“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.
“Arab dress is very comfortable indeed. I haven’t yet decided if I’m even going to go back to wearing a corset after the baby comes,” Sibylla replied as she looked at Sara’s tight-fitting bodice. She could see dark sweat stains under the long sleeves, and the skirt with its many petticoats must have been as warm as a woolen blanket. Sara and Nadira were both riding sidesaddle.
Benjamin was riding next to Toledano and Consul Willshire. He had been finding it hard to look his pregnant wife in the eye for fear she might somehow see the effect the Chiadma dancers had had on him. And anyhow, riding at the front of the caravan put him in an excellent position to discuss business and avoid women’s topics like babies and clothes.
By now he was aware of Toledano’s position as the most powerful of the Jewish traders in Mogador. No one looking at the elderly man, dressed in his faded black kaftan and slouched on his donkey—the sultan did not allow Jews to ride mules or horses—would have believed it. But Benjamin had been a guest at his house, where, behind an inconspicuous facade, Toledano lived in charming luxury with his wife and several children.
In the afternoon of the following day, when the walls of Marrakesh appeared on the horizon, Sibylla was so relieved she almost began to cry. She had been feeling a pulling pain in her belly, not too severe, but persistent enough for her to begin to worry. The ground was uneven and every stone gave her an unpleasant jolt. She clenched her teeth and tried hard not to think about what it would be like to be delivered of her child along a caravan route.
She directed her gaze to the cornered minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque, which towered over a sea of rooftops. Sunlight glittered in its gilt spheres. In the distance, one could see the violet-blue and white colors of the High Atlas.
“Is that really snow at the top there? So close to the desert? What a fantastic country!” she exclaimed.
The caravan crossed the Al-Haouz plain, a fertile region of olive and pomegranate groves, which the Arab
s called the Sultan’s Gardens. Sibylla saw goats, sheep, and cattle grazing in green meadows. Along the roadside there were granaries built out of the red mud typical of the area, and colonies of sparrows nested in the trees. She could hear a mysterious rumbling and rushing underground.
“Are there underground rivers here?” she asked.
“In a way, yes,” explained Sara. “These are rhetaras, or canals that the natives dig into the mountains until they strike groundwater. This water is carried to the fields and even as far as Marrakesh.”
Two hours later, Sibylla, Benjamin, the Willshires, Nadira, and the qaid with his entourage rode toward the Bab Doukkala, a city gate on the northwest side of Marrakesh. Samuel Toledano remained behind to oversee the caravan’s unloading. Cypresses and date palms towered overhead. The city wall, fortified with battlements and massive bastions, easily twenty-four feet in height and seemingly endless in length, impressed Sibylla deeply. Next, some poles driven into the ground directly in front of the gate caught her eye. On the tip of each pole was a shriveled brown orb. As they rode past, she realized with horror these were human heads, which appeared to grin at her through lifeless eyes and exposed teeth. She felt a wave of nausea and quickly placed her hand over her mouth.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Benjamin.
“Did you not see, there, in front of the gate?”
Benjamin squinted. “Well, I always knew the people in this country were barbarians.”
“Those are the heads of executed criminals,” Consul Willshire said. “The sultan has them preserved in salt.”
“How terrible,” Sibylla gasped.
“He really is quite a peaceful sort,” Willshire assured her. “But there are many who envy him and would like nothing better than to depose him. The Alaouites may be holy, but they are not inviolable. The heads of the executed serve as a warning to all those who would think to conspire against His Majesty.”
“Has he displayed the heads of Christians as well?” Benjamin’s voice sounded a little thin.
“Sultan Abd al-Rahman would much prefer a hefty ransom to full-blown diplomatic conflict. He witnessed what happened in Algeria because of some outstanding wheat payments. The Dey of Algiers wound up in exile and the French took control of the country. That is something Abd al-Rahman does not want to risk on any account.”
A broad earthen street led to a mosque in the southeast, and the alleyways of the medina branched off from there. Worshippers coming out of the mosque looked at them with curiosity. Sibylla noticed how the Jewish members of their group quickly dismounted and removed their slippers as they approached the mosque.
“The sultan’s orders,” Sara whispered to her. “This is how Moroccan Jews must show their respect to the true believers. But it does not apply to us Christians. We’re foreigners in this country and are permitted to enjoy the Orient’s holy hospitality.”
Sibylla soon noticed that, even in this big city, foreign infidels were something of a novelty, especially in the company of an Arab dignitary and escorted by the sultan’s own cavalry. She was grateful to have her blonde hair shrouded. People came running from all directions. Some gave friendly waves or smiled shyly. Others circled them silently or made a sign to ward off the evil eye. Sibylla found the people gaunt and poorly dressed.
“Am I wrong in thinking that the royal city of the south seems somewhat run-down?” she asked Sara softly enough to avoid being heard by Nuri bin Kalil.
The consul’s wife nodded. “There was a terrible pestilence here a few years ago and, shortly thereafter, an outbreak of the pox and cholera.”
A group of children tried to push toward Sibylla’s mule. They were thin, dressed in rags, and had their dirty hands outstretched. “Dju, good lady, hungry!”
Sibylla was about to search for her purse, but Nadira quickly drove her donkey between her and the little mendicants, and Nuri bin Kalil chased them away with all kinds of ugly insults.
“Nadira, how could you be so cruel?” Sibylla was horrified.
“If you give them alms, my lady, in no time you will be surrounded by so many that you would not be able to go on. They would cling to the harness of your mule and would not let go until they had taken everything from you, like rats gnawing on a carcass.”
“I appreciate that you wanted to protect me, but it is unchristian to chase away the hungry, most of all children,” Sibylla insisted.
“Islam too instructs the true believers to give alms, Mrs. Hopkins,” Nuri bin Kalil said. “But it does not expect the lamb to sacrifice itself to the lion.”
Sibylla fell silent, shaking her head emphatically. She thought of the innocent baby in her belly and how no child should ever have to beg for food.
The group reached the center of the city, the sultan’s riders mercilessly forcing aside anyone who did not clear the way immediately. Sibylla took in the dilapidated facades, empty shops, the entire streets that seemed abandoned. Rats and stray dogs were foraging in the heaps of trash outside small homes, and the odor was so foul that she pulled up her shawl tighter against her mouth and nose.
It was only when they approached the souk that the city came to life. There were slave traders roaming through the streets with their “merchandise” in tow. The smell of freshly baked bread and roasted meat wafted from the communal kitchens. One could hear the rhythmic tapping of the metal-artists’ market. Berbers were unloading wool rugs. A mysterious scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and cloves filled Sibylla’s nose.
The fondouks, or city inns, were located behind the markets. The fondouks were much like the caravanserais, but they also housed workshops and sales rooms in which the merchants could display their wares.
“There is a splendid hamam behind our inn,” Sara told Sibylla as they dismounted in the courtyard of their fondouk. “It is part of a mosque with a Koran school, but the hamam is open to all. I always go there to get thoroughly cleaned after the long trip. One ought to be nicely washed for an audience with a sovereign, don’t you agree?” She winked at her friend.
Sibylla heaved a big sigh. “I can’t imagine anything I would like more right now. We’ll take Nadira and let ourselves be pampered!”
If there was one thing she had learned to appreciate in this country, it was the hamam. Back in England, she’d had her own bathtub, which had stood in her bedroom behind a screen. But to wash oneself in Morocco, one had to go to a public bath. The women’s section of the bath was also the only place—aside from a harem—where Sibylla encountered her Arab counterparts as they dedicated themselves to their beauty routines and exchanged the latest news. She had been quite inhibited during her first visit, not knowing what to expect. But she soon learned to relish the uninhibited, relaxed atmosphere and quickly forgot that she was covered by nothing more than a cloth around her hips. By now, her pregnancy was decidedly visible, but she was not the only one in this place who was with child, and all the women, pregnant or not, were happy for her, inquiring about her condition and showering her with advice.
Benjamin, needless to say, did not share Sibylla’s love of the hamam. While he did not try to dissuade her from going, he made no secret of his distaste and declared that not the Devil himself could get him to bathe with naked strangers. Sibylla had reconciled herself to the fact that she and her husband had little in common.
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.
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