Voyage of Slaves

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. “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!”