Voyage of Slaves

The troupe gathered around as Otto laid the black Labrador on the wagon step. La Lindi inspected it, she checked the sand-coated tongue, slobbering loosely out of the creature’s mouth, then lifted one of the eyelids to view the dully glazed eyeball. Holding her face close to its muzzle, she sniffed, then shook her head.

“He will be dead before the setting of the sun, I think.”

Otto protested. “But you could be wrong, Fräulein.³ Bundi is alive still, and where there is life there is hope!”

Mamma patted the big man’s shoulder sympathetically. “You must trust La Lindi’s judgement, Herr Kassel, she knows about animals.”

Serafina stroked the dog’s head tenderly, obviously saddened by La Lindi’s pronouncement. “He’s a good dog, I feel it, we can’t let him die. Signore Rizzoli, let me and Otto care for him, we’ll get him better. Please?”

Augusto Rizzoli had the final word in any troupe decisions. However, he could not resist Serafina’s plea. “Do what you can for the poor beast, bella ragazza.⁴ Even if he does die, he will do it in comfort among friends. He looks as if he has suffered greatly.”

Otto dipped a ladle into the water cask which hung on the wagon’s side.

“You get some fresh water into him, little one, I’ll clean him up. Mummo, beat one of those eggs up, but don’t cook it. Maybe Bundi will like some.”

Ned (for it was he) vaguely saw a pretty black girl pouring water into his mouth. It was the coolest, sweetest water he had ever tasted. He gulped at it with what little strength he could muster, licking at the girl’s hand as he did. Without warning he heaved, vomiting an alarming amount of water back. The strongman nodded approvingly.

“Good boy, Bundi, get all that seawater out of your gut! Leave him a moment, Serafina, let him recover a little before you give him more. What do you think now, Fräulein Lindi?”

The enigmatic dancer raised her eyebrows. “I think your dog is a stubborn beast, he hangs onto life with a strong grip. You could be right, Otto, there is hope. But he will need much care.”

Ned did not hear this last remark. He had lapsed into a semiconscious sleep, his mind was blank. He could remember nothing, not his former life, or Ben, nothing. However, a spectre was haunting his troubled dreams, coming at him through a sudden nightmare of icy, storm-tossed seas. It was Vanderdecken, beckoning from the storm-battered deck of the Flying Dutchman. Triumph shone from the captain’s ghastly blood-rimmed eyes. He roared at Ned above the shrieking gale. “Now you are mine, dog, come to me. Where is your master?”

Serafina was washing and combing the matted dirt from the dog’s coat. She patted him reassuringly as he shivered and moaned. “Poor Bundi, are you having bad dreams? There now, be calm, you are with friends. Hush now, hush!”

Gradually the shivers and moans subsided as Ned slid back into the deep well of dreamless sleep.

4

ONE WEEK LATER. A HOUSE ON THE NORTHERN POINT OF THE GULF OF SIRTE. JUST OUTSIDE OF THE TOWN OF MISURATA.

BEN, AND THE OTHER THREE WHOM Bomba had picked up on his journey, blinked against the midmorning sun as they emerged from the wagon. All four were shackled together by their ankles. There was an Egyptian boy, about two years older than Ben, whose name was Omar. The other two were about the same age as Ben: a Cretan girl called Lucia, and a boy who claimed to be Sardinian, his name was Sandro. The wagon had pulled into a courtyard, with high walls and a barred gate. This was guarded by rough-looking men, four of them, wearing burnooses and armed with long jezzails⁵ and scimitars. Throughout the journey, Bomba had fed them with maize porridge and water. They had quickly learned to be obedient and silent, scarcely daring to speak with one another.

Now the four captives gazed around the area, a veritable oasis of water and greenery in the wasteland of Libyan desert outside. Date palms and fig trees, interspersed with gnarled olive trees, bordered the flowered walks and well-groomed lawns. Tiny ornamental bridges crossed a moat filled with clear, placid water. Upon the moated island stood a large, well-appointed house, three floors high, with broad, open windows and a flat, low-walled roof patrolled by more guards.

Bomba slapped his riding quirt against a palm to gain their attention. “Listen now, you little bazaar rats. I am going into the big house yonder, but I’ll be back.” He tossed the manacle key to one of the guards. “See they are cleaned up for my return, make them presentable to your master!”

The guard spoke little. After loosing their shackles, he pointed to the moat. “You boys, over there, get in and wash yourselves.” He called over the bridge, “Jasmina, see to this girl!” A stern-faced woman, clad in black robes, emerged from a side door of the house. She beckoned at the girl, Lucia, with a stick she carried, shouting orders in Arabic at her. The girl looked at her blankly until Ben spoke to her in her own language.