Brian Jacques - Voyage of Slaves

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, 14pray 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.