The Lioness of Morocco(34)
The sultan pointed to another divan opposite his. “Please, my honored guests, take a seat. Please do us the honor of drinking some spiced coffee with us.”
Again he clapped his hands. More slaves appeared. One brought bowls with water and towels so the monarch and his guests could rinse their hands. Another brought tiny, delicate porcelain cups. A third served sweetmeats, and a fourth handed His Majesty a coffee mill so that he could grind the freshly roasted beans himself. Then one of the slaves brewed the spiced coffee over one of the coal pans. Feradge stood behind his master’s divan and directed the ceremony with tiny gestures.
“Your Arabic is excellent, Mrs. Hopkins,” the sultan remarked courteously while he filled the cups.
“Learning the language of a country that has welcomed my family with such kindness is the least I could do,” Sibylla replied modestly.
The encounter continued like this for quite some time. Moulay Abd al-Rahman and his guests exchanged pleasantries as though they were at a picnic.
“Now, I am certain that there is a reason for this urgent request for an audience?” the sultan eventually asked.
Although Sibylla was sure that Abd al-Rahman was already familiar with the reason, she calmly answered, “Your governor, Qaid Hash-Hash, has been holding my husband on the Island of Mogador for several months.”
The sultan’s kindly expression suddenly turned severe. “The merchant Hopkins traded in slaves. We do not permit infidel visitors to our country to engage in this type of business—in agreement with your English queen, as you surely know.”
“My husband has been negligent in the respect he has paid you, Your Imperial Majesty,” Sibylla conceded. “But he has assured me that he is innocent and has himself fallen victim to a conspiracy. It was likely one of his captains who conducted these odious deals behind his back.”
“Do you then accuse us of holding an innocent man captive? We have it on good authority that your husband shipped slaves from our coast to the Caribbean!”
Sibylla decided to drop the presumption of innocence. She lowered her head in supplication. “As the mother of two small sons, I throw myself at your feet, honorable monarch, and ask for mercy for my husband. You are renowned as a wise and magnanimous ruler. Please do not deny a mother’s plea!”
Abd al-Rahman’s face twitched. He motioned to Feradge, who leaned over him, and a rapidly whispered exchange arose.
“Your husband has severely damaged our reputation in the world. This kind of offense can be absolved only with some kind of compensation,” Abd al-Rahman finally pronounced.
There it was: the demand for money Sibylla had been dreading, for she still had little. “I suspect I know which captain is responsible for these trades, and I will be personally responsible for seeing to it that he receives his proper punishment in England. Not the slightest blemish will remain on Your Imperial Majesty’s honor.”
“That will not suffice,” Abd al-Rahman replied coolly.
André took this opportunity to intervene. “Perhaps it will suffice if we bring news about Abd el-Kader, the Algerian rebel—and your own subject, Thabit al-Khattabi. The two of them have made a pact that is not likely to please Your Majesty.”
Abd al-Rahman froze. “What about al-Khattabi?”
“This information is worth Benjamin Hopkins’s freedom,” André replied. “And not only that. In exchange for this information, I ask that you hand over Abd el-Kader, who is hiding in the Rif Mountains and whom you are protecting.”
Sibylla held her breath as she watched the two men size each other up. The sultan’s black eyes glowed, but André did not seem to fear him. Finally, Abd al-Rahman clapped his hands, and when a slave appeared, he rapidly whispered a command to him.
“The merchant will be released,” the sovereign declared. “Our scribe will give Mrs. Hopkins an official order for the qaid. Abd el-Kader’s handover depends on the information you have, Rouston, so speak!”
Abd al-Rahman’s demeanor remained tense but steady while André laid out the conspiracy that Abd el-Kader and Thabit al-Khattabi had hatched. Sibylla was on pins and needles. Even the lions paced in their cage and uttered menacing growls.
When André was finished, the sultan pounded the divan with his fist. “May God curse the evildoers! Oh, the vipers we have nurtured in our bosom!”
He swung around to the eunuch, who flinched. “Why did we not know about this? Why do we pay a fortune for informants only to learn about treason from a Frenchman?”
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Feradge stammered, “I shall initiate an investigation . . .”
“Bring us al-Khattabi! We shall flog him personally, quarter him, and feed his stinking carcass to the lions!” the sultan raged. “What happens to traitors in your country, Mrs. Hopkins? Tell us so we may do the same to this hyena al-Khattabi!”
“Well, Your Imperial Majesty, I th-think that high treason is punishable by death in England as well,” Sibylla stammered. “Not in a lion’s den, however.” She warily looked over at the formidable predators, which were baring their long, sharp fangs.
The sultan hesitated. Sibylla could have sworn that the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. Then he turned to André. “Your information is worth its price. However, we cannot hand over Abd el-Kader to your government. Though an Algerian, he has many friends in this country and they would clamor for revenge.”
“Your Majesty is making a grave error,” urged André. “The French government wants Abd el-Kader at all costs.”
The sultan reached for a silver tray with candied dates and offered them to Sibylla and André. “Tell the French: it is not the amount of time spent on the hunt, but the kind of animal killed. Abd el-Kader will be this animal at the right time.” He placed a date in his mouth and chewed it with relish.
At that moment, a slave once again darted from the colonnade and gave Feradge a small piece of rolled-up parchment.
“Your Imperial Majesty! A carrier pigeon just delivered news of great importance from the north of the country.” He handed the sultan the parchment.
Abd al-Rahman read the contents carefully before rolling the parchment up and saying to André, “Abd el-Kader, together with the tribes of our province of Oran, to which the traitor al-Khattabi belongs, has launched renewed attacks in Algeria. The French navy has bombarded Tangier in retaliation.”
Sibylla was shocked. Their visit was too late! Would the sultan still release Benjamin? André too seemed unnerved. “Your Imperial Majesty, if you wish, I will personally intercede on your behalf with the French consul general.”
Abd al-Rahman raised his right hand. “Your offer comes too late for Tangier, Monsieur Rouston. But, Mrs. Hopkins, you need not worry. A ruler from the house of the Alaouites does not go back on his word. Your husband will be released. But mark my words: it is not an innocent man who is being freed!”
“Are you in such a rush because you cannot wait to be reunited with your husband?” André inquired querulously as he tightened the saddle girth on his horse.
“My children have been without their mother for a week. I should think that that is sufficient reason to rush,” Sibylla replied sharply. “I wish to reach Mogador tonight.”
“Vos desirs sont des ordres, madame!” André stashed the leftovers of their midday meal in a saddlebag, mounted his brown mare, and galloped away. Sibylla had trouble keeping up as he spurred his horse more and more, driven by rage and jealousy. Although he had told himself a hundred times that it was not Sibylla’s fault, he nonetheless let her feel the brunt of his bad mood.
Ever since they had left Marrakesh three days earlier, he had been asking himself why he’d agreed to such an absurd act of heroism to save his rival. It must have been his desire to impress Sibylla with his diplomatic savoir-faire and his influence with the sultan. A tiny part of him had even hoped that, during these few days and nights, he might be allowed to hold her in his arms and to love her. And yet she had not encouraged him in any way, which hurt him even though he told himself a hundred times that it was wrong to expect such recompense for his support.
“I ought to have let that fellow rot on the island,” he growled under his breath and pressed his heels into his mare’s flanks.
“André, wait! I think my horse is lame!”
He spun around to investigate.
“The right front leg feels hot. Probably a strained tendon,” he concluded after dismounting and checking the horse. “Dismount and get on my horse. I am going to lead yours. Fortunately, we’re almost there.”
Sibylla slid out of the saddle. “I can lead my horse myself!”
“You cannot seriously think that I am going to ride while you walk next to me! Now get on my horse, zut alors!”
“I understand French curses quite well, and I am not going to take orders, not even from you!” she hissed.
They stared at each other furiously for a few seconds before breaking into laughter. He leaned forward and cupped his hands to help her mount his mare more easily.
“Excuse moi! My behavior has been atrocious.”
“I’m not going to disagree.” She sighed. “Without your help, the sultan would never have agreed to release Benjamin, and I am aware of how difficult that must have been for you. Benjamin is my husband only on paper at this point. Still, we are bound in the eyes of God and the law, and it is almost impossible to dissolve that union .”