Voyage of Slaves

Having read the contents of the little scroll from the cylinder, he left the loft. Mounting a donkey, which was tethered outside, he set off for the coast, urging the beast to a trot with his bare heels.

Padre Marlanese read the letter three times, slowly, following the lines with a dirty fingernail and mouthing each word.

The pigeon man raised his brows. “Well, Padre, is good information worth its price?”

The fat little wrecker and coast robber rummaged in his voluminous waist wallet. He drew out four coins. “Three silver or one gold, my friend?”

The man did not hesitate. “One gold. Half your silver is tin, gold is always best.”

Marlanese parted reluctantly with the worn golden coin. “You are lucky I am not a man who is easily insulted.”

The pigeon owner took the gold and left immediately.

Padre Marlanese, the False Priest, lived on his boat, a long, flat-bottomed skiff. He commanded six such craft. Like a small gang of sharks, they preyed upon anything that moved through the waters from Passero up the Sicilian coastline to the Strait of Messina, and the Italian mainland on the other side above Taormina. Smaller craft he would attack; the larger ships, the padre could lure onto the rocks with his considerable skills as a wrecker.

Wheezing laboriously, he heaved himself from a battered armchair, which was nailed to the deck inside a little shack containing the tiller. His second in command, Bulgaro, a sombre-faced villain with a set of whalebone teeth which had once belonged to a Dutch merchant, smiled eagerly as his chief clambered ashore. Marlanese was clad in stained and greasy clerical garb, with a wide-brimmed hat. He resembled a fat, black beetle as he waddled along the strand.

Bulgaro joined him. “Is the news good, Padre?”

The little wrecker smirked, holding out the message. “Here, you long-faced heathen, read for yourself.”

Bulgaro’s countenance returned to its usual mournful look. “You know I can’t read words, what does it say?”

The False Padre chuckled. “Excellent news, for those who know how to deal with it. It comes from my cousin Ghigno. His master, Misurata, wants us to stop a ship which should be coming our way. He wants a fair-haired boy who sails with her, the rest is plunder for us. Good, eh?”

Bulgaro clacked his teeth, which were a few sizes too large. “A fair-haired boy, does he want him dead or alive?”

Marlanese shrugged. “Either way will do, what do you care? This ship is a swift vessel called White Ram. It was heading away from Malta, on a course which my cousin Ghigno thinks should take it right by here. If it follows the trade route, it will coast up past Siracusa and Catania, then head off to Melito at the toe of Italy. But it is my guess that the White Ram will never get that far.”

Bulgaro cackled. “We’ll wreck it on the rocks!”

The False Padre looked at Bulgaro scornfully. “Donkey! It is too fine a prize to wreck, we’ll take the vessel unharmed. I’ll make it my own.”

Bulgaro removed his teeth and began carving at them with his dagger. “What d’you suggest we do, Padre?”

Marlanese shot him a disgusted glance. “I suggest you put those things back in your mouth, before your chin beats your nose black and blue. We’ll lie in wait for the ship, myself and three boats off the coast at Siracusa, you and three other boats offshore. That way we’ll trap her from both sides at night, and take out her crew silently with blades and strangling nooses, watch and deck crew first. It will be over quickly.”

Bulgaro clacked his whalebone teeth together. “Aye, Padre, like that Slavian trader two years ago. They were dead before they had a chance to wake up.”

Marlanese eyed his companion sourly. “As long as you can keep those teeth from clacking. If they heard them they’d think they were being attacked by a band of Spanish dancers with castanets!”

Bulgaro muttered indignantly, “I can keep them quiet when I want to!”

The False Padre ignored him, continuing with his plan. “It should go smoothly, providing we’re not seen. I’ll come in from landward with three boats to one side, you from the sea with our other three boats. Ten crew to each craft should get the job done well.

“Go to the villages of Pachino, Noto and Avola, get the men together. Tell them to come armed and bring them here to me. Say there is a rich payday to be had for any who know how to kill and keep their mouths shut. They know that there is better money to be had following me than chasing fish, or scratching a living from the earth. Go now!”

Marlanese waddled back to the armchair on his boat, where he sat honing his blade on the sole of a boot, dreaming of the riches to come.

From the small port in their cabin on the Sea Djinn, the Rizzoli Troupe had glimpsed the encounter between White Ram and the larger vessel. They had also witnessed Al Misurata’s boat being sunk beneath him. Otto nodded his big, shaven head regretfully. “Ach, such a pity that man was not drowned or eaten by der sharks!”