Voyage of Slaves (5 page)

Mummo was stirring the contents of the cauldron when he saw the dog fall from the wagon step. “Look, Otto, your dogfish has come to life!”

Serafina grabbed a rug and ran to Ned’s side, spreading it. “Otto, lift him onto this, it will keep the sand from his coat. Poor Bundi, your legs aren’t working properly yet, but you’re nice and clean, all soft and silky.”

The big German lifted Ned easily onto the rug. He began massaging his dog’s ears fondly. Ned grunted with pleasure. The strongman murmured soothingly, “
Ja, mein
Herr,
⁸
Bundi, you will soon be well again, won’t you, old fellow? Watch his eyes, Serafina, I think he’s trying to thank us for saving his life!”

Bringing her face close, the girl peered into Ned’s eyes. “Oh, I’m sure he is, just look at those wonderful eyes, Otto.”

If Ned could have spoken, he would have returned the compliment a hundredfold. The girl Serafina was the most beautiful human being he had ever encountered. Reflecting the fireglow, her skin shone like polished black marble, her teeth were white as fresh milk; as for her eyes, Ned judged that any comparison with his was out of the question. The girl’s eyes were almost almond-shaped, and they were very large. Twin dark, starlit orbs, in settings the hue of old ivory. He was captivated by the warm, husky sound of her voice.

“Poor Bundi, you must be hungry.”

“Hungry?” Ned thought. “I could eat my own tail, uncooked!”

The strongman passed Serafina a bowl. “Try him with this,
Mädchen,
⁹
it’s a raw egg beaten in goat’s milk. I put a pinch of salt in, it should do him good.”

Serafina held the bowl to Ned’s mouth, restraining him slightly to prevent him gulping it. The Labrador took it all, licking the bowl and the girl’s fingers thoroughly. She patted his head. “Good boy, Bundi, we’ll try you with something more solid tomorrow.”

Ned gave her fingers an extra lick. “Thank you, pretty miss, I’ll look forward to it!”

Supper being over, and the fire burning to embers, the troupe prepared for rest. Mamma Rizzoli and La Lindi went inside the tented wagon, telling Serafina not to sit up too late with the dog. Buffo, Mummo, and Otto lay under the cart, wrapped in long Arab robes. Signore Rizzoli attended to Poppea, covering the mare with a blanket, tying her running line to a cart wheel, and leaving her a pail of fresh water nearby. “Rest now, my noble lady, we move on tomorrow.”

Donning a long Italian army officer’s greatcoat with caped shoulders, the showman went to sit beside Serafina. “You need your sleep,
piccina,
¹⁰
so does your Bundi by the look of him. We’ll be travelling tomorrow.”

The girl rubbed her eyes. “I’m going into the wagon soon. Look, Signore, Bundi is nodding off, too. See how sad his eyes are? He looks completely lost. I wonder whose dog he is, and how he came to be here with us.” Serafina gave Ned a final pat, then went into the wagon.

Through drooping eyelids Ned stared up at the Mediterranean night sky. It was moonless, but pierced by twinkling pinpoints of countless stars. A comet blazed its path across the dark vaults, the brief, flaming brilliance almost instantly gone amid the uncharted heavens. The black Labrador’s eyes closed. Soon he was lost in the clouded seas of forgetfulness, with no knowledge of his past, his master, or any of the events which had brought him to this far shore.

Sounds of distant seabirds greeted the dawn as waves broke endlessly over the Libyan coast. Ned wakened to view the broad, freckled back of Herr Otto Kassel, going off for his morning swim and exercise. Thirst was the uppermost thought in the dog’s mind—he needed water. Feeling much better than he had on the previous day, Ned rose shakily. Once he found he could stay upright, he ventured carefully over to the pail of water near the horse. Poppea was still asleep, so he drank his fill gratefully. Feeling greatly refreshed, he decided to make himself helpful to his benefactors, and set off at a sedate pace along the shore to seek out firewood.

Mamma Rizzoli was the first of the ladies up and about. She bustled out of the wagon and went to stir up the fire embers. The good lady was surprised to see a small heap of driftwood lying beside the remains of last night’s fire. Then she spied the dog. Ned was coming up from the tideline, head held to one side as he tugged along the broken shaft of a large oar he had found. Mamma watched him bring it right to her. She smiled broadly, hugging the dog’s neck.

“Good Bundi! Good boy! What a clever dog you are!”

She roused the troupe as she banged on the side of the wagon, calling to Serafina, “
Bella mia,
¹¹
see what your dog is doing, bringing wood for the fire. What a fine fellow he is!”

Buffo stopped Ned going off for more. He shook the dog’s paw heartily. “
Grazie, amico.
¹²
Here, let me cook you a good breakfast, truly you are a dog among dogs!”

Ned suddenly felt better than he had for quite awhile. He went from one to another, wagging his tail furiously as they patted and complimented him. Otto arrived back and was told of the black Labrador’s cleverness. The strongman picked Ned up, as though he weighed nothing, and hugged him. Tears flowed openly from the big German’s eyes, for he was an extremely sentimental man.

“I knew he would get well. This is a great dog we have, Serafina. Bundi the Great!”

Ned sat between Serafina and Otto, eating toasted bread and an omelette, which Buffo had cooked specially for him. The atmosphere was jovial and carefree, with Signore Rizzoli dropping broad hints.

“Serafina, do you think you could teach him some tricks? Maybe you could do an act together. What do you think, Signore Bundi, we’ll feed you well and give you a nice place to sleep. Well, what do you think, my friend?”

To everyone’s surprise and delight, Ned held out his paw. Buffo shook it heartily.

“See, I think Bundi wishes to join us. Be careful, Augusto, this good fellow will be doing your job soon!”

Signore Rizzoli raised his eyebrows comically. “Listen, brother, if it comes to a contest, the dog will have replaced you before nightfall!”

Mamma stroked the black Labrador. “Oh, you’re a clever dog, but I don’t think you could sing or play as sweetly as my husband. Show him,
caro.
”
¹³

Signore Rizzoli fetched a mandolin from the cart. He tuned it briefly, and soon his fine tenor voice was ringing out as he sang and played an old travellers’ melody.

Ned threw back his head, howling along with the last notes of the tinkling mandolin. Serafina giggled.

“What a lovely harmony our Bundi sings, eh, Signore?”

Augusto Rizzoli clutched the mandolin to his chest. “Maybe he does,
bella mia,
but keep him away from this instrument. It belonged to my pappa, and Signore Bundi might scratch it if he tried to play it!”

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!”

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.