To protect the small caravan from bands of thieves on its way from Mogador to Marrakesh, it was escorted by thirty riders from the sultan’s cavalry. The governor of Mogador himself rode along on a magnificent Arabian stallion, his most prized gyrfalcon on his arm.
The road to Marrakesh, a dusty, well-trodden path, led directly eastward. Not far outside the walls of the city, they rode through groves of argan that, according to Sara Willshire, grew nowhere else. These primeval trees with their wide crowns bore plumlike green fruit with kernels from which the natives extracted a nutritious, gold-colored oil. Apparently, the fruit was popular with goats as well—to her great amusement, Sibylla spotted several grazing up among the branches.
The argan groves were followed by juniper bushes and low-growing shrubs. Every now and then they saw some abandoned, dilapidated mud huts and small harvested fields. They crossed through brooks that were almost completely dry after the long summer and offered just enough water for man and beast. Intoxicating oleander bloomed along the banks. Nadira pointed out grasshoppers and chameleons to Sibylla and Sara, and once, even the papery skin out of which a snake had slipped. The farther east they traveled, the sandier the ground became. Finally, the Atlas Mountains became visible in the blue haze.
The first two nights, they pitched tents. Dozens of little campfires sparkled in the darkness. Nadira made tea and ricelike couscous, to which she added olive oil and butter. Sibylla sat next to her husband on a flat stone near the fire and thought it very exciting to be traveling in a way which had long been relegated to the past in Europe.
“This is our second picnic together,” she whispered to Benjamin, scooping up her couscous with a piece of freshly baked flatbread, as per local custom.
“True,” he replied and glumly regarded his tin bowl. “Only back then the food was better.”
The second night, they were awakened by loud shouting and rifle shots. Horses neighed, camels howled, and donkeys screamed.
“Hyenas,” Consul Willshire explained when Benjamin and Sibylla stumbled out of their tent. “No need to worry. The sultan’s riders have shot a few and chased off the rest.”
Heading out the next morning, they were confronted by the bodies of the large predators, which the cavalry had laid out as deterrents around the edges of the camp. Sibylla shuddered at the sight of their powerful fangs.
By the third day, she began to feel the effects of the heat. She felt exhausted and dusty when, toward evening, they rode through the arched gate of the only caravanserai along the route. The lodging for travelers and traders was no more than a plain building made of rammed earth, its four walls surrounding an interior courtyard with enough room for two caravans the size of theirs. Storage rooms and stalls for the animals were on the first floor and the travelers slept in simple windowless rooms on the second. There was also a small prayer room. The gate was locked at night for protection.
Nadira was building a fire to cook over when a group of women came into the courtyard. They immediately attracted Sibylla’s attention as they were not veiled. They circulated among the travelers with baskets filled with flatbread, eggs, goat cheese, and dried meat for sale. Sibylla was fascinated by their proud, open faces. The skin on their suntanned foreheads and chins was tattooed. They were barefoot, their wide skirts decorated with multicolored braids and tassels. They wore blouses and colorful scarves on their dark hair.
“These women are members of the Chiadma tribe,” Consul Willshire explained to Sibylla. “They are Berbers, the people who lived in this area for years before the Arabs.”
“Chiadma,” Sibylla repeated. “I have heard you mention them before. You were talking about feuds with another tribe—the Haha, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s right,” Willshire agreed. “Berbers are hotheads. They do not respect authority and one can never be certain that their intentions are peaceful.”
Sibylla watched the women’s skirts swaying around their hips. Several of the travelers, especially the foreigners, who had not seen such an unfettered display of femininity in some time, stole desirous glances.
“They are here alone, without men. They seem to enjoy more freedom than Arab women,” Sibylla observed and was astonished to see the consul blush.
He cleared his throat. “One could say so, Mrs. Hopkins. Indeed, one could say so.” He cleared his throat again. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to check that our boy has seen to the mules. Because as always, if you want a job done well—”
And he was gone.
“Do you think we ought to buy some meat for dinner from them?” Sibylla asked her husband, who merely shrugged.
“If you insist, but don’t be surprised if they try to sell you a boiled cat as rabbit stew!” He turned and took their luggage to their room.
Her curiosity aflame, Sibylla asked Nadira to teach her more about the Berber tribes that made up much of the rural population of Morocco. But Nadira had always lived in the city and had come into contact with Berbers only when they were selling fruit or sheep’s wool in the souk. She could not understand the Chiadma language.
More Berber women arrived when night came. They were young and beautiful, had gold and silver coins woven in their long black hair and shining belts and heavy silver bangles around their wrists. Some of them sat in a semicircle, singing and clapping. Others began dancing in a way Sibylla had never seen before. They stamped their feet into the ground, their hips vibrated, and their arms moved in serpent-like motions. The flames of the fires were reflected in their kohl-rimmed eyes and made their skin shine like bronze. Sibylla was glad that the dark concealed her glowing cheeks. The best word she could think of was “voluptuous,” and yet they were also exciting and elegant.
Others seemed to feel the same. “Como las gitanas, like gypsies,” one of the Spanish traders whispered and softly clicked his tongue.
Sara Willshire wrinkled her nose. “Shameless!” she muttered. “Simply shameless! Come, William, let us retire.”
She rose and gathered her skirts high as though she feared coming in contact with something filthy. Her husband uttered a reluctant sigh and obediently followed.
Benjamin couldn’t take his eyes off the performers. Sibylla watched as he stood with a group of traders, his jaw hanging open. She felt embarrassed at seeing him like that, while at the same time wounded by the fact that he had never once looked at her with such desire. She rose and pushed her way over.
“I’m tired.”
It was as if he didn’t quite recognize her. “Well then, go to sleep,” he retorted and turned once again toward the dancers’ hypnotic hips.
Sibylla was not surprised when he came back very late, creeping like a thief into their small room. Feigning sleep, she wondered if he had approached one of the dancers to do the sort of things for which men paid women. She instantly felt ashamed. How could she accuse those women of being prostitutes merely because they danced in a way some found provocative?
She listened carefully as Benjamin took off his jacket and untied his boots.
Never suspecting Sibylla might be awake, Benjamin lay down on his narrow cot, wrapped himself in a blanket, and pulled it up to his ears. He found himself in turmoil. Furtively, he began to touch himself, his imagination taking him to the seductive Chiadma, whom he found so much more arousing than his wife.
The following morning, Sibylla felt ill. The baby in her belly had been kicking relentlessly. She was suffering from the heat, which became worse the closer they got to Marrakesh. Her back ached and her legs felt leaden. Benjamin had to assist her in dismounting from her mule for the lunchtime break. Not even the rest in the shade of some date palms provided any relief. For the first time, she feared that Sara Willshire might have been right.
When they continued that afternoon, it was all she could do to stay in the saddle. The scirocco, the desert wind of the Sahara, had blown in, and red desert dust, which the animals’ hooves raised, enveloped the caravan like a cloud. In an effort to protect herself, Sibylla had followed the example of the natives and wrapped a shawl around her head, leaving only a small slit for her eyes. Still, the tiny grains of sand got between her teeth, in her ears, eyes, nostrils, and hair. Nadira and Sara Willshire, riding beside her, had also wrapped themselves in their shawls. Sibylla wondered how Benjamin could tolerate it in his English riding attire. He refused to don a “Muslim costume” and was wearing solid leather boots and a top hat, and clutching a riding crop, as though he were on a leisurely outing on a rainy English day instead of braving the stifling heat of southern Morocco.
“You can blame this wretched scirocco if my head explodes,” lamented Sara.
“And I feel so nauseated,” Sibylla groaned. “Nadira, how do you say ‘I’m sick to my stomach’ in Arabic?”
Her servant, clutching her donkey’s scruffy, short mane, answered tersely, “Am bjejani batne, my lady.”
“Perhaps I should follow your example and dress like an Arab woman. It looks quite comfortable,” Sara declared, eyeing Sibylla, who was wearing a loose silk kaftan and wide silk pants, which allowed her to straddle her mule.
Sibylla had never before ridden like a man, but found the mule easier to control that way. Her outfit was a gift from Rusa and Lalla Jasira after the “English babouches” had arrived. The ladies had been delighted by the shoes, and Lalla Jasira had wondered aloud about next ordering the beautiful silk stockings she had seen the Engliziya wear.