There were about a score of men in the largest dwelling, lounging around a fire and passing jugs of red wine back and forth. They were holding a murmured conversation, which ceased the moment that Ghigno walked in. A sullen silence prevailed. Then one big, rough-looking villain stood up to face the intruder.
Ghigno spoke, almost casually. “I have just heard the padre is dead. Who killed him?”
The rough-looking man drew a long knife from his belt and ran it through his scruffy red beard, as if grooming it. His tone was bold and challenging. “Marlanese is dead, let that be an end to it!”
In the enclosed space, the musket report sounded like a small cannon. The redbeard collapsed beside the fire, with a hole between his eyes and a shocked look on his face. Ghigno coolly blew down the musket barrel as he drew another one, already cocked and loaded, from the back of his sash. His voice still casual, he spoke as he placed the gun against the forehead of the man sitting nearest to him. “How do they call you?”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed visibly as he answered. “Beppino of Montalto. I have a wife and four children, signore. . . .”
Ghigno cut him short. “If you wish to see them again then answer me truly, Beppino. How was my cousin slain?”
Beppino closed his eyes tight as the musket pressed hard against his brow. “It was the old one, the master of the White Ram. We were not told that it was heavily armed. They saw us coming up on the vessel, the old capitano ordered your cousin not to come further. Marlanese would not listen, so the old one shot him with a fire arrow. They fired cannon at us, that ship carries many cannon. We were forced to retreat, or they would have blasted us out of the sea, signore. We were not told they were fighters with a heavily armed ship.”
Bomba had been holding the boat in the surf. He watched Ghigno climb in. “What happened, did you fire that shot?”
The scar made the Corsair’s face wrinkle wickedly as he hissed at Bomba, “What business is it of yours? Get me back to the ship!”
Al Misurata listened to Ghigno’s report. He sat in silence for a moment, then nodded, showing neither disappointment nor temper. He strode out on deck, followed by Ghigno, to whom he issued rapid orders. “Put on all sail, head into deeper water, but keep the coast in sight. Steer a course for the Italian mainland, and post lookouts. Let me know the moment that ship is sighted. Get those performers off the deck and back into their accommodation!”
As they were being herded back into their cabin, Serafina, who had caught Al Misurata’s orders, confided to Mamma, “We’re not landing at all in Sicily, we’re going to Italy. I heard Al Misurata saying so.”
Mamma raised her eyes thankfully. “I’m grateful for it. This idea of making a break and escaping, I’ve never liked it. There’s too many of them, some of us could be hurt, or even killed.”
Her husband shook his head. “If we make a landfall in Italy, we must still try to escape. Right, Otto?”
The strongman had taken the blunderbuss from its hiding place. He continued working on it.
“Ja, right, mein Herr. I would sooner be dead than live as the slave of another. Escape is our only hope!”
La Lindi watched the big German oiling the trigger mechanism. “That goes for me also!”
Mummo nudged Buffo. “What would you sooner be, a slave or a dead man?”
Buffo scratched his head, as if thinking hard. “Well, I wouldn’t mind being a slave, as long as I was sold to a young, pretty woman. But on the other hand, being dead might have some advantages. Dead men don’t have to get up early, or work, or feel hungry. Yowch!”
Signore Rizzoli withdrew his foot from the clown’s rump. “What are you saying, muddlehead? Dead men cannot breathe the air of freedom, they cannot laugh or move. Besides, what pretty young woman would buy a thick-headed buffoon like you, eh?”
Buffo put on a mournful face. Serafina laughed and hugged him.
“I would if I had the price, he’d make a lovely slave!”
Buffo fell on his knees in front of her. “Then I’ll save all my money and give it to you, so you can buy me. But I’ve always been your slave, O Beautiful One, from the moment I set eyes on you!”
Mummo hung his head in mock despair. “You mean you’d break up our act? Traitor!”
Serafina hugged him, too. “I’ll buy you both. When I’m a rich girl, I’ll need two slaves!”
Otto drew the hammer back and clicked it. “There’ll be no slave trading done once I’ve got this gun fixed!”
21
MELITO, IN THE REGGIO DI CALABRIA. ON THE SOUTHERN TIP OF THE ITALIAN MAINLAND.
AT MIDNOON, TWO DAYS OUT FROM Sicily, the White Ram sailed in to harbour at Melito. Ben and Ned stood on the fo’c’sle deck, with Eli and his grandson. There was quite a crowd gathered on the dockside, everyone seemed to be waving and cheering.
Joshua waved back—the boy was happy, but perplexed. “Why are they cheering, is it for us, Grandfather?”
Eli shrugged. “Who knows? They seem a happy bunch. It must be some sort of celebration, or a saint’s day. Ah! We’ll soon find out, there’s my old friend Fra Salvatore.” The old man waved and shouted, “Salvatore, amico, is it really you? Wait, we’re coming ashore!”
Fra Salvatore was an old monk of the Franciscan order. He wore a worn, brown habit, girdled by a simple white cord. His face was nutbrown and heavily wrinkled by the sun. Ned sent a thought to Ben.
“I like him, he looks like an old saint.”
Fra Salvatore made way for them through the crowd, who all seemed to want to pat their backs or shake them by the hand. Eli and the old monk embraced.
Eli introduced Joshua, Ben and Ned, then looked in wonderment at the people surrounding them. “It’s so good to see you again, but what have we done that pleases these good folk so much?” The old monk led them away, toward a quayside tavern. “First we’ll eat and drink. Concepta makes the best seafood frittata in the world. Come!”
Fra Salvatore spoke truly. Concepta, the tavern owner, lived up to his words. She seated them by the window and placed fresh, crusty bread, wine and huge platters of her famous seafood omelettes before them. As they ate the monk explained.
“I keep messenger pigeons, Eli. Nothing goes on in these waters between here and Sicilia that I don’t know about. You and your friends are the ones who rid the coasts of the evil Marlanese, the False Padre. That fiend has plundered and murdered our shores for years. He has struck here at Melito many times. We have lost husbands, wives and children to him and his wreckers. Goods, valuables, even animals. He was the servant of Satan himself—what he could not steal, he would kill, or burn. As soon as I got the word and description, I knew it was you, my Lion of Judah. Tell me, did your great ram-horn bow sing its song to him?”
Eli watched as Concepta poured more wine for him. “Though the death of a fellow creature gives me no joy, it was I who slew him. He got only his just deserts, and I doubt he will be greatly mourned. But enough of that, what other news do you have for me?”
Fra Salvatore gripped his friend’s hand, looking concerned. “Nothing good, I fear, Eli. Your enemies pursue you swiftly. Sometime after midnight, another ship will berth here.”
Ben interrupted. “Aye, Al Misurata and the Sea Djinn!”
Fra Salvatore crossed himself. “The Barbary Pirate, another one who sails under the banner of evil. Do you know of him, Ben?”
Ned looked up from under the table, where he was dealing with a mighty hambone. “Hoho, do we know of him? I could tell you a thing or ten about that rascal!”
Eli nodded to Ben. “Tell our friend your story.”