Voyage of Slaves

The hot dawn light of another dusty day seeped through the door slats. Ben was wakened by the braying of mules and the creak of cart wheels. Mahmud and Nassar unbarred the door. Unlocking the boy’s leg shackle, they hustled him out into the sunlight. Not far from the woman’s cooking fire stood a big wagon, with four mules harnessed to it. The conveyance was like a solid wooden shack on wheels.

From a door at the rear of the wagon a man emerged. He was a tall, well-built fellow, but running to fat; a broad, leather belt supported his loose, baggy pantaloons. He also wore a short, sleeveless bolero jacket, and a close-fitting skullcap. In one hand he carried a supple quirt, made of cane and bound with plaited strips of leather. Nassar and Mahmud approached him respectfully. He stared at Ben, addressing the pair without looking at them.

“So, is this little bag of bones all you have for me?”

Mahmud was the spokesman of the two. He clasped his hands and bowed his head slightly. “The boy is a blue-eyed infidel, valuable merchandise, Bomba, my friend. He would bring a good price on the block at Tripoli!”

Bomba’s substantial stomach quivered as he gave a snort. “Hah! This worthless camel’s offal, have you no others to show me but him, you sons of the misbegotten?”

However, Mahmud could see that Bomba was interested in the boy, otherwise he would not be scrutinising him so keenly. He replied in an offended manner.

“Bomba my friend, why do you insult us thus? Here, look!” Still holding the chain and leg manacle, he swung it at Ben’s ankles. The boy jumped smartly, avoiding the chain. Mahmud spread his arms, as though justified.

“See, my friend, he is swift and healthy. Take a look at him for yourself!”

Bomba seized Ben’s arm in a powerful grip, pushing the captive’s chin upward with his quirt. “Let me see your teeth, infidel brat!”

Ben tried to pull away from the slave trader, but the big man growled warningly, “Be still, little sand flea, or I will snap your arm like a twig. Show your teeth!”

Drawing back his lips, Ben snarled out, unafraid, “You have no right to take a free man into slavery!”

Bomba exerted more force on his victim’s arm, laughing. “He speaks our language, boldly, too? Listen to Bomba, O mouse of misfortune. The life of an obedient slave can be good, but the life of an insolent one is always painful and short. Mahmud, I will take this one!” Bomba took a purse from his belt and shook out a number of thin gold coins into Mahmud’s outstretched palm.

The Arab looked witheringly at the woefully small pile. “You insult me, my friend. I have thrown more than this into the bowl of a beggar who sits in Benghazi marketplace!”

Bomba scoffed. “Then be a little more careful with thy charity to beggars. That is my price, take it or leave it!”

Nassar piped up indignantly. “But the infidel boy will fetch ten, nay, twenty times that amount on the block in Tripoli!”

Bomba tapped the Arab’s chest with his quirt. “But this one is not going to the block. Al Misurata is taking him, and others, as cargo aboard the Sea Djinn.”

Mahmud made a signed gesture with his index and little finger, to ward off evil. His voice was hushed with awe. “Al Misurata!”

Bomba nodded. “Aye, the very same. If you have any complaints about the price I paid you, then ye are free to take the matter up with him.”

Mahmud backed off, bowing as he went. “We have no complaints. It is always a pleasure doing business with thee, my friend.”

The big man narrowed his eyes contemptuously. “Snake of the dunes, ye are no friend of mine!”

Lifting Ben by one arm, he flung him inside the wagon and locked the door. Climbing up onto the driving seat, he nodded at the old man holding the reins. “Get me away from this fleabound doorway to Eblis!”²

As the wagon trundled off, the woman tending the fire remarked, almost to herself, “So, it was Al Misurata’s coin that bought the boy.”

Mahmud kicked her away from the fire. “Silence, O brainless one, forget ye ever heard that name!”

3

ON THE SHORES OF SEBKHAT TAWORGA, SOUTHEAST OF THE TOWN OF MISURATA.

HERR OTTO KASSEL ROSE DRIPPING from the sea. Wiggling the water from one ear with a fingertip, the huge man strode ashore. Whenever he got the opportunity, Otto was fond of an early morning dip. One hour’s swim in the dawn Mediterranean waters was a real pleasure to the giant German strongman. Since his midteens, Otto had been a professional exhibitor of his prodigious strength; it was an occupation which had taken him to many lands. Brushing beads of salt water from his huge shaven head, he commenced some daily exercises. Flexing massive muscles, he bent, jerked, stretched and arched. Otto took great care of his magnificent physique, he was scrupulous about hygiene, and rigorous in training.