Chapter Seven
The audience with Sultan Abd al-Rahman took place the following day, the first day of the sixth month, Jumada al-Akhira, of the year 1252 after the Prophet’s departure from Mecca. The Gregorian calendar indicated that it was September 13, 1836. On her way back from the hamam the previous evening, Sibylla had learned that the city’s muezzins had announced the new month with the appearance of the tiny sliver of the new moon.
For her audience, she wore an outfit made of purple silk material interwoven with gold threads that she had found at the souk in Mogador. It was cut as wide as an Arab kaftan but as long as a European dress and concealed her pregnancy almost entirely. Following her directions, Nadira had sewn it together with a shawl that allowed Sibylla to conceal her hair.
She had slept soundly after her visit to the hamam. She felt well and rested and wildly relieved that the pulling in her abdomen was gone. The group from Mogador went on foot to the sultan’s palace, which was located in a large garden in the southern part of the medina. Most of the gifts had been loaded on a donkey, and Benjamin carried the special one for the sultan.
Once the souks lay behind, they crossed a large square filled with tents and stalls. Under the canopies, the city’s executioners waited for business alongside itinerant doctors and other traveling people. It was the place to have one’s teeth pulled or one’s future foretold.
After not quite half an hour, they reached another square ending in a hefty red sandstone wall with a closed wooden gate. The sultan’s green flags were flying on the bastion. There were guard tents on both sides of the gate. Sibylla was surprised to see the guards not standing at attention like their counterparts in London but sitting idly on the ground, sipping tea and playing cards.
Besides the merchants from Mogador, there were supplicants from Tangier, Rabat, and Tétouan, altogether several hundred people waiting to pay their respects to the sultan. Consul Willshire spotted James Butler, his counterpart in Tétouan, and Edward Drummond-Hay, the British consul general in Tangier. Sara introduced Sibylla to the wives of the English merchants along the Moroccan coast. While Mrs. Willshire and the other ladies lamented the strange food and hot climate, Sibylla went to look for Benjamin. Her husband was talking animatedly to Samuel Toledano. She knew Benjamin had high hopes for the audience. Most of all, he hoped his gift to the sultan, a valuable silver-studded hunting rifle made by England’s finest gunsmith, would impress the ruler of all the faithful.
Sibylla observed the Black Guards, the sultan’s slave army, with curiosity. They were lining up on both sides of the gate. These tall men were distinguishable not only by their uniform, a white kaftan and a red tarboosh, but also by their hard, unflinching expressions. Consul Willshire told them of the Black Guards’ undying loyalty to the Alaouites for almost two hundred years.
The Berbers too were represented in the square. The riders sat proudly on their beautiful Arabian horses and got the lively animals to perform all kinds of tricks.
Sibylla hoped that His Majesty would not keep them waiting too much longer and dabbed her forehead with a corner of her shawl. It was time by now for the noonday prayer and the sun was unrelenting.
“I believe there is some movement at the gate,” said Mrs. Butler, the wife of the consul of Tétouan.
The guards had finished their card game and stood at attention on both sides of the gate. The riders had taken their positions behind the perfectly straight lines of the Black Guards while the merchants eagerly waited at the other end of the square.
“Come with me,” whispered Benjamin, who had suddenly appeared next to Sibylla. “Let’s not miss this moment.” He took her hand and led her to the front.
As the massive wings of the gate opened, Sibylla held her breath. She had never before met a ruler face-to-face. She had seen King William IV in his box at the opera once, but that did not compare to this moment.
A single rider on a magnificently decorated white stallion came through the gate with measured steps. A bodyguard walked close to the horse and was closely followed by a eunuch carrying a giant carmine sunshade.
“That’s him,” Benjamin whispered. He had removed his hat, as had all the other gentlemen in their delegation, and his voice sounded solemn. “Toledano told me the parasol is his symbol.”
Sibylla took a closer look at the man. He was middle-aged, not particularly tall, with round, bearded cheeks and a gentle-looking face. His horse seemed more spectacularly decorated than he himself, she thought as she looked at his simple white kaftan. He wore neither medals nor rings, no chains or other regalia. Were it not for the red umbrella, he might have been any random subject. But then she remembered the impaled skulls she had seen by the city gate and told herself that it would surely be a mistake to underestimate this man.
“His Royal Majesty Moulay Abd al-Rahman bin Moulay Hicham bin Sidi Mohammed bin Moulay Abdallah bin Moulay Ismail, Imam of all Believers, Caliph of the Islamic Community and Sultan of Morocco of the Holy House of the Alaouites, who are descended from the Prophet’s daughter herself,” Consul Willshire intoned. He and his wife had fought their way to the front of the crowd to join Benjamin and Sibylla.
“May God bless our ruler’s life,” the Black Guards shouted in unison. They took a deep bow and touched their right knees as a sign of their devotion.
The sultan stopped in front of the delegation of merchants and it was only then that Sibylla caught a glimpse of the man riding a few feet behind him. At first, she took him for an Arab, not only because of the black hair visible under his turban but also the traditional kaftan and long pants he wore. Yet his suntanned, lean face was clean shaven, his features less aquiline, and his eyes less dark. He was also tall like a European. At least, his legs were a little too long for his petite Arabian mare.
“Who is that man on the brown horse?” she whispered to Sara.
The consul’s wife immediately knew who she meant. “That’s Monsieur Rouston. So he’s back at court,” she added wryly in her husband’s direction.
“What do you mean?” Sibylla was curious to know. “Is he a foreign diplomat?”
“Rather a French misfit,” Willshire said reflexively. He, like most Englishmen, had a strong dislike for the French. “Rouston used to be an officer with the Chasseurs d’Afrique and served in Algeria. However, the past few years, he has preferred to dwell in a mud hut with the Chiadma. Because he persuaded them to resolve their longstanding feud with the ruling family, the sultan holds him in the highest regard. Abd al-Rahman particularly seeks out Rouston’s advice when it comes to the reform of his army, which, between you and me, is in deplorable condition.”
“Military advice from a Frenchman!” Benjamin huffed. “Apparently, the sultan has never heard of Abukir, let alone Waterloo, or he would know of the military superiority of us English.”
Sibylla turned her gaze back to Rouston. She took him to be about thirty, a few years older than she. He sat calmly and confidently on his prancing mare while he looked into the crowd.
What sort of man prefers to live in the desert with a Berber tribe rather than with his own kind behind city walls? she wondered. Was he married to one of their women? She shook the improper thoughts from her head.
At that moment, Rouston looked her way and their eyes locked for several seconds. He smiled subtly and Sibylla’s heart leapt. She was startled. Never had she experienced anything of the sort—with Benjamin or any other man. What could have gotten into her? She was a married lady, after all, and a pregnant one at that! She quickly lowered her gaze and moved closer to Benjamin.
Meanwhile, the sultan’s interpreter had translated his master’s greeting into all the languages of those present. “His Imperial Majesty Abd al-Rahman, Sovereign of all the Faithful, renews and reinforces the friendly alliance that his ancestors have built with the rulers of the European countries. His Imperial Majesty will do everything in his power to intensify and expand this alliance, with the help of God.”
At a signal from His Majesty, the consuls general stepped up one by one and answered with well-chosen words. After Consul General Drummond-Hay had spoken, a eunuch and several slaves approached to collect the gifts for the sultan.
“But I wanted to present the gun to His Majesty myself,” Benjamin protested. “This way I know neither that he really received it nor that he knows it is from me.”
“You may rest assured that His Majesty is informed in detail about the provenance of all the gifts,” Consul Willshire told him.
Yet Benjamin refused to hand it over. The delay caught the sultan’s attention and Drummond-Hay felt compelled to explain. A short exchange with the translator ensued.
“His Imperial Majesty the Sultan permits the merchant Hopkins to hand over his gift to his favorite eunuch, Feradge!”
Benjamin looked at Drummond-Hay uncertainly and the latter nodded emphatically. So he unwrapped the gun from its protective cloth. Before handing it to the eunuch, he held it up for the sultan to see. A murmur went through the lines of soldiers as the silver studs sparkled in the light. Even His Majesty seemed interested. Benjamin was satisfied. He was sure that the sultan would reward him for this valuable gift, maybe even with exclusive rights for the export of leather!