The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  “The woman with the lion’s hair is blushing like a girl before her first night of love, is she not?” Wahida continued. “And yet our Engliziya’s rosebud has opened and given her two strong little rose stems.” She picked a juicy golden grape and consumed it gracefully.

  Sibylla had no idea what to say, having had no experience with this kind of thing. Nervously, she looked to Lalla Jasira. The qaid’s first wife was holding the tip of her veil over her mouth and chuckling softly. Sibylla resolved not to betray the fact that she hadn’t understood even half of Wahida’s words. She could guess what the concubine meant by “rosebud,” and that was shocking enough. But what on earth did the plum have to do with a man’s body? Her mind reached back to One Thousand and One Nights, but she could recall no story in which the eating of plums had anything to do with making love. Besides, during the few intimate nights she had shared with Benjamin, she had noticed no sensitive areas.

  If anyone knows where they are and if he even has any, then it is Firyal, she thought soberly.

  “If you ladies will excuse me.” Unsettled by the concubine’s teasing, she nodded to Lalla Jasira and Wahida, stood up, and walked toward the stage that had been set up beneath a bright silk canopy.

  To celebrate the Eid al-Fitr, Rusa had engaged some traveling musicians, ten women and one blind man, who were dancing and singing provocative songs. Sibylla joined a group of women standing in a semicircle, cheerfully singing along and beating small copper cymbals in time. Three young concubines swaying their hips pushed past Sibylla toward the blind musician, who was strumming the al rababa, a one-stringed instrument.

  “Are you truly blind or do you secretly enjoy looking at forbidden fruit?” one of them whispered so close to his ear that her breath touched his wrinkled neck. Another giggled as she took her veil and tied it over his dim eyes. He too seemed to be enjoying the fun because he suddenly reached out one arm and took a few steps forward, making the young women screech and scatter. Sibylla had to laugh. What did it matter that Wahida had teased her a little? Today was a holiday, after all!

  Boom, boom!

  Sibylla started. The women stopped their conversations, the children their play, and the musicians their performance. Rusa sat up in her chair and looked about in a daze.

  “Gunshots. They’re coming from the beach!” one of the women shouted.

  “Let’s go to the rooftop to see,” another suggested.

  All of them hastened up the stone steps, pulling their veils over their hair and faces so that, from afar, they resembled a flock of birds. The older children excitedly ran ahead; the younger ones were carried by their nannies. Sibylla, Lalla Jasira, and Wahida followed together with Rusa, who walked with the aid of her personal slave.

  “What a terrible racket!” the qaid’s mother said with concern. “I hope nothing has happened down there.”

  “I believe I know why they are shooting,” Sibylla replied. “This morning, my husband told me he had to go to the beach this afternoon because His Excellency wanted to test the guns he had ordered for His Majesty.”

  Boom, boom! came the confirmation.

  The spectacle from the roof proved exciting indeed. Ten men, among them the qaid, were galloping across the sand, their burnooses blowing in the wind. Their horses were adorned with splendid bridles, and long colorful fringes dangled from their saddle blankets. The men held their weapons in one hand, twirling them skillfully above their heads, while driving their horses with the other and uttering battle cries. Once the group split up, Sibylla noticed a structure consisting of two wooden planks that had been driven into the ground and a third laid across the top. This third plank had some strange-looking objects hanging from it.

  “Are those melons?” Rusa asked and squinted in the direction of the beach.

  “I think they’re animal bladders filled with water. They seem to be using them as targets,” Sibylla answered. “Look there, the sand underneath is wet.” Then she recognized Benjamin. “Ah! That is my husband down there.”

  Benjamin was sitting on his red stallion well away from the scaffold and the Arabs with their guns. He himself was not armed. His horse was prancing nervously and he was busy keeping it under control.

  “Is this what Englishmen wear when they ride into battle?” Lalla Jasira asked incredulously as she looked at Benjamin’s top hat, his bobbing coattails, and his knee-high leather boots.

  Sibylla shook her head. “The cavalry wears a uniform. If you would like, I’ll have a picture sent. My husband is wearing the riding costume of a civilian, a gentleman, as we say in England.”

  Wahida lifted her veil slightly to better appraise Benjamin. She had long wondered what Sayyida Sibylla’s husband might look like, and she was distinctly disappointed. The pale man was tall and thin like a reed, certainly not strong and sanguine enough to keep up with this lioness. She felt pity for the Engliziya as she thought about how unsatisfactory her love life must be. She lowered her veil and leaned over to Sibylla. “The next time your husband calls you, take him a cup of wine seasoned with a pinch of saffron. This will invigorate his loins and make him hungry.”

  But Sibylla was not listening. She was mesmerized by something on the beach. Wahida followed her gaze and understood at once.

  “So it is the faransawi whom you desire,” she whispered to Sibylla. “A beautiful man, by God. He makes a woman’s heart sing, does he not?”

  Sibylla had not noticed André Rouston right away. But now, as he ran toward the scaffold followed by some of the same Arab boys who had played with her sons and their kite, her heart skipped a beat once again.

  Stop it, she thought and pressed her fingers against the stone balustrade. Stop indulging in these improper fantasies!

  Still, she was unable to avert her eyes as André carefully checked that the riders had loaded their rifles properly. Even the Arab riders showed their respect and bowed their heads when he returned their guns to them.

  “Sayyida Sibylla.” She jumped as Wahida gently touched her arm. “If you wish, I can have my slave take a message to the faransawi.”

  Sibylla jerked away in alarm. “You are mistaken, Wahida. I am a married woman and a mother!”

  She was terrified to learn that her feelings for Rouston were so apparent. Unsure, she looked to Rusa. Fortunately, the qaid’s mother had eyes only for her son, who was trying to keep his horse under control. But Lalla Jasira’s dark eyes met hers and Sibylla felt as if the woman could read her thoughts. Sibylla blushed, and the woman placed her hand reassuringly on Sibylla’s shoulder and nodded discreetly.

  All Sibylla could do was nod back and look to the beach again. In anticipation of a great spectacle, the Arab boys had sat down in the sand. Rouston pulled his pistol from its holster and took a step back from the scaffolding. He raised his right hand and held it up for several seconds. When he finally fired, the riders began to charge with their rifles held high. The horses’ hooves tore up the sand and screams filled the air.

  Boom!

  The animal bladders exploded with dull thuds. Water squirted everywhere, and the smell of gun powder permeated the air. The women around Sibylla exploded into laughter. The children on the roof ran around, gleefully imitating the sound of gunfire. Yet Sibylla felt suddenly alone and dejected. She bade farewell to Rusa, Lalla Jasira, and Wahida, and was escorted out of the harem by a slave.

  “The lady with the lion’s hair is a virtuous woman,” Lalla Jasira said reproachfully to Wahida.

  “Certainly,” the concubine replied, looking at the beach, where the riders had taken their positions again. “But is the well not dry when it lacks water?”

  “Sibylla!”

  She spun around. André had suddenly appeared behind her in the narrow street.

  “What are you doing here? Why are you not at the beach?”

  Instead of replying, he took her by the arm and guided her behind a small bakery. A massive oven stood in the middle of the courtyard. It resembled a large beehive constructed of dri
ed-mud- and-straw tiles. The oven belonged not only to the baker but the local residents as well. Every morning, neighborhood women would bring their freshly kneaded dough on large wooden planks. Now, in the late afternoon, the courtyard was empty. Two cats preening themselves on a pile of wood scurried away as the humans approached. Voices could be heard from several doorways, and the air smelled of the food the baker’s wife was preparing for dinner.

  André pulled Sibylla into a dark passageway. “I spotted you on the rooftop—your hair was uncovered. And then you disappeared. I thought you must be on your way home, so I came to find you.” His voice was so tender, and still he held her arm. Sibylla’s knees trembled.

  “I apologize for the ambush,” André continued. “I had to see you.”

  He was standing very close. She could feel the warmth of his body and smell the masculine scent of his skin.

  “Why?” she asked quietly. “What are you planning to do now that you have—ambushed me?” If he was planning to take her into his arms and kiss her, she would not object at all.

  “I want us to meet in peace and take the time to speak our hearts truly. Will you meet me at the old Portuguese church, Sibylla? We would be completely undisturbed.”

  Sibylla burned to hear the truth of his heart. And yet the idea of meeting this dashing Frenchman in the ruined church troubled her.

  “Monsieur Rouston, I am a married woman and cannot slink through the alleyways like a thief to meet with a man! What if we’re seen?”

  “I will wait outside your house after evening prayers,” André responded. “No one will see us in the dark. Not even the moon will betray us. The crescent is still very small.”

  “Truly, you have thought of everything. But I have not even agreed to meet,” she said sharply. It annoyed her that he had made a plan before consulting her. If this Frenchman thought she could be had so easily, he was mistaken!

  André, however, was undeterred. “Please, Sibylla! I know you feel that there is something special between us.”

  He gently placed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, making goose bumps rise all over her body. Benjamin might have shared her bed, he might be the father of her children, and yet none of that had created a bond between the two of them. André only needed to touch her lightly and she was ready to forget her marital vows.

  “You may be right,” she admitted. “But is that reason enough for clandestine meetings?”

  “Is this not all we have?” he asked urgently. “In two, maybe three days, I will be riding back to the Chiadma, and months will pass before we see each other again.”

  She looked into his eyes. “If we had met earlier, under different conditions. But that was not to be . . .” She stopped. “It’ll be dark soon. I must go. Au revoir, André.”

  Before she could have second thoughts, Sibylla forced herself to cross the courtyard. But André rushed after her.

  “I will wait in front of your house, Sibylla,” he whispered emphatically. “Will you come?”

  She couldn’t help but smile as she looked into his face. “I do not know. But please do not wait in front of the house. The gatekeeper will see you. Wait by the little gate to the back alley.”

  “God is great, God is great. There is no god besides God!” the muezzin intoned.

  It was almost midnight. Sibylla wrapped the shawl around her head and shoulders, took her shoes in one hand and a candle in the other, and tiptoed out of her room. She paused for a moment in the corridor, but the house was silent. She heard the distant rolling of the waves and the wind rustling through the leaves of the olive trees. Outside the window, a few stars were twinkling in the sky, and a few gray clouds drifted past the silver crescent moon.

  I am twenty-seven years old, she thought, as she padded along the wooden floor. And here I am, in love for the first time. What a wonderful feeling.

  Over dinner, while Benjamin told her more than she’d ever wanted to know about guns, Sibylla had put aside all her misgivings. She had persuaded herself that she would give in just this one time and go to André. Then she would carry the memory of these few hours forever in her heart. Maybe it was wrong. But just once in her life, she wanted to know what it felt like to be held by a man who truly desired her and whom she desired.

  Having made her resolution, she felt a happiness and freedom she had not felt for a long time. She even began to take pleasure in the notion of doing something so profoundly forbidden to women. Adultery was said to be a sin for men as well, but just how little this mattered was evident by her husband’s indelicate behavior.

  When she reached the children’s room, she stopped, and could not resist stepping inside. The candle revealed her darling boys sleeping soundly in their beds. Tom sighed and furrowed his brow in his sleep. She leaned over and stroked his head. Rosy-cheeked Johnny clutched the little donkey she had sewn him.

  She was suddenly struck that one of her boys might wake up with a tummyache. That they might cry for their mother, who would be gone—off seeking her own pleasure. Benjamin would wake up and discover that she had left the house in the middle of the night.

  What sort of uncaring mother was she? While her marriage was not worth the paper on which the license was printed, her children meant everything to her!

  No, she could not go. She would have to forgo her own short-lived happiness with André Rouston, no matter how great the pain.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mogador, January 1840

  “Should a fully loaded ship not sit deeper in the water, Philipps?” Qaid Hash-Hash furrowed his brow as he looked at the Queen Charlotte’s stern.

  The harbormaster was also watching the great sailing ship, which was slowly being maneuvered through the narrow harbor exit, and nodded pensively. “I agree, Your Excellency, a fully loaded ship should sit much lower in the water.”

  “Is there any danger of her running aground if she takes on all the freight in her capacity?” The qaid knew only too well that the harbor basin was sandy and in urgent need of being dredged. But, by God, who was going to bear the costs of such an undertaking? The sultan had already made it known that he could not spare a single dirham. That left the merchants, but they were terrible misers who sat on their money like brooding hens.

  “That might indeed be a possibility at low tide, but right now it is high tide and she has sufficient water under her keel,” Philipps answered.

  “Perhaps it’s the type of freight?” the governor pressed. “Ostrich feathers are light; elephant tusks take up a lot of room. That might explain the missing draft in a fully loaded ship.”

  Still, the harbormaster shook his head. “She has mostly leather and barrels of palm oil, in addition to a few crates filled with spices on board.”

  “Hmm.” The frustrated qaid scratched his black goatee. “Destination?”

  “Baltimore, Your Excellency, in the United States of America.”

  “You are certain of that?” The black raptor eyes focused on the harbormaster.

  “Quite certain, Your Excellency. Is something wrong?” Philipps felt himself breaking into a sweat in spite of the cool December breeze. He quickly ran through the Queen Charlotte’s clearance process to rule out any mistake he might have made. Qaid Hash-Hash did not take kindly to mistakes of that nature. More than a few had found themselves in the fortress dungeon on the governor’s mere suspicion that he might have missed out on some duties or taxes.

  The qaid beckoned the boy who was carrying his water pipe for him and took a long puff. As he slowly exhaled the smoke, he again considered the mighty West Indian sailing ship. The wind carried the sound of whistles and bellowed commands to his ears. Sailors were climbing the rigging and running back and forth on deck.

  The qaid’s onboard spy had told him the ship was heading south. The governor puckered his lips in disdain when he thought of the man’s eagerness to talk when threatened with a few spoonfuls of molten lead in his stomach. And he had spilled another secret: the ship’s carpenter had received orders
to add two steerage decks as soon as they reached the open seas.

  Hash-Hash snapped his fingers and the boy quickly took the hookah pipe from him. “Philipps!”

  The harbormaster started with fright. “Your Excellency?”

  “Why would a ship sail southward if it should be sailing westward?”

  Philipps frowned. “It could have to do with the wind or the ocean’s currents, but not here in Mogador, Your Excellency. All ships sail westward from here. So perhaps it is picking up more cargo in another harbor before crossing the Atlantic.”

  The qaid’s nostrils twitched like those of a bloodhound that has picked up a scent. “What kind of cargo could a ship like the Queen Charlotte take on from the Saharan coast?”

  “None,” Philipps replied without understanding. “There aren’t even any decent harbors down there. The Queen would have to head much farther south, say to Guinea or the Gold Coast, but down there the cargo is mostly slaves.”

  Qaid Hash-Hash folded his hands behind his back and looked out to sea. The Queen Charlotte had left the narrow harbor exit behind her. Seagulls were circling above her masts. Her sails billowed in the wind as her pointed bow slowly headed south.

  Finally, it all fits, the governor thought with satisfaction. The secret meetings that Hopkins and Toledano had been having with the Queen Charlotte’s captain, the half-loaded ship, and the riches that vulgar Englishman had amassed—the latest an odd bowl with gilded lion’s feet, which he called a “bathtub.”

  Hopkins was obviously realizing profits for which he paid neither taxes nor duties. But it was not until now that Qaid Hash-Hash could be certain how he did it: slaves.

  Not that the qaid objected to the slave trade as such. He might even have consented to having an infidel engage in it. But if this infidel thought he could smuggle all his proceeds past him and His Majesty Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman, he would soon learn otherwise. And to think that cursed Toledano, who had always enjoyed His Majesty’s protection, was in cahoots with the Englishman!