Voyage of Slaves (9 page)

The dog snorted. “Huh, wild horses couldn’t drag me near that monster, just the smell of that big snake makes me feel ill.”

Mamma emerged from the wagon and called the boy. “Ben, my husband would like a word with you.”

Ben entered the covered wagon, with Ned at his heels. Augusto Rizzoli offered him a seat.

“Listen to what I have to say, young man, and think carefully. How would you feel about joining my troupe and travelling with us to Italy? You and your good dog there?”

A surge of elation shot through Ben. He had an idea what the showman’s meeting with Al Misurata had been about, but he feigned ignorance. “Signore, it would be wonderful, I’m sure Ned and I would enjoy greatly to be part of your show. But why do you ask?”

Augusto Rizzoli leaned forward, speaking confidentially. “I think Al Misurata knows you will never make a good servant. He wants me to take both you and the dog off his hands.”

Ben heard Ned commenting mentally, “I know you don’t like telling lies by silence, mate, but you’d best not tell this good man what you know until we’re certain of what’s going on.”

Signore Rizzoli continued his explanation. “Al Misurata told me he was a horse trader, and not a slaver. But his associate, the one called Bomba, is a slave driver. Is it true that Bomba sold you to him?”

Ben nodded. “There were four of us, signore, three boys and a girl, we were all sold to Al Misurata by Bomba. I don’t know what happened to the others. But if he is a horse trader, as he says, then why does he purchase slaves?”

Augusto Rizzoli shrugged. “He says he sells them on, to kindly masters, good folk who will treat them well. If he did not, they could fall into the hands of evil masters who would ill-treat them. Personally, I think he is a man of good intentions, though I do not like his friends, that Bomba, and the scarface, Ghigno.”

Ben saw the small purse in the showman’s hand. “So he is selling me to you, is that it?”

Signore Rizzoli clasped the boy’s hand. “I am no slave dealer, Ben, I am paying him to gain your freedom. You are under no obligation to me—once I pass the gold over your fate is your own. I only ask you to join us out of friendship.”

A tear sprang unbidden to Ben’s eye. “Thank you, signore, from the bottom of my heart. I would be honoured to join you and your troupers. But have you got enough gold to meet the price?”

The showman rose. “I have very little, my wife keeps the funds. But Al Misurata assured me that whatever I had would be sufficient. Perhaps we misjudge him. No matter, once we reach Italy we can always earn more. Though usually it is in the form of food or lodging. I never went into this business to get rich, but we get by somehow, and that is enough, eh, Ben?”

The boy wiped his eyes roughly on his sleeve. “If it’s enough for you, it’s more than plenty for me, signore. What happens now?”

Augusto Rizzoli weighed the paltry purse in one hand. “Now I go to seal the agreement. Come on, my boy, this is no time for tears, this is a lucky day for both of us. My wife was just saying that you may be the best thing that ever happened to our troupe. So now you’ll have to really think of getting up an act with your Ned, eh?”

Ben watched the good-hearted Signore walking back to the house. He patted Ned. “Go with him, mate, see what you can find out!”

Tail wagging, the black Labrador trotted off. “Leave it to me, I’ll be better than a fly on the wall!”

Signore Rizzoli looked down at the dog walking by his side. “So, you are to be my guard dog. Good fellow, come on!”

BOMBA GESTURED THE SHOWMAN INTO the palatial upstairs room. He put out his foot to bar the dog entry, but Ned bounded over it, baring his teeth and showing his contempt of the slave driver with a low snarl. The big man backed away as Ned ambled in behind Signore Rizzoli. Al Misurata was seated on his divan, while the scar-faced Corsair, Ghigno, stood behind him. Augusto Rizzoli bowed formally to the pirate, who patted the cushioned divan.

“Sit here, my friend, and let us talk business.”

Ned lay on the floor between the two men.

Al Misurata smiled briefly. “So, you have brought a companion?”

Augusto stroked the dog’s head. “He followed me.”

Ned lounged casually, his tail wagging lazily, tongue hanging out, just like any dog would. Except that he was watching, and taking in every word that was spoken.

Signore Rizzoli held out the little purse. “I brought the gold you asked for. It is not a lot, we are after all only entertainers.”

Ghigno took the purse and turned out its meagre contents on a small coffee table nearby. Al Misurata sorted through it with a fingertip. The coins were mainly gold, with a few silver ones thrown in—they were all very old and thin. The pirate raised his eyebrows. “Truly this is a pitiful sum. If you were not my friend I would feel insulted by such an offering.”

Signore Rizzoli replied, his voice a humble murmur, “It is all we have,
Commendatore.
”

Ghigno insinuated slyly, “Don’t you have any other valuables, a ring or two, maybe a necklace?”

Al Misurata frowned at the Corsair reproachfully. “Ghigno! You can see our friend is an honest man. If that is all the wealth he possesses, how could I doubt his word?”

He patted Augusto’s hand reassuringly, then went on to stroke Ned’s ears as he continued. “Signore Rizzoli, I accept this money in exchange for the boy, because I know you will treat him kindly. As I told you, I am a simple horse trader, it is not in my nature to buy or sell human beings. This sum you offer me is not even a quarter of what I paid to save the boy from being sold on the block in some slave market. But, like you, I am a soft-hearted fellow, and I can afford to take a slight loss now and then. It is all in a good cause. Take the lad, and take with you my good wishes for a happy visit to your homeland.”

Augusto Rizzoli stood, extending his hand to Al Misurata. “May the good Vicenza, patron saint of my town, bless you, Signore Misurata!”

The pirate returned his handshake solemnly. “Go now, and tell that young man your good news.”

Signor Rizzoli hurried from the room. But Ned stayed. The black Labrador closed his eyes, allowing Al Misurata to stroke his head. However, he was fully alerted.

There was silence in the room as the sound of the showman’s footsteps receded down the stairs. Ghigno swept the money back into the worn, leather purse. He handed it to the pirate, imitating Signore Rizzoli’s voice as he did. “It is all we have,
Commendatore.
” Both men suddenly burst out into coarse laughter. Al Misurata grabbed the purse from Ghigno, who shook his head in amazement.

“Is there nothing you wouldn’t do for gold? You should have heard yourself. ‘I am a soft-hearted fellow, I can afford to take a slight loss now and then.’ Hahaha, you almost had me weeping!”

The pirate spread his arms expressively. “What would you have me do, Ghigno? Sell them on to Count Dreskar, who would immediately search them for any gold they were hiding? This way I get two lots for the boy, the pittance from that Italian jackass and the proper price from Dreskar. Gold is gold, no matter where it comes from!”

The Corsair wiped tears of merriment from his eyes. His manner became businesslike. “So, what’s the plan?”

All this time Ned had not stirred, though he dearly wished he could sink his teeth into the hand that was stroking him. He continued to listen as the pirate outlined his scheme.

“What we must do is keep them completely in the dark regarding their fate. If they knew they were being sold into slavery, it would make them troublesome on the voyage. We’ll keep everything friendly, and treat them with respect. They must not suspect anything. When we dock at the port of Piran, I will tell them that to avoid the authorities, and any trouble about not having papers for the two African women, they must stay in their wagon. Bomba!”

The big slave driver hurried forward. “Master?”

Al Misurata gave him his instructions. “Once they are inside the wagon you will lock them in. Harness the horse and drive the wagon to the outskirts of Piran, then wait in the old woods by the stream for me.”

Bomba nodded. “I know the place, master.”

The pirate turned to Ghigno. “You will come with me. I will be meeting Count Dreskar in the town, at the Crown of Slovenija hotel.”

Ghigno tapped the jagged scar on his face. “I’ll have the crew with me, we’ll stay in the background in case of trouble. Right?”

Al Misurata stroked his beard. “Right, my friend, and when our business is done . . .”

The Corsair chuckled. “We’ll kidnap a few of the good townsfolk of Piran, take them on board and sail for home!”

This time Bomba joined in the laughter. Al Misurata poured drinks, and they toasted the coming enterprise.

“To trade, and to the gold to be made on both sides of the sea. A successful voyage!”

As Bomba took a pace back, Ned saw his chance to get out. He yelped aloud, as though the Corsair had trod on his paw.

Bomba drew his dagger. “Whining cur, get from under my feet!”

Al Misurata chided the big slave driver. “Bomba, don’t be cruel to poor, dumb animals, put that knife away and open the door for our friend Bundi, or is it Ned?”

Bomba opened the door and Ned trotted down the stairs, thinking to himself, “I wish Otto had given his childhood pet a better name. Bundi? Ugh, it makes me sound like an old, fat donkey!”

When Ned arrived back at the wagon outside the guest accommodation, he found himself in the middle of a very welcoming troupe. They all patted and stroked him as he wagged his tail furiously, enquiring of Ben, “This is all very nice, but what’s all the fuss about?”

The boy sent him a mental reply. “They’re welcoming us as part of the troupe, mate. We’re going to become performers, the great Neddo and Benno. But you haven’t reported back yet, did you hear anything of value over at the house?”

The dog avoided Otto’s ham-like hand playfully. “I certainly did, and none of it’s good news. These nice people wouldn’t be celebrating if they’d heard what I’ve just listened in to.”

Ben took Ned’s chin in one hand. He dipped a scrap of rag in some warm water and began cleaning the corners of the Labrador’s eyes, communicating impatiently, “Well, are you going to sit there hinting all day, or are you going to tell me what they said?”

Ned launched into his mental account of what was planned for the Rizzoli Troupe, finishing with his assessmentof Al Misurata. “You wouldn’t believe the way old Miserable changed the minute Signore Rizzoli left the room. He’s a very evil man, sly and greedy, he’ll do anything for gold.”

The news came as no surprise to Ben. He stared into his friend’s eyes. “I knew it. Though for awhile I thought there might have been some good in that man. Now I’m certain that Al Misurata is a cold, treacherous snake. His only god is gold, he is ruled by his greed.”

Ned placed a paw on Ben’s arm. “But what are we going to do—how can you tell our friends what we know? You can’t very well announce that I told you I’d overheard a conversation. Who’d believe us, mate?”

Ben sighed. “You’re right, but it’s still up to us to do something about the problem. I think it’s best that Signore Rizzoli and the others know nothing about it for the moment. It would only create a lot of trouble and worry for them. We must really put our minds to reaching a solution. Let’s discuss this tonight, when everybody’s asleep.”

They joined the rest of the troupe, who were sitting about on the wagon steps. Mamma looked curiously at the pair. “Well, have you finished your talk?”

This took Ben by surprise. “Talk, Mamma, what talk?”

She smiled shrewdly. “I was watching you both, you can’t fool me. Oh, your lips weren’t moving, there was no sound. It was the way you were staring at each other. You were making a contact somehow, I’m sure of it.”

Serafina saved Ben further embarrassment. “I know what you mean, Mamma. I stare into Poppea’s eyes a lot, and she looks back at me. We don’t have to say anything, it’s just a feeling of friendship. Some animals have the most gentle eyes—Poppea does, and Ned, too.”

Buffo interrupted. “Oh, I know that. I stared into the eyes of La Lindi’s serpent once, they were fascinating.”

Mummo shuddered. “Ugh, that awful python, what happened?”

Buffo grinned. “It hypnotised me and tried to swallow me whole!”

Mamma cuffed him playfully. “A pity it never did, you great fool!”

Signore Rizzoli began tuning his mandolin busily. “Come on, you lot, let’s work out this evening’s show.”

Passing a huge hand over his shaven head, Otto flicked perspiration from it. “Ach, it is too hot to think in this heat of Libya, can we not just sit and rest awhile?”

La Lindi stretched out lazily. “A good idea, Herr Kassel. Serafina, sing us a pretty song, you know, the one which goes, lala, lala, laaa . . .”

Augusto picked up the melody on his mandolin. “You mean this one? It’s a sad song, but nice. Sing it for us,
bella ragazza.
”