Brian Jacques - Voyage of Slaves

“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. “You 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 Ghigno 15—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!”