The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  Finally, they stepped out into a surprisingly large inner courtyard ringed by a colonnade and several rooms. There was an ornately carved wooden staircase leading to yet another walkway and more rooms above.

  Sibylla was enchanted. At last, the Arab garden of her dreams! A shallow basin with a babbling fountain stood in the shade of some orange and lemon trees. The flower beds were bordered by marble pathways. Lizards sunning themselves on the warm stones scurried away as the new tenants approached.

  Birds were singing in the trees and delicate violet blossoms climbed up the bannisters.

  “This is the riad you will call home,” said Willshire. “It is excellently suited to this climate. The kitchen wing and several housekeeping rooms are downstairs. The living quarters are upstairs and on the roof is a terrace with a magnificent view of the city and the ocean.”

  Sibylla whispered, “It is like something out of a fairy tale.”

  Benjamin, unimpressed, remarked that it lacked the comforts he was accustomed to.

  Willshire smiled. “Of course, it lacks the modern conveniences of an English home, but, believe me, the Arabs know a thing or two about comfort. Ah, here comes my wife.”

  A young woman appeared at one of the doors on the first floor and hurried over. “There you are at last! We’ve been waiting for days, but that ghastly fog just refused to lift. I’m Sara Willshire. Welcome to Mogador. You look like you could use a glass of tea. I have had it prepared in the Moroccan way, but not to worry, it’s delicious!” Sara clapped her hands and a black woman emerged from the house. She was carrying a silver tray with glasses and a teapot that smelled of mint.

  Sibylla found it outstanding, but Benjamin said that he would have preferred a cup of good English tea.

  “I know exactly how you feel.” Sara laughed. “Everything really is very different from dear old England.”

  Chapter Five

  Mogador, mid-May 1836

  “Allahu akbar! Ash hadu an la ilaha illallah!”

  “Damn caterwauling! They just don’t let up, do they?” Benjamin shot up in bed.

  Nine days had passed since their arrival in Mogador, and he was exasperated every time he heard one of the muezzin’s five daily calls to prayer. Especially the predawn call.

  Sibylla too had been awakened, but she was not upset. “At home we have the church bells that ring, and here they have the muezzin. They don’t seem so different to me.”

  She stretched out contentedly under the covers and thought about the new, most likely bright and windy day dawning. She couldn’t see anything because the windows of their riad were small and faced the courtyard. But in the evenings, she enjoyed standing on the flat roof of the house just like the locals and watching the bright orange sun disappear over the western horizon. The days here did not fade gradually. Velvet blue night followed the sunset seamlessly and, once the moon had risen and was surrounded by the brightly shining stars, it seemed to Sibylla much closer than in London.

  “This caterwauling—which I sincerely hope you are not comparing to the ringing of church bells—wakes up innocent people before six in the morning. Extremely rude is what I call that!” Benjamin grumbled as he lit a candle, climbed out of bed, and threw on a robe over his nightshirt.

  Muttering angrily, he disappeared behind a screen where the washstand was. He and Sibylla were using the bedroom previously occupied by Mr. Fisher. Like all the other rooms in the riad, it was smaller than those in their London house. While Benjamin slept in Mr. Fisher’s small bed, the Willshires had arranged a divan for Sibylla, and she found it reasonably comfortable. Besides the beds, there were several colorfully painted chests and chests of drawers, which looked somewhat out of place next to the heavy English oak armoire from Mr. Fisher’s estate. Sibylla had hung mirrors and family portraits, but she did not really feel at home in this hodgepodge of a house.

  There was a knock at the door and the housekeeper entered with a pot of steaming tea. She placed it on Sibylla’s nightstand and lit one of the oil lamps. Sibylla and Benjamin were still trying to get used to the fact that, unlike in London, there were no gaslights in Mogador. Benjamin disguised his discomfort and homesickness with a bad mood.

  “Good morning,” the housekeeper said in the melodious English that Sibylla so appreciated. Like every day, she was wearing a dress made of brightly colored cotton tightly wound around her ample hips, a turban covering all of her hair, and heavy gold earrings whose sparkle contrasted beautifully with her ebony skin.

  “Thank you, Nadira,” said Sibylla, accepting the steaming glass. She had quickly realized how beneficial mint tea was for her morning sickness and made a point to drink it in bed every morning. Benjamin did not like the sweet brew, but he had unearthed some of Mr. Fisher’s finest Indian Darjeeling and reserved it for himself.

  Nadira bowed and left to set the breakfast table. Sara Willshire had told Sibylla that Nadira did not know her exact age, but as Sibylla observed the housekeeper’s smooth face and swift movements, she concluded that Nadira could not be much older than she. And Firyal, the other servant, was even younger.

  “I must say, I’m surprised that I have also been asked to the first official visit at the palace today,” she said. “After all, Qaid Hash-Hash ignored me quite completely when we arrived, and I cannot imagine that his attitude has changed.”

  “Perhaps he wants to make up for his discourtesy.” Benjamin emerged from behind the screen. He was freshly shaved and had donned his best tailcoat and a burgundy cravat.

  “You look very elegant.”

  “Well, that’s because I know what is proper, as opposed to this Moor, who summons us on a Sunday to discuss business.”

  “As you know, Sunday is a business day here and Friday is a holy day instead,” Sibylla calmly replied.

  “And Saturday, because that’s when the Jews celebrate their Sabbath. No wonder this country’s economy is such a mess!” And with that, he was gone.

  Sibylla watched him leave, concern evident on her face. Ever since their arrival in Mogador, he had made her feel his discontentment as though it were her fault. He also still held a grudge over her keeping her pregnancy secret for so long. They had not been intimate since boarding the Queen Charlotte, and Sibylla longed for some expression of tenderness, even as sparing and clumsy as Benjamin’s. She was stung by his rejection whenever she tried to kiss or touch him.

  Their wedding night had been disappointingly unemotional. Benjamin had lain on top of her without so much as a kiss or a caress. He had lifted her nightgown only far enough to penetrate her. The process itself had been hasty and painful and left her feeling that something ineffable and awkward now stood between them. Afterward, Benjamin had pulled up his blanket, turned away from her, and fallen asleep. Sibylla, on the other hand, had long lain awake, asking herself what, if anything, she meant to him.

  She had read exciting and enigmatic descriptions of lovemaking in the pages of One Thousand and One Nights. There were virgins with breasts like pomegranates and fluffy rabbit’s fur between their legs. There was mention of tender bites and kisses, of debauched orgies with dozens of male slaves to whom the wives of mighty rulers surrendered as soon as their husbands turned their backs. She had hidden the book under her pillow and read it secretly. And sometimes she caught herself lying in the dark, caressing her round belly and swelling breasts while her husband lay softly snoring in Mr. Fisher’s narrow bed.

  Breakfast consisted of warm flatbread with syrup, fresh oranges, dates, and a specialty that Nadira called laban, goat’s milk sprinkled with sugar. Sibylla enjoyed the combination of sweet and acidic flavors. Benjamin had made a face when tasting it for the first time, mumbling something about understanding why Mr. Fisher had died. From then on, he stuck to his imported ham and some flatbread.

  “I feel completely isolated from the rest of the world,” he complained as Sibylla entered the breakfast room. “The newspapers from England still have not arrived, the spoken language is a mystery to me—no
t to mention the written language.”

  “We ought to learn Arabic,” suggested Sibylla. “That way we would feel more at home here.”

  Benjamin stared at her, then broke into laughter. “Why not Hebrew as well while we’re at it, so that we can speak with the Jews?”

  Mr. Fisher had furnished only a few of the many small rooms in the house: a dining room, an office, a salon, and the one bedroom. The walls of the rooms were painted white like the exterior, some adorned with elaborate Arabic calligraphy. The wooden ceilings were decorated with colorfully painted carvings, and sumptuous carpets with red, blue, and green designs covered the floors.

  It is obvious that a bachelor lived here, Sibylla thought as she meandered through the rooms.

  Nothing matched, everything seemed lifeless, almost abandoned. But she was sure that, once she had turned the house into a cozy home, Benjamin would begin to feel better. Especially once children’s voices filled the now-empty rooms.

  Sibylla had chosen a green dress for the visit with the qaid. She had read that green was the Prophet’s favorite color and hoped to please her host with her choice. Yesterday, she had let out the seams in the waist to accommodate her expanding girth.

  Because the governor’s palace was no more than a few hundred yards away, they went on foot. The qaid had sent his translator to escort them. In addition, Sibylla asked Nadira to accompany her. She felt more at ease in the company of another woman, particularly one familiar with both foreigners and Arabs. Hamid also came along to carry the gift. Sibylla had realized at the last minute that, while they had a carefully chosen gift for the qaid, they had overlooked his family.

  “Take some of the Indian tea, my lady. People here love tea as much as they do in England,” Nadira had suggested.

  For the women of the house, Sibylla had plucked some colorful shawls and embroidered handkerchiefs from her chests.

  As they walked through the alleyways, passersby and street vendors stared in amazement. Word had gotten out that two new Engliz, as they called them, had arrived. Although Sibylla wore a hat, a few blonde curls peeked out, and in no time, curious onlookers came running. A few very bold, giggling children even came up and tried to touch her before being chased away by Nuri bin Kalil.

  Sibylla’s hair caused quite a stir in Mogador. Benjamin too had blond hair, but it was short and sandy, not as golden as Sibylla’s. Nadira had told her that there were some who thought her a djinna, a female demon, while others believed her hair color protected her from evil spirits. She was careful to cover it every time she left the house.

  The qaid lived in the stateliest building in town. The guards stationed in front of the tall, arched gate regarded the visitors with stony expressions, before one deigned to lead them into the front courtyard, which was covered with shiny marble tiles. A wide stone staircase led halfway to the upper floor before splitting in two and rising to a colonnade with exquisitely chiseled columns.

  The qaid appeared to greet his guests. Sibylla noticed that he was dressed as simply as on the day of their arrival. Only this time, he wore a dagger in a striking silver-studded buckle. His Excellency was accompanied by several Arabs, as well as an older man with round wire-rimmed glasses and the mandatory black attire of the Jews. Nuri bin Kalil introduced the Arabs as the governor’s relatives. The Jewish man, called Samuel Toledano, was a tujjar al-sultan, a merchant working for His Holiest Majesty Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman, explained bin Kalil.

  Benjamin, Qaid Hash-Hash, and the relatives bowed and exchanged greetings. The governor gave Sibylla’s green dress an interested glance, but then acted as he had done at their first meeting and ignored her. The small group moved to one of the reception rooms, and Benjamin thought it a good time to present his gifts.

  “Your Excellency, on behalf of the Spencer & Son Shipping Company, I would like to thank you for the warm welcome to your country and ask you to accept this small token of our appreciation.”

  He motioned to Hamid, who handed the governor a small package wrapped in silk. Even before bin Kalil had finished interpreting, the qaid passed the unopened package to one of the servants.

  Sibylla wondered with some irritation if he was disappointed at the gift’s size. After all, the silk handkerchief was wrapped around a small leather box containing an expensive gold watch.

  Sibylla signaled to her husband to distribute the packages of tea. Once all the gifts had been presented, the qaid clapped his hands. A slave entered and beckoned Sibylla and Nadira to follow her.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Mr. Hopkins’s wife will have the honor of welcoming the ladies while the gentlemen discuss business,” explained bin Kalil.

  Sibylla was stunned. She had been prepared to be ignored, but to be sent away . . .

  “His Excellency put our gifts aside so quickly,” she said quietly to Nadira as they hurriedly followed the slave. “Do you think that they did not please him?”

  “Do not be concerned, my lady,” her servant whispered. “It would have been extremely rude for him to open them in the presence of his guests.”

  Sibylla soon realized that, despite his modest attire, the qaid was fond of splendor and luxury. The chambers and corridors were bright and airy, the ceilings adorned with white stucco and the walls tiled with tiny mosaics. The floors were covered with thick silk rugs in vibrant colors, and everywhere there were inviting embroidered cushions and intricately carved coffee tables. Although there were no pictures, Sibylla noticed the variety of weapons on display. Knives, daggers, sabers, and swords in the choicest sheaths made of silver and even gold. Two firearms were displayed in one of the rooms. They were simple shotguns such as Sibylla’s father possessed for partridge and rabbit hunting, yet a servant stood guarding them like valuable treasure.

  “Now we are leaving the public area of the house,” Nadira explained. “The women’s quarters are behind this door. No man may enter here, save for His Excellency and a few next of kin. If one of the women falls ill, a hakim is permitted to enter and examine her.”

  “How have you come to know all this?” Sibylla asked.

  Nadira replied that, before she was emancipated in order to serve Christians, she had been a slave in the household of a court official in Marrakesh.

  The guards opened a double door and the slave guided them to a large room. She indicated to the guests that they were to wait and disappeared. Sibylla looked around with curiosity. The room seemed no different from the many others they’d passed through. Large windows opened to an interior courtyard. The shutters were open, allowing the fine muslin drapes to flow in the breeze. Somewhere outside, a lonesome peacock cried, but otherwise it was still. Trays covered with rose petals and fragrant herbs sat on low, exquisitely carved tables. A door opened and a group of women entered. Aside from the female slaves, the only local women Sibylla had seen had been completely veiled and scurrying through the narrow passages of the medina. But here in their living quarters, the women did not conceal their faces. They returned Sibylla’s curious smile and looked at her with expressive kohl-rimmed eyes.

  They were led by a diminutive old lady leaning on a cane of carved ivory. Though she appeared fragile, her lined face revealed kindness and intelligence. She wore a loose garment of silver-gray silk ending halfway down her calf. Below that Sibylla was able to make out pants of the same fine material and pearl-embroidered slippers. Her arms, neck, and ears were adorned with striking gold jewelry. The other women were far younger. They too were wearing kaftans with pants in all colors of the rainbow, as well as opulent jewelry. Some had covered their shiny, dark hair with translucent scarves, but most wore it loose down to their hips. A dozen chattering children ran about, the smallest among them carried by their nursemaids.

  The elderly woman stepped forward to greet Sibylla. Nadira translated for her. “El Sayyida Rusa Umm Hash-Hash, My Lady Rusa, mother of His Excellency Qaid Hash-Hash, welcomes the honorable lady from the land of the Engliz.”

  Sibylla bowed res
pectfully and gave her name. Next, the qaid’s chief wife greeted her.

  “Princess Lalla Jasira is a member of the sultan’s family, may God grant him a long life,” Nadira said.

  After the first wife, who was most likely Sibylla’s age, there were three other wives, all very young and pretty. The fourth and youngest was in the late stages of pregnancy and had her hands proudly folded on her round belly. The concubines were also introduced to Sibylla.

  “They come from Abyssinia, where the women are renowned for their beauty, and are Christian slaves,” Nadira explained.

  With their soft brown eyes and delicate limbs, the concubines reminded Sibylla of gazelles.

  The greetings concluded, Rusa gave a short speech, while smiling at Sibylla encouragingly.

  “El Sayyida and the other ladies have heard that their esteemed guest from the land of the Engliz has hair that resembles the fur of a desert lioness. They respectfully ask their guest to remove her hat so they may see for themselves.” Nadira gave Sibylla an awkward look.

  Sibylla was amazed that news of her hair color had reached even here inside the harem.

  It was a harmless enough request and it would be impolite to turn it down, she thought as she untied the bow under her chin. Cries rang out from all corners. Some of the women giggled, others covered their mouths with their hands, the children squealed with excitement.

  “They are saying that they have never before seen golden hair,” Nadira translated over the din. “They believe that you must be an angel of heaven.”

  Sibylla shook her head resolutely. “Tell them that, in my country, many people have hair like mine.”

  The incredulous murmurs grew loud. Rusa at last managed to call everyone to order.

  “The honorable Sayyida Rusa asks you to undo your hair,” Nadira relayed.

  “Very well.” Sibylla pulled the pins out of her hair so that it fell over her shoulders. The women whispered reverently. One asked if the curls were made of spun gold. Another wanted to know if her hair had magic powers over men.