Voyage of Slaves

Little Alexi puffed out his chest, toying with the tassels on his sword hilt, as if he was weighing up an important decision. “Set your course to the mid channel. When you sight the city of Venezia³³ to your portside, change tack eastward. Piran is on the far side of the Gulf of Venice.”

Al Misurata bowed low, touching his forehead respectfully. “I thank providence for the wisdom of a Greek navy commander. No doubt, vessels that could not take heed of your counsel would have perished in the storm. I sighted an old, blue-sailed merchant craft, directly before the tempest struck. Alas, it was probably sunk by the heavy weather.”

Alexi took advantage of this statement to air his knowledge and expertise further. “I sincerely hope you did not board or have contact with that ship?”

Al Misurata spread his arms. “No, we did not. But why?” The little captain strutted away like a bantam cockerel, then whirled to face the other man dramatically. “Because it was a plague ship, in the grip of cholera! Oh yes, my friend, count yourself fortunate that you stayed well away from the blue ship. When we encountered her, she was wallowing, leaking fit to sink. I saw only a few left alive, the captain and most of his crew had perished from the disease. I did what any right-thinking captain would—took the vessel in tow, gave them a cask of fresh water and left them quarantined on one of the Dalmatian Islands.”

Al Misurata cut in smoothly on the narrative. “And there were only two left alive, you say, sir?”

Alexi shook his head. “No, there were three in all, plus a dog. The ship’s cook, a crazy deckhand, and the young cabin boy. They all looked to be on their last legs to me, staggering about, pleading for water—even the dog was infested with huge scabs. A piteous sight indeed. Those old merchant ships are teeming with rats, no doubt the cause of their predicament. Nothing could be done for those who were still alive. They are more than likely dead now, all of them. Cholera, or whatever plague it was that visited them, had swept through that craft like a fire, speedily devouring every living thing it laid its foul hand on.” Little Alexi fell silent, staring at the deck, so that the other captain could see what a model of human kindness and compassion he was.

Al Misurata murmured, “Truly you did all you could for them, Capitano. I will keep my course to mid channel and shun the islands, not having your courage and fortitude!”

The little captain nodded solemnly. “I must bid you a safe voyage, there is other business I must attend to.”

Al Misurata bowed low again. “May heaven reward you, sir. I am pleased to have made your acquaintance!”

Once the Callisto was a safe distance from the Sea Djinn, Ghigno made an appearance. The pirate told him all that had transpired. His companion took the news pensively.

“So we are finally rid of the brat and his hound. I’m not sorry, Lord, though I would not wish a fate like the plague on anybody, man or beast.”

Al Misurata gazed out at the broad expanse of the Adriatic. “There was something about that boy, he intrigued me. Still, he brought it on himself—he should never have deserted me and escaped. Keep the course to mid channel, and await my orders.”

Ghigno cast a glance to the midship hold. “Shall I release the women and let them rejoin the others?”

The pirate stroked his beard, pondering before he answered. “Maybe not. Keep them apart, it will ensure the good behaviour of the menfolk. Particularly that German strongman, he could be dangerous.”

Ghigno tapped the musket he kept stowed in his sash. “Rest easy, Lord, I’m not afraid of that one!”

Al Misurata smiled thinly. “Neither was Bomba, and look what happened to him.”

The scar-faced Corsair showed surprise. “You mean it was the German who did away with Bomba?”

Al Misurata tapped the side of his head with one finger. “I did not get to be Lord of the Barbary Coast by going about with my eyes closed and my brain in a slumber. The next question you are going to ask is, why did I not put the German to death?”

Ghigno stared at him in awed silence as he continued. “Bomba was worthless, a thief, a coward, one who would sell his mother for a crust. I would have had to kill him myself, sooner or later. However, the strongman will bring a good price, so I kept silent. Let him be someone else’s problem, he will go to his new owner unharmed. Remember, Ghigno, there is no profit in a dead man.”

In the lower hold, Mamma Rizzoli banged upon the door of the cabin where she had been confined with La Lindi and Serafina. The guard, a lean, sombre Tunisian, refused to open the door. He tapped it sharply with the butt of his jezzail. “What do you want, woman, more food or water?”

Mamma banged harder upon the door. “I want to go back to my husband. We want to be sent back to our old cabin, where the men are!”

The guard’s voice came back at her. “That is up to my master. I am only a guard who takes orders. It is no use asking me.”