Chapter 9.
Bring Your Benduqis
“Rattus rattus, m’lord,” comforted Balderthump. “Just a common rat.”
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“Ah, yes, of course,” sighed Lord Wrinklebottom letting go of Balderthump's arm.
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The faint path continued across the rubble-strewn room towards the back of the old building. There were a couple of dark doorways on their right, but the rubble piled in them showed they were not used. The thin shaft of light coming in through the partly opened front door, made the darkness in the corners impenetrable.
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“I suspect we are almost up against the city walls, m’lord,” observed Balderthump. Feeling in his pocket, he withdrew a small tin of matches and struck one. The flare of the match was blinding, but as their eyes grew accustomed to the light, it showed them a much more solid door let into the wall at the back of the building, which displayed signs of recent use.
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Balderthump moved closer as the match burned down. “There, m'lord,” he breathed and pointed at another small blue camel painted on the wall beside the door.
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“Indeed, Balderthump, that appears to confirm this is what we are looking for.”
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“I would assume so, m’lord,” replied Balderthump.
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The match flickered out.
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“All right then, Balderthump, let’s get on with it!” urged Lord Wrinklebottom. “We haven’t got all day man.”
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“Of course, m’lord, of course.” Balderthump reached up and knocked smartly on the door. Once more, the sound echoed eerily around the empty room. There was no response.
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Balderthump knocked again, loudly. They waited quietly, ears straining to pick up any sound. Just as Balderthump was about to knock again, they heard a scraping sound behind the door and it opened a crack. A light shone through the crack into their eyes causing them to blink at the sudden brightness.
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“What do you want?” demanded a gruff voice in heavily accented English.
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“Yes, good morning my good man,” began Lord Wrinklebottom, “I was directed here by your branch in Ansfa. I am seeking slaves, a good quantity of slaves for my plantations in Georgia.”
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The door slammed shut in his face.
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“Here, I say my good man,” protested Lord Wrinklebottom, banging loudly on the door himself. “I say! I'm here to do business. Don't you want to do business?”
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There was no response.
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“Blast!” fumed Lord Wrinklebottom and kicked the door hard. Unlike the front door, this one was quite solid, and the only result was a sore toe. “Double blast!” ranted Lord Wrinklebottom shaking his foot while he hopped on the other one. “Break it down, Balderthump, break it down!”
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“Not so fast, m’lord,” calmed Balderthump. “First, we should check your toe has not been damaged by the unwarranted and unnecessarily forceful response from the door.”
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“Never mind my foot, Balderthump! Break it down!”
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“Of course, m’lord,” soothed Balderthump, “but before I mete out equivalent justice on the door, perhaps we could try a somewhat less forceful approach? Perhaps if we were to see if we could proceed with a little help from our good friend Ibn Katjun-Em.”
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“Eh? Who?” growled Lord Wrinklebottom as he gingerly tested his sore foot.
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“Ibn Katjun-Em, the warlord we believe is behind all this.”
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“How is he going to help?!” grumbled Lord Wrinklebottom.
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“If I may, m’lord.” Balderthump gestured politely towards the door.
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“Be my guest. Be my guest,” muttered Lord Wrinklebottom with a resigned sigh.
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Balderthump rapped once more on the door and cleared his throat loudly. “We come with an important message from your master, Ibn Katjun-Em.” Nothing.
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“Open in the name of Ibn Katjun-Em,” continued Balderthump in a commanding tone. “We come on important business.”
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After another brief silence, there came a shuffling sound from behind the door and it opened again, just a crack.
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“Ibn Katjun-Em?” enquired the gruff voice, but this time tinged with a little fear.
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“Yes, Ibn Katjun-Em,” stated Balderthump firmly and stepping forward, jammed his patent leather boot in the door to prevent it being closed. “Very important business,” he reiterated in a low voice directly at the unseen person behind the door.
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It seemed as if the man behind the door was considering his options. Eventually the door slowly swung open. An old man, hunched over and dressed in dirty robes stepped from behind it. In his wavering hand he held a candle which threw ghostly shadows over his face. He looked them up and down suspiciously, then waved them inside.
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Balderthump stepped in. The feeble yellow light from the candle showed a set of worn stone steps leading down and to his right. Placing his hand on the wall he felt his way down carefully.
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“Jolly dark in here, eh what?” murmured Lord Wrinklebottom as he too felt his way down. The old man followed silently behind.
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At the bottom, Balderthump could see a little light escaping from around the edges of a heavily curtained doorway. The low murmur of hushed voices came from behind the curtain. When they reached the bottom, the old man motioned to go through the curtain.
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Balderthump drew it aside with one hand and looked cautiously behind. Two men dressed in much finer robes than the old man, were sitting on cushions on the floor, talking and smoking from a water pipe. They glanced briefly at the strangers entering the room, but continued their discussion.
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Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump stood politely at the entrance to the room. The old man pushed past and whispered something in the ear of one of the men on the floor. His face took on a more serious expression and he looked at Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump with barely disguised animosity. Eventually he waved them towards some cushions in the corner of the room and carried on talking with the other man.
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“I say, Balderthump,” whispered Lord Wrinklebottom a few minutes later, “this is a bit rich. Who do they think they are keeping us waiting like this?!”
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“Patience, m'lord, patience,” responded Balderthump. Lord Wrinklebottom slumped back against the wall and crossed his arms. Another ten minutes passed.
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“This is intolerable, Balderthump, intolerable!” growled Lord Wrinklebottom. “I've a good mind to find Ibn Katjun-Em and report their insolence to him!”
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Lord Wrinklebottom must have whispered a little more loudly than he intended, because the name seemed to catch the attention of one of the men, who turned his head and stared long and hard at Lord Wrinklebottom, before slowly rising to his feet and coming over to where Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump sat.
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“And what do you know of Ibn Katjun-Em?” he spat.
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Lord Wrinklebottom rose up from the cushion where he'd been sitting and drew himself up to his full height. His top hat barely came to the robed man's nose. “I have business with him,” grated out Lord Wrinklebottom returning the stare unwaveringly.
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“Indeed?” sneered the robed man. “And what sort of business might that be?”
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“I am seeking manpower for a major expansion of my plantations in Georgia. I was directed here by your colleagues in Casablanca.”
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“Indeed?” repeated the robed man, though this time without quite so much venom. Clearly, he was puzzled by Lord Wrinklebottom's appearance and a little uncertain how to respond.
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“My lord has need of a great many men, sidi,” interrupted Balderthump.
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“Really?” replied the robed man calmly. “And how many men is ‘a great many’?
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“How many can you provide?” countered Lord Wrinklebottom.
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“I have many men available, and women besides,” boasted the robed man. “But I doubt you could afford them he scoffed.”
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“Try me!” challenged Lord Wrinklebottom, leaning forward to glare into the robed man's face.
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The robed man drew back just a little, as if to think. After a moment he turned and barked something to his companion in his native language. The companion disappeared behind another curtain on the other side of the room. Turning to the old man, he clapped his hands smartly and gave him some instructions also.
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Turning again to Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump, he gestured to the cushions in the middle of the room and motioned them to sit.
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Without hesitation, Lord Wrinklebottom made himself comfortable on the best cushion and sat there with an air of royal dignity awaiting the next development. Balderthump made to sit beside him, but was dismissively waived away by Lord Wrinklebottom and instructed to stand behind.
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Some moments later, the old man appeared with a brass tray on which stood a rather intricately decorated brass teapot. The robed man seated himself opposite Lord Wrinklebottom and poured tea. Two glasses only.
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“Our tea of the mint is truly something to savour,” he said raising his glass.
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“Excellent tea indeed,” agreed Lord Wrinklebottom after a sip from his own glass. “It brings honour to you and your household.” Balderthump watched impassively from where he stood behind Lord Wrinklebottom.
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A lengthy silence followed, broken eventually by the robed man. “You are very confident of your position,” he began with a slightly threatening tone. “I wonder who you are?” he enquired half to himself.
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“I am who I am,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom cryptically. “My benduqis will speak for me and you will find they are as good as anyone else's.”
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“I should hope so,” warned the robed man with yet more thinly veiled threat in his voice. “Others who’s benduqis were not, have lived to regret it.”
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Lord Wrinklebottom remained silent.
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“And your plantations?” went on the robed man.
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“Large. Very large,” responded Lord Wrinklebottom. “And in need of much labour to bring them up to my high standards.”
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“Indeed?” responded the robed man draining his glass. “We shall see just how large in a moment.” He called out to someone behind the back curtain in his own language. There was a brief reply and the robed man stood.
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“Come!” he commanded and turning, drew back the curtain and disappeared into the darkness behind.
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Again, it was difficult for Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump to see in the darkness, but after a moment they discerned another flight of steps running down further into the ground.
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“After you, m’lord,” murmured Balderthump holding back the curtain.
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The old man in the dirty robe reappeared carrying his fluttering candle. Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump made their way down the stairs with great care. After about twenty steps, their route levelled out into what looked like a tunnel, which soon turned sharply to the left.
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“This is quite some arrangement,” observed Lord Wrinklebottom.
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“Indeed, m’lord,” agreed Balderthump in a low voice.
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A few moments later, they smelled rather than saw their destination. The stench of a large number of human beings penned together in close confines assaulted their nostrils. Around another turn in the tunnel, a low murmur of voices reached their ears. The scene as they pushed through a heavy curtain both stunned and horrified them, but they maintained their visage of stoic indifference.
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In what looked like the basement of a building, or perhaps a cave carved from soft rock under the very walls of the city, four rough pens had been constructed of palm trunks. Inside the pens, huddled together in pathetic little groups were men, women and children. Fear on every face. Lord Wrinklebottom raised a gloved hand to his own face, both to conceal his horror and prevent himself from retching.
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The old man lit another couple of candles attached to the walls at either end of a narrow walkway running between the pens. Without a word both Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump walked slowly along the walkway, peering into each pen, noting the terrified faces peering back.
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After the inspection of the pens was completed, the robed man asked with a sneer, “Well?”
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“Mostly fine specimens. How many have you here?” replied Lord Wrinklebottom calmly.
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The robed man pushed his face close up into Lord Wrinklebottom’s. “Sixty-two,” he hissed watching Lord Wrinklebottom's reaction closely.
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Lord Wrinklebottom didn't blink, but simply turned and motioned to Balderthump. Balderthump carefully counted the bodies in the pens.
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“Sixty-two, m’lord,” he advised after a moment, “but several appear to be in poor health.”
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“Twenty benduqis, the lot,” offered Lord Wrinklebottom, turning to the robed man and waving at the slaves behind him.
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The robed man looked a little surprised, but motioned for Lord Wrinklebottom to follow him back upstairs. Once more they settled on their cushions and the old man brought mint tea.
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The robed man slowly sipped his tea and peered over the rim of his glass at Lord Wrinklebottom as if trying to make up his mind what to do. “So,” he said eventually, “you would buy all sixty-two of my workers?”
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“And more,” snapped Lord Wrinklebottom, “do not waste my time.”
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“Of course not, sidi, of course not,” soothed the robed man. “I trust the workers met your high standards?” he went on a little sarcastically.
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“Modest quality at best, my good man. I shall expect many more and higher quality in future shipments.”
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“Oh, really?” the robed man smiled, unperturbed and continued to sip his tea.
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“If you can’t deliver, then introduce me to someone who can,” pushed Lord Wrinklebottom. “I’m a big man and I want to do a big deal with a big man.”
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The robed man’s face grew darker for a moment. He contemplated Lord Wrinklebottom for some time and then appeared to reach a decision. He put his teacup down on the brass tray.
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“Meet me at Café Badis on the Jema el Fna at the third hour tomorrow. Bring your benduqis … and your courage.” He spat, rose and left the room.
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