The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  Off to the side, there was a single skiff. The captain stood looking in the direction of the city gate, and the rowers had taken their places. Sibylla sat down on the quay wall and watched. It was high tide, and below her, the waves quietly sloshed against the quay. Above her, seagulls were soaring in the wind and screeching hoarsely. With tears in her eyes, she squinted toward the harbor exit. There lay, at about one mile’s distance, a small, craggy island, from which rose a few towers and fortress walls: the Island of Mogador.

  The rhythmic sound of boot-shod steps cut through the morning stillness. Sibylla turned around and saw five men coming through the city gate. At the head was a Black Guard captain, Benjamin behind him. He was flanked on the right and the left by soldiers. Another followed. Sibylla jumped up and ran to the small group. The captain immediately drew his saber. “Stay back, Mrs. Hopkins!”

  She obediently kept her distance but ran alongside the men. Benjamin looked disheveled and bleary. His frockcoat was rumpled, his pants stained. She was shocked to see that his wrists were chained together.

  “Benjamin! Are you all right? What has happened?”

  He turned his head and she saw his reddened eyes. “Hasn’t Willshire told you?”

  “Yes, but I cannot believe that it is true.”

  “You must help me!” he groaned. “Go to Toledano and force him to recant!”

  By now, the group had arrived at the boat. The soldiers shoved Benjamin in and the captain shouted orders to cast off. The oars were plunged into the water and the boat glided swiftly away. Sibylla watched as it disappeared in the morning mist.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “The master is not at home,” the Toledanos’ gatekeeper announced to Sibylla, though she was sure she had glimpsed him through the windows of the second floor.

  “Please let me in! I must speak with him!” she begged, but he crossed his arms in front of his muscular chest and turned away.

  Dejected, she returned home. She wanted nothing more than to lock herself in her bedroom and cry. But there were the concerned and anxious looks of the servants. And her distraught children, who would not leave her side.

  “Where’s Daddy?” Johnny asked. Tom wanted to know if the soldiers had hurt him.

  Sibylla resorted to a white lie. “Daddy has had to go on a trip and the soldiers are going with him. You know that he travels often. But he will come back home.”

  “And he’ll bring us presents,” Johnny added with satisfaction. Tom, however, was not so easily comforted. He looked up at his mother with large doubting eyes.

  Nadira knocked on the door of the drawing room, where Sibylla was sitting on the divan with the boys. She entered carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming couscous.

  “Please take it away again. I’m not hungry,” Sibylla said and massaged her aching temples.

  Nadira placed the bowl on the table. “You have to eat, my lady. And you must rest. Come, children, there are freshly baked gazelle horns waiting in the kitchen for you.”

  For Nadira’s sake, Sibylla tried a spoonful of couscous. It tasted surprisingly good and she quickly finished the entire bowl. Then she collapsed on the divan. She must have fallen asleep, because a knock at the door shook her from bizarre dreams. The tray was gone, and someone—probably Nadira—had covered her with a blanket.

  “Yes?” She quickly sat up and smoothed her hair.

  The door opened hesitantly and Firyal appeared. “Monsieur Rouston is downstairs at the gate and wishes to speak with you, my lady.”

  André! Sibylla’s heart began to beat wildly. So news of the events had reached him. How she longed to take refuge in his arms and relive the sweet, carefree moments of a few days ago! But she forced herself not to remember.

  “Ask Monsieur Rouston in.”

  But the young woman did not budge.

  “What are you waiting for?” Sibylla asked impatiently.

  The servant haltingly came closer. Once she stood in front of Sibylla, she fell to her knees. “Please, my lady,” she stammered. “How is the master?”

  “How dare you!” Sibylla exploded. But when she saw Firyal’s distress, she was ashamed at her lack of self-control. “Your master is being treated decently,” she answered in a calmer tone. “That is all I can tell you. Now go and get Monsieur Rouston!”

  Firyal hurried away, and after a few moments, André entered. He looked serious. The French consul had informed him of the arrest.

  “I can imagine how difficult all this must be for you,” he said.

  She looked into his honest, sympathetic face and was seized by a crazy idea. “Ride to Abd al-Rahman! The sultan respects you. Tell him that I wish to have an audience with him to clear up this matter!”

  “Is that what you truly want?” Her wish to use his relationship with the sultan on Benjamin’s behalf took him by surprise, and he did not like it. “If there is anything to the accusations, I cannot help your husband.”

  But she was not to be deterred. “I know what a great favor I am asking. But I must ask! Benjamin is the father of my children, and he has not yet been proven guilty.”

  André frowned. Like many others, he thought Benjamin quite capable of being a slave trader. “All right. I’ll ride to Marrakesh. But not for him. I’m doing it because I do not wish you to suffer for his mistakes.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed.

  Sibylla’s courage moved him deeply. He crossed to her, took her in his arms, and kissed her passionately. But her lips stayed lifeless and cold.

  “André, no!” she pleaded and freed herself. “I have to take care of my family now—just my family.”

  He took a deep breath. “I respect your wishes. And so that you know I am serious, I will leave for Marrakesh today. I will be gone for some time. If you should need me, send a messenger and I’ll return immediately.”

  When she did not answer, he lifted her chin with his hand and looked into her eyes. “Promise me.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “I shall rely on it.”

  What would happen to herself and her children? Had Benjamin truly traded in slaves or was it all part of a plot?

  Several days had passed since André’s departure, one week since Benjamin’s transfer to the Island of Mogador. Sibylla had tried to visit the qaid, but he refused to see her.

  She could hear the boys laughing in the courtyard and playing with the wooden horses Benjamin had brought them. They seemed to have accepted Sibylla’s explanation that their father was away on a trip.

  She sat at the desk in her office, trying to make a list of all the questions she had for Benjamin, but she just could not concentrate. Her thoughts kept wandering back to André. He must have arrived in Marrakesh by now. She wondered if he had spoken with the sultan yet. Had his petition changed anything?

  She was torn out of her reverie by Tom’s voice, excited and shrill. “Mummy! The soldiers are back!”

  Sibylla dashed to the gallery. Just a few yards from her on the landing stood the captain of the Black Guards, accompanied by two guards.

  “Mrs. Hopkins, we have orders to search your house. His Excellency believes that your husband hid the money he made from the slave trade here.”

  Sibylla coolly looked over the giant man. “Not before you show me His Excellency’s written order.”

  Without saying a word, he held out the paper with the governor’s seal on it. She briefly considered asking Consul Willshire for help, but she had not seen him since the night of Benjamin’s arrest. Nor had Sara inquired after her. Sibylla doubted that they would come to her aid now. She took a deep breath and handed the paper back to the captain.

  “Do what you must.”

  It was not until after the maghrib, the prayer at sundown, that the three men left. The destruction was shocking, particularly in Benjamin’s office. The guards had slit open pillows and sofas, emptied drawers, and moved furniture. They had pushed over cabinets, torn apart books, and pried up floorboards. In the courtyard, they h
ad dug holes around the olive tree and the fishpond and torn the water lilies out of the water. But they had not found a secret hiding place with money. What they had discovered was Benjamin’s coffer in one of the closets. The Spencer & Son Shipping Company regularly sent promissory notes that he exchanged for cash at a banker in the Jewish quarter. He used the money to pay suppliers as well as the sultan’s customs and tax officials. And he gave some of it to Sibylla, who used it to pay the servants and finance their household expenses. Although she explained all that to the captain of the Black Guards, he still confiscated the coffer. Some time later, he also discovered Sibylla’s rosewood box and confiscated that as well.

  She protested vehemently. “Put that back! That is not the money you are looking for!”

  The captain paid no heed to her and handed both boxes to his soldiers.

  A little while later, the nightmare was finally over, and Sibylla was the picture of misery as she sank onto a divan, its horsehair stuffing pouring out.

  “These barbarians have left us nothing!” she lamented to Nadira, who had begun at once to clean up the mess. “If all they had done was destroy the furniture, that would be one thing. But how am I going to buy food now? I cannot even give you your pay! If Benjamin had not paid rent for the whole year, we would find ourselves without a roof over our heads!”

  The servant put down a cushion she had just picked up off the floor. “I have been saving my pay,” she said with dignity. “I always received everything I needed from my masters and rarely spent anything. We will be able to buy food, my lady.”

  Firyal, who had been in the corner sweeping up shards, dropped her broom and ran out. She soon returned and timidly held out the pair of gold earrings Benjamin had given her.

  “Please take these, my lady. You can sell them in the souk for a lot of wheat.”

  Sibylla was touched, but she shook her head. “I thank you both from the bottom of my heart, but I cannot accept your savings or your belongings. I will find another solution.”

  She furrowed her brow. “I will go to Mrs. Willshire and ask her to lend me some money. I also have my own money, my dowry. It’s in a trust, but I will write to my bank in London immediately and have them send me a promissory note.”

  “I shall have to discuss this with William first.” Sara avoided Sibylla’s gaze.

  The two of them were sitting in Sara’s drawing room. On the table between them, on a little lace cloth, stood a vase with flowering orange branches. They were sipping tea and nibbling little raisin pastries. But the external show of peace and harmony could not hide the tension between them.

  Sibylla was deeply disappointed, but she swallowed her pride. “I will not need the money for long. As soon as I receive my promissory note from London, you will get it back, of course.”

  Sara wiped an invisible speck of dust off the polished tabletop. “I wish you would understand, Sibylla, that there is nothing I can do for you. William handles our money. I don’t even have a key to the coffer.”

  Sibylla stopped herself from telling Sara that all she needed to do was explain the circumstances to her husband. It was obvious that the woman she had considered her friend simply did not want to help her. She could no longer conceal her bitterness.

  “I understand all too well. You and your husband have already passed judgment. In your eyes, we are swindlers and slave traders.”

  Sara blushed deeply. “William made a great sacrifice for you,” she said defensively. “He immediately wrote to Consul General Drummond-Hay asking him to write a protest note to the sultan. Do you realize that my husband could get into serious difficulties if the accusations against your husband turn out to be true? And, with all due respect, he is still being held on the island!”

  Sibylla stood up. “Please forgive me for inconveniencing you.”

  Sara also stood, seeming sad and confused. “I am so sorry.”

  “Good-bye,” Sibylla answered frostily and went to the door. “I’ll see myself out.”

  After that, Sibylla and Nadira had rummaged through the house looking for cash.

  “Just because the qaid’s people didn’t find anything doesn’t mean there is nothing,” said Sibylla at night when they would go from room to room by the light of an oil lamp. She did not want to search during the daytime. By now, Sibylla trusted no one but Nadira, who stood by her side steadfastly and reliably.

  She rummaged through the drawers of Benjamin’s desk with grim determination. She needed money to cover the most pressing expenses, and so desperately hoped to find some, but, on the other hand, dreaded finding any since that would be proof of her husband’s guilt. Her resentment toward Benjamin for subjecting her to this grew with each passing day. She spent hours spinning scenarios of what might have happened. And then she would shake her head over her foolishness. If she wanted to save herself from going mad, she would have to stop brooding and move forward.

  Several weeks later, Sibylla sat at her desk trying to compose a letter to her father. It was the end of February and spring was announcing its arrival all over Mogador with delicate herbs and new buds. Laying in front of her on the table, covering the ugly scratch the qaid’s guards had made with their scimitars, were two letters with business instructions from her father to Benjamin. Richard still had no idea of the charges against his son-in-law, and Sibylla knew it was high time she enlightened him. But if she told him of the ugly accusation, he would surely order her to return to London with her children—and that was out of the question. She never wanted to live under her father’s roof again and be told what was good for her and what was not.

  She finally resolved to be as vague as possible. She would write that Benjamin was tied up and she was conducting his affairs for the time being. Of course, her father would have questions, but months would pass before she received his reply and by then, perhaps, this nightmare would be over. At least she would be spared the indignity of having to confess that the foreign families in Mogador had been shunning her since Benjamin’s arrest and that she had had to borrow money from her servant, after all, in order to feed the children.

  Sibylla heaved a deep sigh and was dipping the quill in the inkwell when there was a knock at the door.

  Firyal appeared. “There is a messenger, my lady. He wants to speak with the master.”

  “He shall have to make do with the mistress,” she replied and put the quill aside. “Do you know what he wants?”

  The servant nodded eagerly. She was still afraid that Sibylla held her affair with Benjamin against her and worked to fulfill all her duties conscientiously. “He reports that the caravan with the leather that the master bought in Fez has arrived at the Bab Doukkala. There are fifty camels, and he says that the master needs to inspect the merchandise.”

  Some hours later, Sibylla arrived home exhausted. Only now was she able to relax. She was hardly an expert on the quality of leather. The karwan bashi, the camel drivers, and several of the merchants had watched her with suspicion and disdain as she had tried to assert herself. But she had succeeded and, in the end, felt she had even bested the men, who thought themselves so superior.

  “Nadira, Firyal!” she called as she entered. “I’m starving! Is there still something in the kitchen for me to eat?”

  In the courtyard of the riad, she was met by the sight of a familiar Frenchman and her sons. The three had their backs turned to her and were throwing small glass marbles into a hole they’d dug.

  “Yes!” screamed Tom, throwing his arms up and jumping in the air. “Mummy! I won! Now Johnny’s marbles belong to me! Even the big one with the blue stripes!” He ran to his mother.

  Sibylla picked him up and pressed her lips into his soft blond curls. Her eyes met André’s. He looked tired. There were lines around his eyes; his clothes and boots were dirty. But his smile was full of warmth. Twenty-one days had passed since his departure and oh, how she had missed him!

  “Madame Hopkins! It seems like an eternity since we said good-bye.”


  She set Tom down and André took her hands. “Much too long.”

  His dark brown eyes glistened. “How are you?”

  She thought of the guards who had confiscated all of her hard-earned savings, of Sara, who had found all sorts of subterfuges to avoid helping her, and of her sons, who asked her every day when their father would be returning, and shrugged. She did not wish to talk about any of those things.

  They heard steps behind them and Sibylla quickly withdrew her hands. Nadira was standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “I have taken the liberty of setting the table in the dining room for you and Monsieur Rouston, my lady. The cook has prepared a tagine with chickpeas, tomatoes, and onions.”

  “We have had to make do with simple meals since Benjamin’s arrest,” Sibylla said apologetically when they were sitting across from each other at the long wooden table.

  He had already noticed the slashed dining room chairs, and she’d confessed how the qaid’s guards had searched the house for money and taken every last copper falus.

  “It’s delicious,” André assured her with his mouth full. “Please forgive my manners, but all I’ve had today is tea and flatbread.”

  She nodded and waited for him to finish chewing. “What news do you have from the sultan?”

  He folded his napkin and sighed. “The good news is that you are being granted an audience; unfortunately, it will not be until the fall, because the sultan is spending the summer at his palace in Fez.”

  “And he intends to hold Benjamin and make me wait until then?” Sibylla asked, outraged.

  “I am afraid that, at the moment, he is holding all the cards, even if Drummond-Hay has sent a protest note by now. His Majesty told me unequivocally that he is convinced of your husband’s guilt. He says that he has incorruptible evidence, and that Christians who flout the law and deal in slaves face execution.”