Voyage of Slaves

Al Misurata had a smattering of many languages. He replied to the boy’s accusation in English. “I serve no god. My sword and my wits provide me with gold, that is all Al Misurata, Lord of the Barbary Coast, needs. How is it that you can speak in other tongues, O Defender of the Righteous?”

Ben answered the ironic question in English. “I have always had a good ear for languages. I pick up things here and there, it’s not hard.”

Al Misurata pointed to the other three slaves. “Ask them if they have wealthy families who would want to ransom them.”

Ben translated the enquiry to Lucia, Omar and Sandro. One by one they shook their heads in silence.

The pirate switched back into Arabic. “So, they are all worthless beggars. What do you suggest I do with them, boy?”

Ben was not afraid of the Barbary pirate. He replied promptly, “Why do you ask me? You have captured us, and you are going to sell us into slavery, to obtain the gold which you worship. But someone once said to me that in the end, gold can only buy you an expensive coffin and a great marble tomb.”

Bomba leaped forward, raising his quirt to strike the boy down for his insolence. However, Al Misurata stopped him in his tracks with a single glance. “Take these others and lock them away for the night. The infidel boy stays here with me. Go!”

The slave driver bowed and ushered his charges away.

Al Misurata stroked his forked beard, studying Ben intently. “What is your name, and how old are you?”

The boy’s strange blue-grey eyes stared solemnly back at his captor. “I am called Ben, nothing else. As for my age, I’m not really certain.”

The Barbary pirate’s eyes narrowed. “I think you are about fourteen years of age, but about two hundred in the head, eh?”

Ben shrugged. “I suppose so, but my head isn’t much over a hundred, certainly not two.”

Al Misurata smiled thinly, indicating a round table nearby. It was piled high with food for his evening meal. “You are a remarkable boy, not like the usual peasant clods Bomba brings here. Do you want food? Take some, it is very good. Come on, I never yet met a young one who was not hungry. Jasmina, give him a plate.”

The hard-faced Libyan woman scowled. “I would as soon give him a back marked with stripes for his insolent tongue!”

Al Misurata raised his hand imperiously. “Silence, woman, you forget yourself! I am the master and you are the slave. Take yourself out of my sight!”

Clasping her hands, Jasmina bowed low. She glided wordlessly away. Ben hesitated for a moment, then hurried to the table. Taking two circles of flat, unleavened bread, he made a hefty sandwich with slices of warm, roasted lamb and cooked yellow peppers. Biting into it, the boy chewed ravenously—the food tasted magnificent.

The pirate nodded approvingly. “When a man is wealthy, only the best is good enough. Look at this room, is it not splendid?”

Ben’s mouth was crammed, but he nodded agreement.

Filling one of the fine crystal goblets with a lemon sherbet cordial, Al Misurata passed it to him. “I could use a boy like you, bright and intelligent. You could serve me in this house, be my eyes and ears, tell me who are my friends and who are my enemies. It would be a life of luxury, you would want for nothing.”

Ben cleared his mouth before answering. “Except freedom.”

The pirate’s mood changed like lightning at this remark. Rising angrily, he strode to the long, open windowspace, taking in the lands outside with a sweeping gesture. “Fool, what do you know about freedom? Hah, beggars in soukhs and bazaars, shaking their bowls! Men breaking their backs at hard labour! Women scavenging the fields and the shores! For what? Just to feed themselves and their ragged brats! Toiling like animals from dawn ’til dusk as they pray for their gods to help them! You call that freedom? Only gold can truly buy the power to give any man freedom. That is the real truth, is it not? Answer me, infidel!”

Ben knew he would further enrage the man by arguing, yet he carried on, defending his right to reply. “The truth is that those poor folk cannot sleep safe at night, knowing men like you might come and sell them into slavery. Yet look at the freedom you have bought by trading in human beings. You want me to serve you by spying upon those in your own home. I pity you, with neither god nor real friend to turn to. Gold will never buy you that.”

The enraged pirate struck Ben across the face, the crystal goblet shattered on the floor. Food scattered into the fountain, parrots squawked and doves fluttered wildly to the ceiling as Al Misurata shouted.

“Guards, get this infidel out of here! Chain him in the cellars without food or drink!”

Two burly sentries rushed in; seizing Ben roughly, they dragged him from the room. The pirate followed them to the door, venting his spleen on the boy.