The Slave

By Pauline Montagna

Aurelia Rubbini, the only child of a rich merchant in fourteenth century Italy, has been raised to be a dutiful daughter, wife and mother, but she longs for something more than the restricted life intended for her. Then one day, her father brings home from a buying trip an Asian slave boy, Batu, who will reshape Aurelia’s destiny.

Aurelia and Batu are inexorably drawn to each other, but their relationship is forbidden as Aurelia is destined for an arranged marriage to further her father’s political ambitions. When Aurelia marries Lorenzo de Graziano, a nobleman with a dangerous reputation, Batu insists on going with her for her protection. But Batu’s presence arouses violent passions that Aurelia, in her innocence, can never understand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pauline Montagna
• Release date: Jan 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301504275

Pauline Montagna

Pauline Montagna was born into an Italian family in Melbourne, Australia. After obtaining a BA in French, Italian and History, she indulged her artistic interests through amateur theatre, while developing her accounting skills through a wide variety of workplaces culminating in the Australian film industry. In her mid-thirties, Pauline returned to university and qualified as a teacher of English as Second Language, a profession she pursued while completing a Diploma of Professional Writing and Editing. She has now retired from full-teaching to concentrate on her writing.

Book preview

Dramatis personae

The Graziano Household

Signor Osvaldo de Graziano – a nobleman

Lorenzo – his eldest son

Cosima – his daughter, married to Ennio

Isabella – his daughter, married to Baldo

Massimo – his son

Dante – his son

Gaetano– his son

Eleanora – housekeeper

Roberto – Lorenzo’s servant

Nina – Aurelia’s maid

Niccolo – household steward

Giachetto – stable master

Aldo – a man-at-arms

Dino – a man-at-arms

The Rubbini Household

Messer Francesco Rubbini – merchant and landowner

Madama Costanza Rubbini – his wife

Paolo (deceased) – his son

Aurelia – his daughter

Carlo – household steward

Rosetta – Aurelia’s nurse, married to Carlo

Tullio – stable master

Batu – a slave

The Village

Celso Rubbini – cousin to Francesco Rubbini

Maria Sovrana – his wife

Baldassar’s Army

Baldassar – the condottiere

Maffeo – a mercenary

Fosco – a mercenary

Salvo – a mercenary

Bruna – a camp follower

Iolanda – a camp follower

The Slave

Part One

Chapter One

Ouch! Rosetta, must you be so rough?’ Aurelia chaffed as Rosetta tugged at a knot with an ivory comb.

‘If you stopped wriggling around so, it would not hurt as much,’ Rosetta replied, giving Aurelia a playful poke that made her squirm and yelp. ‘Sit still and let me finish. You are a young lady now so start acting like one.’

‘A young lady is never allowed any amusement,’ Aurelia sighed, closing her eyes and holding her face up to the sun.

Aurelia was sitting in the pleasant warmth of a late autumn afternoon, letting the sun dry her fine, tawny hair while her nurse tried to bring some order into her waist-length veil. At long last, she felt Rosetta drawing the comb smoothly through her hair.

‘Figlia mia,’ Rosetta crooned, ‘if only you could see how beautiful you look with your hair shining in the sun.’

Aurelia looked up into her nurse’s loving, round face, framed in its white linen wimple. ‘Cara Rosetta, you know I shall never be beautiful…except to you.’

Rosetta took Aurelia’s face between her hands. ‘Now, child, none of this talk. The man that marries you will be getting such a treasure. It seems only yesterday that I held you to my breast, and now look at you – a fine young woman who may be married soon with babes of her own.’

Aurelia felt herself blush and pulled away from her nurse’s hands. ‘Please, Rosetta, must we talk of such things again?’

Rosetta replied with her familiar knowing smile.

While Rosetta cleared up around her, Aurelia leant on the wooden railing of the gallery where they were sitting, staring out at the wall that enclosed the courtyard below and shut them off from the vibrant city outside. She could see nothing of the narrow streets over the high wall, but she could hear the talk and laughter of passers by, the shouts of the street traders selling apples and oranges, flowers and coloured ribbons, the clip clop of horses’ hooves on the cobbles, the creak of wooden cart wheels and the cries of the carters to make way. Inside the wall, a few servants moved desultorily about the courtyard, or sat, pretending to mend a rake or straw broom as they chatted idly. All the while their eyes strayed to the postern gate set into the wide, heavy wooden gate in the portal arch.

‘Rosetta, when will Papa arrive?’

Rosetta came to stand beside her. ‘Today or tomorrow, the messenger said. Perhaps he will bring you gifts. Something for your trousseau, silks from the east, maybe.’

‘Something from far, far away…would it not be wonderful to be able to travel far away to foreign lands like Papa?’ She sighed glumly. ‘Or even just beyond these walls.’

‘Now, now, child. We go out on Sundays and holy days…’

‘…to the parish church three streets away. We do not even go to the duomo above twice a year. And you will not take me to the market with you anymore.’

‘Aurelia, you know better than that,’ Rosetta chided her gently. ‘What would people think, seeing you out and about in the town?’

‘But I never go anywhere.’

‘Why, only last month we went to the village for the harvest festival…’

‘…where you and Mama kept me by your side all day. I was not even allowed to talk to my old friends.’

‘Those peasant girls are not suitable companions for a young lady in your position, you know that.’

Aurelia fell silent again, having no reply to Rosetta’s oft repeated arguments.

Rosetta sat down beside her. ‘You are restless, cara mia. I can understand that, but you will have a household of your own and plenty to occupy you soon enough.’

‘Another house with walls around it. Another husband who is never at home.’

‘It need not be that way.’

‘No, I could become a nun instead. At least I would have other women I could talk to.’

‘Is your old Rosetta no longer enough for you?’

‘Oh, Rosetta, I am sorry. You are my dearest friend…’ Aurelia cried, putting her arms around her nurse’s generous waist.

Rosetta held her to her ample bosom. ‘I understand, child, all too well…’

Suddenly, below them, the postern gate was slammed open and a servant ran into the courtyard shouting, ‘Open the gate! The master is here.’ With the help of the others, he unbarred the gate to the street and opened it to Francesco Rubbini and his party of dusty and exhausted men and horses.

Aurelia leant over the railings, straining to see through the portal arch. ‘Rosetta, it is Papa. Papa has returned,’ she cried, running around the gallery to a point above where her father was dismounting stiffly from his horse. ‘Papa, Papa! Benvenuto!’ Aurelia called down to him.

Her father looked up at her wearily, his broad, intelligent face pale and dusty. ‘Really, Aurelia. Must you appear such a harridan? Look at you.’

Aurelia felt Rosetta’s arm come around her shoulders, but she shook her off lest the tears blurring her eyes should burst forth.

Across the courtyard, Aurelia’s mother spoke up for her. ‘There is no need to be so harsh. She is just glad to see you home after so long a journey.’

Messer Rubbini looked from one to the other, then turned away with a shrug to direct the unloading of the pack animals.

Costanza Rubbini approached her daughter and placed a cool, thin hand on her arm. ‘Your father is tired, Aurelia. We shall hear all his news later.’

Having handed his reins to a groom and given orders to Carlo the steward, Messer Rubbini went up to his rooms followed soon after by his wife. Unable to help with the complicated operations below, but reluctant to leave, Aurelia and Rosetta stayed and watched as one by one the horses were unburdened and their loads carried into the storerooms underneath the house.

As the tangle of horses and men was unravelled, Aurelia noticed one lonely, dirty, tousled figure squatting still amongst all the movement. As one of the men pushed past him he almost toppled over and Aurelia saw that the hands he stretched out to steady himself were tied together.

Aurelia pointed him out to her nurse. ‘Look, Rosetta. Who is that poor man? Why is he tied up like that?’

‘Perhaps he has done something that deserves punishment. Your father often complains that he cannot rely on his men on these long trips.’

‘But I do not recognise him. He has never travelled with Papa before.’

As they watched, another of the men pulled the stranger roughly to his feet. The stranger knocked the other man’s arm away with his tied wrists. The man pushed him hard in the chest against another two men who, laughing, took the stranger by the arms and pushed him back at his assailant. As the two men glared at each other, Aurelia could hear a murmur of excitement ripple through the party as they moved closer to watch the sport.

Suddenly the steward’s deep voice cut through the tension. ‘Basta! There’s work to be done.’ The group dispersed leaving the two protagonists with the steward. Carlo spoke to the assailant who left with obvious reluctance, then directed the newcomer to a bench by the wall, where he settled down, drawing his legs up close to him and watching the others warily.

Aurelia turned to Rosetta. ‘Who is he? Why do they treat him so? Please, could you ask Carlo?’

Rosetta sighed but agreed to go and talk to her husband.

The stranger sat on his bench in a patch of the waning sunlight. He leant his head back against the wall behind him, eyes closed, drinking in the sun’s failing warmth, yet his back was straight and his every muscle seemed tensed. Then his narrow, black eyes opened and measured the walls that surrounded him.

As the stranger’s eyes swept around the courtyard they came to rest on Aurelia, studying him from above. He looked at her steadily, his expression grave, unreadable. Aurelia was conscious of the contrast between them – her newly washed hair and her lush, woollen gown; his black hair, matted and dirty, and his clothes, barely more than rags – yet he was not humbled.

Rosetta’s voiced roused her. ‘Carlo says the master picked him up at auction in Venice. He is a galley slave from the east somewhere.’

Aurelia was quiet at dinner that evening. Her father was regaling them with a description of his journey, what he had seen on the way and how successful it had been. They were a poor audience, she and her mother, for her father’s adventures and his business coups, but these evenings, when he returned tired and triumphant, were the few occasions when he spoke to them at any length. He would tell them of his adventures in foreign parts, of his business acumen, of his wisdom and knowledge of the world. Aurelia would always listen, wide eyed with wonder and delight to hear such tales of the outside world, but that evening there was something hollow in her father’s vaunting.

He had come to his business dealings in Venice. A Turkish merchant ship had been captured and its cargo and contents were being auctioned. He was listing the bargains he had acquired, among them the slave. Aurelia found herself speaking up almost despite herself.

‘Is it not a sin to keep slaves, Papa?’

Her mother looked at her, askance.

Aurelia caught her breath, appalled at her own boldness.

Her father did not even turn to face her. ‘I did that boy a service. If I had not taken him he would have been sent back to the galleys.’ She could hear the anger held back by his terse lips.

Aurelia felt her voice tremble but she persisted. ‘W-why did you not set him free then, if you wished to do him a charity?’

‘Aurelia,’ her mother warned, ‘do not question your father.’

Messer Rubbini turned now to look at her. ‘Where would he go? I doubt he even knows the way back to his homeland.’

‘So why do you need to tie him up?’

Her father’s fist hit the table and Aurelia jumped. ‘I do not have to justify myself to you, young lady.’

‘Apologise to your father, child,’ her mother pleaded.

Her father glared at her, his fists still on the table.

Aurelia pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘I think I shall go to bed.’ Her voice strained with the effort to keep it steady. She saw her mother put a restraining hand on her father’s arm as she turned to go.

Aurelia’s room was still dark when Rosetta came to her. She lit the candles from the one she carried and closed the shutter against the moonlight. Aurelia was crouching on the bed, arms around her knees, her face streaky with tears.

Rosetta sat beside her and put an arm around her. ‘There, now, child. In the morning you will apologise to your father and all will be well again.’

Aurelia rested her head on Rosetta’s shoulder. ‘I think not, Rosetta. But then it has not been well, has it? Between my father and me. Not for a long time and perhaps never again’

Rosetta held her close. ‘Amore mia, your father loves you. You know that.’

Aurelia drew away. ‘Do I? Things have never been the same since my brother died. I know Paolo was the centre of his world, and he had little enough time for me. But at least, when he did see me, I was his beautiful little girl. Now I am just a useless daughter.’

‘How can you say such a thing...?’

‘What use is an only daughter to him? I cannot carry on his business or his name.’

Rosetta took both Aurelia’s hands in hers. ‘You can marry well into a good family. Be an excellent wife. Give him many fine grandsons.’

‘And if I cannot? What if I am like Mama and all my sons die as babes? What if I am barren…’

‘…like me,’ Rosetta added sadly.

Aurelia blushed. ‘I am sorry, Rosetta. I did not think.’

‘It is best not to worry about these things, figlia mia. It is all in the hands of God. All we can do is pray for His blessings…Now, let me help you undress…’

Chapter Two

Rosetta,’ Aurelia asked, as her nurse brushed her hair, ‘do you know what has been done with the slave?’

‘Surely he is no concern of yours, child,’ Rosetta answered, a note of wariness in her voice.

‘My father thinks so, too. But he does not seem to be much concerned with him, himself. Is Carlo taking care of him? Has he had him washed and fed?’

‘Carlo has tried his best,’ Rosetta confided, ‘but the boy is a wild one. He fought with the kitchen boys when they tried to give him something to eat.’

‘Are you sure it was he who was fighting? You saw what happened today. I can well imagine the kitchen boys were quite brave baiting a man with his hands tied. Did they hurt him?’

‘A little. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’ Aurelia persisted.

‘Carlo was forced to confine him in the cellar,’ Rosetta admitted reluctantly.

Aurelia was horrified. ‘In the cellar? In the dark?’

‘My dear, Carlo had no choice,’ Rosetta pleaded. ‘He will come round when he is hungry enough.’

‘You would not lock a dog in that terrible cellar. Do you remember what happened to my little puppy when Papa locked it in there? I had nightmares about it for years afterwards.’

‘Aurelia, child, the slave is not a puppy. He will not die of fright. That boy is a hardy one. You saw how well he stood up for himself. He will be all right.’

‘Please, Rosetta, can you not talk to Carlo? Ask him to make sure the slave is taken care of and not maltreated? Not like those dreadful men today.’

Rosetta sighed. ‘All right, my child. I shall ask Carlo to take an interest in him for your sake.’

‘Thank you, Rosetta.’ Aurelia hugged her. ‘I would appreciate that. Will you talk to him tonight?’

‘In the morning. As for tonight, we must let Carlo do what he thinks fit. He understands how best to deal with his men.’

As Rosetta was dousing the candles after kissing her goodnight, Aurelia asked her to leave one candle alight. Rosetta had shaken her head, but did as she was asked.

Aurelia stood nervously on the threshold of the cellar, a woollen shawl thrown hastily around her nightgown. It was dark and frightening beyond the small pool of light thrown by the candle in her hand. In her other hand she carried a basket with some food she had taken from the larder and a pitcher of water.

She had not been down in the cellars very often and never alone or at night. Fortunately the key had been left in the door, but it had squeaked ferociously when she turned it. Now she waited while the echoes died away and her eyes adjusted to the dark. Piles of merchandise loomed eerily amongst the faint shadows thrown by her candle, while the musty smell of raw wool vied with the sharp odours of eastern spices. She stepped forward cautiously, shining the candle around her, peering at the piles of rags and other rubbish on the floor, hoping to discern in one of them what she was looking for.

Suddenly she heard a thud behind her and felt a hard, strong hand slapped across her mouth. Startled, she dropped what she was carrying. Her candle landed in a pile of dirty rags at her feet. She felt herself being pulled then pushed away from the ensuing fire. Her shawl was ripped from her shoulders and thrown onto the fire to smother it. For a moment all was in darkness except for a small spark that flickered and then swelled into a flame on the candle illuminating an arm, then the face of the slave.

Her heart pounding in her ears, struggling for breath, Aurelia crouched against a bail of wool. The slave approached her, the candle in his hand, and stood over her, scrutinising her curiously. She flinched as he bent over her. Then he reached a hand out to her and helped her to her feet. They stood together for a moment in the faint pool of candlelight. Beneath the grime Aurelia could see he was a tall, lean but muscular young man, with black hair, a broad face with high cheekbones and strange, black, almond shaped eyes. There was a fresh cut on his cheek and a bruise forming on his jaw.

He stepped away from her and found the basket of food. He squatted down to see what was in it, keeping her in view all the time. He picked up the pitcher of water and raised it to his face, sniffing it before taking a long, thirsty swig. He put it back in the basket then moved away from it, still watching her.

Aurelia began to get her breath back. The slave seemed to be waiting for her to speak. She pointed to the basket. ‘I…I just wanted to bring you some food. I was told you had not eaten.’

He nodded, his guarded expression unchanged.

‘I can understand why you are wary of us, but those men…the ones who travel with my father…they do not live here. They will not bother you here. Carlo will be in charge of you. You met Carlo. Carlo is a good man. You can trust him.’

She paused, hoping for some response, but he just continued to watch her, then she shivered and hugged herself against the cold. He moved away from her, found her shawl with his foot, lifted it to his hand and held it out to her. Aurelia approached warily, taking the shawl from his proffered hand. As she threw it around her shoulders, a strong smell of smoke wafted over her. She pressed a corner of the shawl to her face. It was badly singed.

‘I do not know how I can explain this to Rosetta. You had best keep it and I can say I lost it.’ She took it off and held it out to the slave. He took it, smelt it himself and threw it onto the basket. She thought his wary look had eased a little.

‘Well, perhaps I should go.’ She took a step towards the door and hesitated. There was only blackness ahead of her. As she took a few brave steps into the dark, she heard his voice behind her.

‘Stop. Yours.’ He was holding her candle out to her. In his other hand was a lit candle stub she had put into the basket.

She began to reach out to accept it but then stretched out her other hand for the stub instead. ‘No, you keep that. I only need enough light to get back to my room.’

He came closer to hand her the candle stub. For a moment they were an island of light and warmth in the darkness.

She pointed to herself. ‘My name is Aurelia. Aurelia.’ She pointed to him. ‘What is your name? You?’

‘Batu,’ he answered.

‘Can we be friends, do you think?’

He looked at her blankly.

She brought her candle stub close to the candle he was holding, letting their two flames combine for a moment. ‘Aurelia, Batu. Friends?’

He scowled for a moment, trying to understand, then nodded gravely.

Aurelia smiled. ‘Well, good night, Batu. Sleep well.’

Batu replied but Aurelia could not catch the words.

Aurelia scuttled back to her room through the dark, silent house as fast and as quietly as she could. She dived into her warm bed and drew the blankets up around her, wriggling around on the soft mattress until she found the most comfortable and warmest position. Yet despite the warmth she suddenly shuddered. She felt again the slave’s hand over her mouth, the fire at her feet, the sensation of being thrown across the floor. She realised in one gulping moment what he might have done to her. Then she turned and saw the candle stub still alight on the stand beside her bed, and felt reassured.

The next morning, acting on her promise to Aurelia, Rosetta had a word with Carlo and the slave was brought out into the kitchen yard for a bath. Rosetta had confined Aurelia to her room for the sake of her modesty, but as an old married woman herself, she saw no objection to watching the proceedings from the gallery. After an initial skirmish, the slave seemed to settle down, especially when Carlo spoke to him, and allowed himself to be undressed, stood in a tub, soaped up and have water sloshed over him. Despite her advanced age, however, Rosetta could not help but admire the boy’s fine, muscular figure, or fail to notice several scars on his chest and arms, and the welts across his back. So engrossed was she that she did not hear Aurelia coming to stand quietly beside her.

‘How long have you been there?’ she exclaimed in horror.

Aurelia smiled mischievously. ‘Oh, only since after he put on his breeches.’

Rosetta slapped her bottom playfully. ‘You be glad your mother did not catch you, girl.’

Suddenly there was a commotion below. The slave was standing with his back to the wall, holding up a low stool as a shield, keeping several servants at bay, while the barber stood by helplessly, wielding a large pair of shears.

‘No!’ Aurelia was shouting. ‘Leave him alone!’ And before Rosetta could stop her, Aurelia had flown down the stairs and was pulling the young men away from the slave. ‘He is just scared. Just as you would be in his place.’

She approached the slave carefully. ‘Batu…Batu, it is all right. He only wants to cut your hair. Here, I will show you.’ She took the shears from the barber, cut a lock of her own hair and gave it to him. ‘See, it is quite safe.’

The slave took the ruddy tress from her while she eased the stool from his other hand and placed it on the ground in front of him. ‘Sit down. Yes, like that. Good.’ She cut a lock of his own black hair and handed it to him. ‘You see. There is nothing to worry about.’ Aurelia returned the shears to the barber and backed away, standing where the slave could see her while the barber cut through his tangled mane.

Watching from above, Rosetta let out the breath she had been holding and eased her grip on the railings. But how did the child have the courage to approach the slave, and how did she know the boy’s name?

When the barber brought out a large razor, Aurelia took his hand to still it. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked him, horrified.

‘I must shave his head, mistress,’ the barber explained. ‘The poor boy has picked up all manner of nits and lice in those galleys. It’s the only way to be rid of them.’

Rosetta could see Aurelia’s look of trepidation as the barber approached the boy, but this time it was he who gave Aurelia a nod of reassurance, freeing her to leave him and rejoin her nurse.

‘Aurelia, it is not like you to be so impetuous. You quite frightened me.’

‘I was afraid they were going to hurt him again.’

‘Why do you take such an interest in him, child?’ Rosetta asked.

‘He is alone in a strange land. He needs a friend.’

And so does she, Rosetta admitted.

When the barber had finished, the slave rubbed his naked head and laughed softly, the first time Aurelia had seen him do so, the first time, she thought, he had in her father’s house. His shiny baldness brought into relief his black eyes, sculpted features and a brilliant white smile. Then he turned to face Aurelia and nodded courteously before being led away by Carlo to be dressed and assigned his duties.

Chapter Three

At a loss about what to do with him, Carlo led the slave into one of the storerooms off the kitchen yard, away from the womenfolk’s curious eyes, and where he could have his first good look at the boy in peace. The boy met his eyes with a direct yet guarded gaze, but with little of the belligerence he had shown the night before. Carlo had not liked putting him in the cellar, but it had been for his own protection rather than to punish him. He could well believe that he had been baited by the kitchen boys who had, no doubt, taken their cue from the travelling crew. Carlo had heard that lot boast of showing the slave a thing or two on the trip but he doubted they would have tied him up if they had believed he was entirely cowed. The night in the cellar had not done him any harm, however, and he had emerged much calmer in the morning.

The slave was a strong young man with calloused hands that showed he had not lived a pampered life. Scars on his chest and arms proved he had been blooded in battle, and deep welts on his back testified to the abuse he had suffered in the galleys. It was plain to see that the boy was not made for indoor work, yet, until he was certain he could be trusted not to run away, Carlo felt he had better be put to work within the household walls.

Carlo picked up the jerkin and shoes that had been found for the slave and held them out to him, but the boy did not move. It was time to test his command of the language.

‘Here, take these, boy,’ Carlo prompted. ‘They’re for you.’

The boy stretched out his hand to take them.

‘Put them on.’

The boy obeyed, barely taking his eyes off Carlo as he did so.

‘I’m Carlo, the steward here. Your boss.’

The boy nodded.

‘And you,’ Carlo continued, pointing to the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

The boy hesitated, then answered, ‘Batu.’

‘Batu? Carlo. Got that?’

‘Carlo,’ the boy repeated.

‘Good. You come to me if you have any problems. Right?’

The boy just looked at him and Carlo realised he had exhausted his vocabulary.

‘Come with me, then, and we’ll see what you can do.’

Carlo’s attention was drawn to the kitchen yard by sounds of shouting and cheers. Most of the household was gathered there, surrounding a melee of several boys twisting and turning in the dust. He could see Batu’s dark, shaven head amongst them. He elbowed his way through the crowd, and, with the help of the older men, pulled the tangle of young men apart.

‘Now what’s going on here?’ he demanded angrily.

Several voices shouted at once in reply. He deciphered a few phrases such as ‘he started it’, ‘we were just teasing and he jumped on us’, and ‘the foreigner’s mad’ amid the hubbub. Only Batu stood silent, breathing hard, his arms bent by his sides, ready to come up in his defence at any moment. Blood from a cut above his eye was smeared across his face and hair.

Carlo put up a hand for a little quiet. ‘That’s enough.’ He looked at Batu. He doubted the boy understood everything that was being said, but he knew what was happening. His look forbade Carlo to protect him. ‘Whoever started it,’ Carlo continued, ‘three against one won’t do. You can take him on one at a time or not at all.’

Carlo turned to Batu’s assailants. ‘Who’s first?’ The three of them looked at each other, then, Ciccio, the largest and strongest of them, but not the smartest, was persuaded to step forward.

Ciccio lumbered reluctantly into the rough ring formed by the onlookers, warily watching Batu who had taken up a fighting stance, finely balanced on feet placed well apart, one in front of the other, and his open hands raised before him to chest height. Batu smiled at his ungainly opponent and curled the fingers of one hand, inviting him to come closer. Provoked into action, Ciccio charged at Batu, his head bowed. Batu nimbly jumped out of his way, while Ciccio ran straight into the crowd who, laughing, threw him right back.

Floundering, Ciccio turned to face Batu and slowly inched his way around the perimeter of the arena watching Batu warily. Batu waited for him in the middle, at ease, his hands at his sides held open, encouraging his assailant to approach. Ciccio’s friends impatiently called out to him to ‘get the bastard’ and ‘don’t be a coward.’ Desperately, Ciccio lurched at Batu again. This time Batu ducked, landing his shoulder in Ciccio’s stomach and using the larger man’s own momentum to send him flying into the air to land on his back, winded and whimpering. Batu stood over him, looking around for his friends, daring them with a triumphant grin to come forward and fight.

Sympathetic onlookers helped Ciccio to his feet and led him, bent double and still struggling to breathe, away from the ring. Carlo was about to make a move to disperse the crowd when Ciccio’s friend, Peppe, rushed at Batu from behind, dashing him to the ground. Batu flipped over onto his back in time to repel Peppe’s attempt to jump on him with a well-aimed kick to his opponent’s chest. Peppe staggered backwards, giving Batu time and space to get to his feet.

Breathing hard, Peppe straightened up and raised his fists, shuffling towards Batu, who had taken on his fighting stance, waiting for him to come close. Peppe’s right fist flew at Batu’s face, but Batu deftly blocked it with an open hand and moved away from him in one fluid motion, forcing Peppe to lean forward with his next blow and lose his balance. Batu lifted his right foot and landed his heel in Peppe’s chest, sending him reeling back onto the onlookers.

Batu waited while Peppe caught his breath, leaning against the crowd. Urged on by shouts of ‘you show him, Peppe’ and ‘come on, man, get him’, Peppe moved towards Batu again, fists raised. In a show of desperate bravado, he flayed at Batu with his fists. The few blows that came close to the mark were blocked by Batu’s open hands. As Peppe moved forward, Batu backed away from him, occasionally landing a sure-footed kick from beyond the reach of Peppe’s futile punches. Finally enraged, Peppe dived at Batu who quickly moved aside, catching Peppe’s arm and throwing him over his shoulder, then followed him down, pinning him to the ground with his knees.

‘Enough,’ Peppe groaned. ‘Get him off me.’

Batu