The pirate patted Bomba’s paunchy stomach. “Your brains are all in there. Leave the thinking to me, there is an answer to any problem if I put my mind to it. But first we will let our new arrivals entertain us this evening. I trust you will join me for a meal and some harmless diversion, my friends?”
The three men clinked goblets as they laughed aloud.
Ben knelt to one side of the divan, his eyes riveted on Al Misurata’s left hand. Bomba, Ghigno and several other guests sat upon a thick Persian rug, reclining on bolsters and cushions. Four servants tended to their needs, but Ben’s task was to wait solely upon the master of the house.
A sumptuous banquet of food had been laid out, including a whole roast lamb, salads, an array of seafoods and bowls of fresh fruit, plus a selection of desserts and confections. Jasmina moved among the guests, pouring wines and cordials. Her watchful eyes were constantly checking on Ben, but so far the infidel boy had acquitted himself well.
Ben ministered promptly to Al Misurata’s needs, which were fairly modest. He was fond of a pale golden wine, but did not eat much, only some fruit, a lamb chop, and a little dessert, though he was very fastidious about washing his hands frequently.
The guests talked among themselves, ignoring the servers. However, they fell deferentially silent whenever Al Misurata spoke. He was indeed lord of all he surveyed, constantly consulting and questioning his guests, all of whom were stewards and overseers of his extensive lands and properties. When the food was cleared away, Al Misurata clapped his hands at the guard next to the door. “Let the entertainment commence!”
Clad in a baggy peach-and-brown silk suit, Signore Rizzoli strode in. Strumming on his mandolin, he bowed to the company, and announced in a singsong voice, “Signores, it is my pleasure and honour to present to you, for your diversion, the esteemed Troupe Rizzoli!”
Serafina entered, carrying a long, narrow Kongo drum. Every eye was on the startlingly beautiful black girl as she knelt and began beating a roll on the drum with her palms.
Signore Rizzoli called out, “Herr Otto Kassel, the Teutonic Samson!”
Draped in a leopard-skin costume, Otto paraded in, followed by the two clowns, Buffo and Mummo, who between them were rolling the strongman’s huge barbell. This was a long steel bar with a big cast-iron ball on either end. Otto stood to one side, watching in amusement as the two clowns tripp
ed and fell over the mighty weight. They immediately leaped up, their painted faces trying to look strong and dignified. Buffo waved Otto out of his way. Pointing to himself, then indicating the barbell, he pantomimed that he, Buffo, was going to lift it. Mummo expressed scorn. He felt Buffo’s arm muscles, then shook with silent laughter. Placing his thumb in his mouth, Mummo began blowing hard. His biceps began to swell. Buffo did likewise, and his arm muscle began to swell also. Both clowns continued puffing until each had an enormously swollen muscle ballooning at their tight stretched sleeves.
Together they strained at the barbell, trying to lift it. The mighty weight never budged a fraction. Buffo and Mummo straightened up painfully, pulling droll faces and rubbing at their backs. Otto prodded at both clowns’ inflated muscles as Serafina struck the drum hard. Bang! The false muscles exploded simultaneously, causing the clowns to collapse in a comical faint. They lay draped over the steel bar as everybody, even Al Misurata, laughed.
Then Otto crouched over the bar, gripping it tight. With a sudden roar he lifted the entire thing, barbell and clowns, swinging it high over his head and holding it there. Buffo and Mummo hung like two pieces of washing on a line. The onlookers applauded Otto’s fine feat of strength.
The clowns went into their routine, causing much merriment with their antics. Otto did more of his strongman act, which included pulverizing a coconut with a single blow of his fist, and bending a metal spear in his teeth. He concluded by lifting the Kongo drum on the outstretched palms of his hands, with Serafina sitting on it. The strongman and the clowns made their bows and departed.
Signore Rizzoli then began picking a poignant melody on his mandolin, whilst Serafina accompanied it with a slow, muffled drumbeat. A rapt silence fell over the audience as she sang an old love song. Her voice sounded young, but very appealing, with a sweet, husky quality. Even Jasmina was distracted by the singing, relaxing her vigil over Ben. The tow-haired boy was enchanted by Serafina. His eyes and ears were filled with the sight and sound of the slender, beautiful black girl as she sang her sad song.
Voyage of Slaves Page 4
