Signore Rizzoli picked out a tinkling melody on his mandolin as the pirate’s associates continued their feasting. However, they fell silent again when their attention was taken by Serafina’s entrance.
The girl glided smoothly in, clad in a gown of shimmering gold and white. Her hair was encircled with a garland of small flowers, and her luminous eyes surveyed the room over a veil of transparent silk hemmed with tiny silver coins. Otto set her long Kongo drum by the fountain, where she perched on the stone rim. Serafina caressed the drumhead with deft movements of her slender fingers, interweaving a pattering beat to the mandolin music.
Ben’s eyes were riveted on the beautiful vision whilst she sang her song. This was in the form of a riddle, which performers sang in bazaars to attract the attention of passersby.
“Hark to the question I ask you, how does a seed grow to a tree, what pays no heed to the seasons, and treats beggars and kings equally?
Soft as the breeze o’er the desert, travelling afar from the sea, warm as the sand, that sifts through my hand, wise man, will you heed my plea, O tell me?
“Something which moves on forever, and cannot be hoarded away, like the gold of some old miser’s treasure, in some deep hidden cavern to lay.
A daughter has more than her mother, a father has less than his son, yet everyone rues the day it is gone, wise man, will you heed my plea, O tell me?”
Ben was standing close to the door when the answer dawned on him. Raising his hand, he was about to call out the answer to Serafina. Otto’s large hand covered his mouth from behind suddenly. The big German whispered in his ear, “It is for the audience to answer, not the performers!”
Al Misurata raised his voice. “Time is the answer. Time!”
There was a rousing cheer, both for the singer and for the one who had solved the riddle. Serafina went across to the pirate. Plucking a flower from her head garland, she offered it to him. As Al Misurata reached out and took it, the girl kissed the back of his hand lightly. There was more applause.
Ned sent the boy a thought. “You should have got that, mate.”
Ben shrugged. “I’m not bothered.”
Ned nuzzled his hand gently. “You can’t fool me, mate. Not bothered, my tail. Huh!”
The week passed rapidly for Ben and Ned. Each evening their act improved, getting more smooth and professional. They now included comic interludes, often assisted by Buffo and Mummo. It would have been a happy time for both boy and dog, had it not been marred by their knowledge of Al Misurata’s intentions. Thus far they had not fathomed a solution to their coming misfortunes. They felt guilty about not revealing the truth to their friends. However, Ben reasoned that in this case, ignorance was bliss for the Rizzoli Troupe. His silence would save them stress and misery, also keeping them from thinking up rash schemes that might get them into deeper trouble.
The Barbary pirate kept up his cruel deception, showing kindness and consideration to his would-be victims.
Ben and Ned were revolted at the manner in which he could chat amicably with the Rizzolis about how much they were looking forward to being back in their childhood home. Apart from being in the same room as Al Misurata for the show each evening, Ben and Ned avoided him. It became obvious that he was concentrating his efforts on the troupe, when one night the other captives were secreted onto the slave wagon and shipped off furtively.
Ned learned, by listening in to the guards, that the girl and the three boys were bound for Tripoli, to be auctioned off at a private sale. Had they come from wealthy families, all four could have been ransomed to their kin. But they were only ordinary slaves, with no particular talent or outstanding features, sent to the selling block by the callous decision of their captor. Bomba did not accompany them. Ben and Ned watched him closely—he was constantly seen around the house and its spacious grounds. Having fallen into disfavour with his master, the big slave driver blamed Ben for his ill fortune. He would glare and mutter dire threats whenever he saw the infidel boy.
On the morning before they were due to sail for Slovenija, Ben and Ned accompanied Serafina as she exercised Poppea by walking her around the compound. Ever on the alert for trouble, the black Labrador sent out a warning to his master. “Careful, mate, here comes old bigmouth Bomba!”
Ben turned to see Bomba creeping up from behind.
The slave driver saluted Serafina with his riding crop. “Good day, my little songbird. Tell me, why do you befriend flea-ridden curs and infidel trash? Come, take a stroll with a real man. Here, I’ll hold your horse for you!”
Ben steered Serafina away, murmuring to her, “Pay no attention to him, he’s just a troublemaker.”
The big man barred their path. He waved the leather-boundriding crop in Ben’s face, allowing the tip to touch his chin. “I haven’t forgotten you, little bazaar rat. Before you’re much older I’m going to teach you some painful lessons!”
Ned sprang at him without warning, burying his teeth in the slave driver’s baggy behind. Bomba shrieked in agonised shock. Wrenching himself around, he grabbed the dog’s hind legs. However, Ned hung grimly on to his enemy’s rear end. They both fell over heavily, with the dog kicking furiously to free his paws. Bomba let go of Ned, unsheathing an ornate curved dagger from his waistband. As Poppea began rearing and whinnying, Serafina went up with her, pulling on the reins in an attempt to calm the panicked mare. Ben avoided the flailing hooves, circling the choking dust cloud that enveloped the combatants as he sought an opening.
Seeing Bomba raise the dagger high, Ben jumped in, seizing the big man’s arm with both hands. Ned was still snarling like an enraged wolf, digging his teeth into the foeman’s buttock.
Seemingly from nowhere, Otto appeared in the midst of the fray. Ben felt like a small child as he was pulled off Bomba and tucked under the strongman’s arm. In the same instant, the German stamped his foot down on Bomba’s wrist, trapping both him and the dagger to the ground. Thrusting Ben to one side, Otto broke the hold of Ned’s jaws, dragging him free of the screeching slave driver. Kicking the knife away, Otto took the bridle from Serafina. He held the mare still by main force, whispering softly to her, “Easy, Fräulein Poppea, I am here now!” The big German helped Ben to his feet. “Are you alright, is your dog hurt?”
Ben hugged Ned, running a hand over him as the dog chuckled mentally. “Stop that, it tickles!”
The boy was still shaking as he replied to his rescuer. “No harm done, we’re fine, thank you, sir!”
Bomba had risen to his knees, his face creased with pain as he gingerly touched his bottom to assess the damage.
The German strongman shot out a ham-like hand; gripping Bomba by the throat, he hauled him upright. Otto’s voice was dangerously calm.
“I will talk with you now. Listen carefully, Dummkopf,20 keep away from my friends, far away, or I will kill you. Verstanden,21 mein Herr?” As he talked, Otto tightened his grip, lifting Bomba until he was poised on tiptoe.
The slave driver’s face was turning an unhealthy purple, and his eyes were beginning to bulge. He managed to gasp out, “Gyuurrrsssh!”
Serafina grasped her friend’s outstretched arm, pleading, “Please don’t kill him, Otto. Please!”
The strongman gave Bomba a mighty shove backward. He hit the ground with a bump, raising another dustcloud. Turning away, Otto shook his huge, shaven head, smiling at the girl.