The Lioness of Morocco(33)
“But I only want the truth!”
Benjamin turned to Sibylla and fixed his gaze as though he wanted to hypnotize her. “I swear that I could never do anything to harm the Spencer & Son Shipping Company or my family!”
She knitted her brow. “So that means that someone set you up. Was it Captain Brown? Samuel Toledano?”
“How should I know? Perhaps Toledano approached Brown and offered him a lot of money. I can’t monitor my captains while the ships are in the harbor. But as soon as I am free, I am going to do everything in my power to expose the guilty party!”
Sibylla let his words sink in. Brown was a sinister-looking character. But so were other captains. Her father was right when he said that the life at sea made a person cruel and solitary.
“I don’t know whom or what to believe anymore.”
Benjamin squeezed her hand so hard that it hurt. “Think about it, Sibylla! You told me yourself that the qaid’s people found no cash that could not be accounted for. What better proof of my innocence is there?”
He moved closer to her and pushed her backward onto the grass. Before she could react, he had rolled on top of her and was squeezing her breasts.
“Benjamin! Stop!” She struggled vehemently.
His face was flushed. “You are my wife,” he gasped, trying to fight back.
“The last few years, you’ve been calling Firyal for this sort of thing. Let me go!”
He rolled off her at last. “You knew?”
“You certainly took no pains to hide it.”
He lowered his head and drew imaginary shapes in the grass with his fingers. “Why do you even want to help me? Would you not prefer that I rot on this island?”
She sat up and smoothed her tunic. “I’m doing it for our children, Benjamin—only our children.”
Chapter Sixteen
Marrakesh, a few days later
The news that Sibylla Hopkins was riding to Marrakesh in the company of Rouston spread like wildfire among the merchants of Mogador. The men grinned and made suggestive remarks about the fiery Englishwoman, while the women whispered about her scandalous behavior.
Sibylla did not care a whit about the opinion of people who had been shunning her for months. Time was of the essence and so she had left the children in Nadira’s care. André had borrowed a fast horse from the French consul’s stable for her and they reached Marrakesh after four instead of the usual five days.
The sentries greeted Rouston like an old friend and immediately let them through the main gate. A short time later, Feradge, the head of the eunuchs and the ruler’s confidant, appeared. He told them that His Majesty was on a falconry excursion, but was expected back by evening and that he, Feradge, would personally ensure that His Majesty received his guests first thing the next morning.
He put André up in the guest pavilion in the magnificent royal garden, while Sibylla was permitted to stay in the harem quarters.
“Let us meet in front of my guesthouse after morning prayers,” André said when they took leave of one another. “Now you must rest. Tomorrow will be a strenuous day.”
“Magnifique! You are more beautiful than a queen!” he exclaimed when Sibylla showed up the following morning. She was wearing a dress made of royal blue embroidered silk, but without the matching sapphire jewelry, a wedding gift from her father, as those pieces had fallen into the hands of the qaid’s plundering henchmen. She had dressed English-style for her meeting with the ruler. André believed that Abd al-Rahman would hold her in higher regard if he could see from her attire that she belonged to the English upper classes.
André himself wore the uniform of a major in the Chasseurs d’Afrique and had pinned the medal for his service in the Algerian War on his light blue jacket.
“Abd al-Rahman still thinks of our military as the Grande Armée of Napoleon’s time, and as I am appearing before him today as a representative of the French government, I hardly wish to disabuse him of that misconception,” he explained somewhat sheepishly to Sibylla, who was looking at him admiringly.
Had the occasion not been so serious, the enchanting garden would have made it romantic indeed. The desert wind rustled in the silver leaves of the olive trees, birds were singing, fountains were burbling, and everywhere there was the scent of roses and mint, verbena, myrtle, and jasmine.
Sibylla took a seat next to André on the low marble bench in front of the guesthouse. “I doubt the sultan is going to value Benjamin’s freedom as highly as his own throne,” she said with some anxiety.
“We will have to play our cards carefully and pique his curiosity to such a degree that he will be prepared to pay this price for our information.”
“I am terribly nervous,” she confessed. “I’ve been telling myself that this audience is no different from bargaining for oranges at the souk—and I’m quite good at bargaining, I’ll have you know. Only that the merchant is the ruler of Morocco and the oranges are Benjamin’s head!”
André grinned. “I like the image of your husband’s head as an orange.”
“I’m not even sure that Abd al-Rahman is going to like my gift.” She looked at the expensive English saddle lying before her in the grass. Benjamin had had it made especially for his flame-colored stallion. Qaid Hash-Hash had confiscated the stallion, of course, but his henchmen had not taken the saddle. Benjamin would not be much pleased to discover that his saddle was now the property of the sultan. But she had had neither the time nor the money for another gift.
André got up and straightened his uniform jacket. “Here comes Feradge. It’s time.” He extended his hand to Sibylla and helped her up.
“Phew,” she groaned. “I had forgotten how tight a bodice is!”
He smiled. “Chin up and shoulders back. And do not forget: I am by your side!”
“His Majesty will receive his guests in the lion’s court.” Feradge bowed to André and Sibylla. The corpulent man with ebony skin obviously loved resplendence and adornments. His brocaded cloak was embroidered with pearls and gems, and gold rings sparkled on his plump fingers. Sibylla suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to bring a present for the ruler’s favorite eunuch, and she could only hope he would not take offense. But Feradge was the epitome of graciousness as he inquired about the well-being of His Majesty’s guests and whether there was anything they lacked.
His movements were swift and lithe despite his size. Soon, they arrived at a wall and a large gatehouse made of reddish rammed earth, through which one reached another part of the garden. There were sentries from the Black Guards here too, and they respectfully bowed their heads as the small group hurried past.
They entered a courtyard surrounded by a colonnade and filled with a rectangular water basin. Sibylla noticed how pleasantly the water cooled the heat of the desert. “We are so close to the Sahara, and yet there is so much water here!” she marveled.
“His Imperial Majesty has it channeled here from the Atlas Mountains. In this way, he honors God, who has given the people water and thereby awakened the barren soil,” the eunuch explained with great dignity.
They had reached the end of the water basin and were passing an octagonal latticed pavilion. In it lounged a pair of lions watching the visitors with vigilant amber eyes. Sibylla had seen live lions only once before in her life, many years ago in a traveling menagerie of exotic animals in London. As she passed the bars, the male uttered a low warning growl. She looked at the powerful animal with the black-and-yellow mane and the deadly paws, bigger than two men’s fists.
“I should not have thought the name ‘lion’s court’ was meant literally!” she whispered to André.
“A reminder of the ruler’s power,” he replied quietly. “Do not let it intimidate you.”
“The audience will take place here,” Feradge interrupted.
“Here?” Sibylla said without meaning to.
She had expected an official venue, a throne room with dignitaries and courtiers—certainly not a garden. The eunuch led the guests to the other side of the cage. Silk rugs were spread out on the ground and braziers emitted the scent of fragrant resins. Under a red silk canopy, flanked by two slaves who were fanning him with palm fronds, Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman, Imam of all True Believers and Ruler of Morocco, Descendant of the Holy Dynasty of the Alaouites, the last free ruler of Arab North Africa, sat on a divan. He was dressed all in white, with a carefully groomed short salt-and-pepper beard, alert black eyes, and a well-nourished, round face.
The sultan greeted Rouston first. His gaze lingered on the medal of honor. He recognized that André was wearing the uniform of the victors of the Algerian War and understood it to be a show of power.
Sibylla bowed respectfully. “Assalamu alaikum. Imperial Majesty, I am deeply moved by your receiving me and Monsieur Rouston. Please allow me to offer you this modest gift.”
She turned to André, who placed the saddle at the sultan’s feet.
The monarch bowed his head graciously. “Wa-alaikum salam, merchant lady. We thank you for the honor of your visit.”
He clapped his hands. A slave appeared from the shadows of the colonnade, picked up the saddle, and carried it away. Had Sibylla not already learned that Arabs considered it impolite to pay more attention to the gift than to their guests, she might have feared that he was not pleased with it.