Voyage of Slaves

Mummo pulled a mock sad face. “A great pity, really, young fellow, you and your dog would have made splendid clowns. I was thinking what good names you could have had. Benno and Neddo!”

Otto gestured toward the big house. “Forget that now, the one they call Bomba is coming over here. I wonder what he wants?”

Without any formalities, Bomba indicated Signore Rizzoli abruptly. “Come with me, my master would speak with you!”

Mamma looked concerned. “I wonder what he wants with you?”

The showman reassured her. “Don’t worry, cara mia, it’s probably nothing. I’ll be back soon.”

Bomba took hold of Signore Rizzoli’s arm. “Come along, my master doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”

Otto reached out and caught the big man’s arm above the elbow, squeezing his biceps in a grip of steel. Bomba winced, releasing his hold on Signore Rizzoli. The German strongman wagged a huge finger at him. “Mind your manners, mein Herr, especially with my friends!”

Augusto Rizzoli intervened. “Let go, Herr Kassel, I will go with him. Lead on, please!”

Otto watched both men walking across to the house. “I don’t think I like that Bomba fellow.”

Ben sent a thought to Ned. “I don’t like him either, he’s a slaver. But I think he’ll tread carefully around Otto from now on.”

The dog replied, “Aye, heaven help him if he ever tries anything with our Otto!”

The rest of breakfast passed in silence. Ben and Serafina helped Mamma to tidy up, whilst the others went off to rehearse their show behind the stables.

The morning was half gone before Signore Rizzoli returned. He called his wife into the wagon, where they held a conference. Ben and Ned were with Serafina, watching La Lindi going through her dance with the python. She had allowed him to stroke it, though she advised that Ned be kept away.

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?”