“I should not have thought the name ‘lion’s court’ was meant literally!” she whispered to André.
“A reminder of the ruler’s power,” he replied quietly. “Do not let it intimidate you.”
“The audience will take place here,” Feradge interrupted.
“Here?” Sibylla said without meaning to.
She had expected an official venue, a throne room with dignitaries and courtiers—certainly not a garden. The eunuch led the guests to the other side of the cage. Silk rugs were spread out on the ground and braziers emitted the scent of fragrant resins. Under a red silk canopy, flanked by two slaves who were fanning him with palm fronds, Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman, Imam of all True Believers and Ruler of Morocco, Descendant of the Holy Dynasty of the Alaouites, the last free ruler of Arab North Africa, sat on a divan. He was dressed all in white, with a carefully groomed short salt-and-pepper beard, alert black eyes, and a well-nourished, round face.
The sultan greeted Rouston first. His gaze lingered on the medal of honor. He recognized that André was wearing the uniform of the victors of the Algerian War and understood it to be a show of power.
Sibylla bowed respectfully. “Assalamu alaikum. Imperial Majesty, I am deeply moved by your receiving me and Monsieur Rouston. Please allow me to offer you this modest gift.”
She turned to André, who placed the saddle at the sultan’s feet.
The monarch bowed his head graciously. “Wa-alaikum salam, merchant lady. We thank you for the honor of your visit.”
He clapped his hands. A slave appeared from the shadows of the colonnade, picked up the saddle, and carried it away. Had Sibylla not already learned that Arabs considered it impolite to pay more attention to the gift than to their guests, she might have feared that he was not pleased with it.
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 th
e 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.”
André swallowed hard. She was right. A woman like Sibylla, coming from an affluent family, might be able to obtain a divorce after long and costly litigation. But she would lose her good name and almost certainly her children as a result. And what right did he have to expect her to make such a sacrifice?
“Oh, I haven’t yet told you about Abd al-Rahman’s gift to me,” he said to distract himself from his despondency. “On the evening before our departure, he summoned me and said that I could have one wish fulfilled in return for saving him from the conspiracy.”
“That sounds like a fairy tale!” she exclaimed. “What was your wish?”
He absentmindedly stroked the horse’s nose. “A piece of land for me to work and my own house in which to live. That has been my most ardent wish ever since I was old enough to understand that my eldest brother would inherit the farm and the rest of us would have nothing.” He laughed. “I cannot deny that I am the son of a farmer.”
“Did he fulfill your wish? Abd al-Rahman has never permitted a foreigner to own land in his country.”
“Now he has!” André disagreed proudly. “There is a compound with a large pleasure garden approximately a day’s journey southwest of Mogador, where the Oued Zeltene flows into the Oued Igrounzar. Abd al-Rahman often spent his weekends there when he was a young man and qaid of Mogador, but he hasn’t gone there since his ascension to the throne. It must be rather overgrown and dilapidated.”
“But now you are the new owner and your dreams are fulfilled. How wonderful, André!”
He was moved that she was genuinely happy for him, and disconsolate at the same time. “My dreams will not be fulfilled until you live there with me.”
Sibylla lowered her gaze. “Do you remember what you said to me in the Portuguese church?”
He smiled sadly. “That we must leave our future up to fate.”
She nodded and her eyes shone with her love for him. “Let us put our hope in that, André, inshallah, God willing, even if we cannot foresee our future.”
Chapter Seventeen
The closer they came to Mogador, the more humid the air grew. When they reached the city in the early afternoon, the outlines of the walls and the buildings were blurred by the low veils of mist, lending an eerie atmosphere to the place.
“Where are the caravans?” André wondered as they rode across the square in front of the city gate. Normally, at least a hundred camels loitered here, but today the place was empty. Apart from the sound of their own horses’ hooves and the wind driving dust clouds across the vast square, all was eerily still.
“The city gate is closed!” Sibylla cried. “And sundown is at least another two hours away!”
André studied the bastions. “Strange. Wait here, I shall survey the situation.” He threw his reins to Sibylla, went to the locked gate, and hit it with the butt of his rifle. “Hello! Open up!”
The muffled sound of boot steps came from inside. Next, gun barrels appeared out of the narrow slits directly above him.
“Watch out!” Sibylla screamed.
He took a few steps back, placed his hands around his mouth, and bellowed, “Open the gate!”
“Who goes there?” a voice barked back.
“Residents of this city!” André answered and gave their names. The gun barrels disappeared, then the locks and bolts were pushed aside and the gate was opened just enough for Sibylla and André and their horses to fit through. Several soldiers and the captain of the Black Guards—the one who had conducted the search of her house—were waiting for them. The men had their muskets trained on the pair.
“Dismount!” the captain ordered Sibylla.
She obeyed, utterly confounded. The soldiers took the reins, but André quickly stopped them. “Don’t touch these horses!” He turned to the captain. “Why are we being received like criminals?”
The captain’s expression grew even darker. “The horses are confiscated. Now come!”
“I wish to speak with the qaid!” André placed his hand on his weapon. At once, the soldiers surrounded him. Reluctantly, André relinquished his weapon and grumbled, “Gare a toi, if there isn’t a very good reason for this.”
Sibylla anxiously looked around. “I have to go home! I must know how my children are.” One of the soldiers shoved the barrel of his gun under her nose and she recoiled.
“You come!” the captain repeated threateningly.
She instinctively pressed herself against André. “What on earth happened while we were gone?”
Sibylla hardly recognized the cosmopolitan trading city as the guards marched them through Mogador. The houses appeared closed and forbidding, the people hostile. Sibylla saw no foreigners at all, but there were many locals coming toward them from the souk. She recoiled when an old man spat on the ground at their
feet. Another uttered ugly curses and clenched his fists, and the women pulled their veils down farther and made the sign to avert the evil eye. She also noticed the soldiers’ demeanor. In all the years she had lived there, Sibylla had never seen them so battle-ready. It seemed as though the city was preparing itself for a siege. Whole companies armed to the teeth marched past. Artillery and donkey carts with cannonballs were being transported in the direction of the harbor bastions. Slaves rolled barrels behind them.
“Those must contain gunpowder,” André whispered.
“Do you think that now the French will bombard Mogador too?” Sibylla whispered back.
“Possibly.”
“Uskut, faransawi! Be silent!” One of the soldiers dug the barrel of his gun into André’s ribs.
Sibylla assumed that they were being taken to the qasbah, but the soldiers turned down a dead-end alleyway behind the western bastion.
“What are we doing here?” she exclaimed when she recognized the place.
“Uskuti!” the captain barked.
They had stopped before André’s secret Portuguese church. Sibylla could hardly believe her eyes: the old door with the rusty hinges was being guarded by several heavily armed guards.
“Inside!” Two soldiers shoved them through the door, letting it crash shut behind them.
There was fearful muttering in the interior. Sibylla smelled the odor of many people, sweat, vomit, excrement. She tried not to gag and squinted in the dim light. Men, women, and children were cowering close together. All the foreigners of Mogador were being held prisoner in this small church. Sibylla recognized her neighbors, the Willshires and the de Silvas, and all the other consuls and merchants and their wives.
“Mais ce n’est pas possible!” André muttered.
Sibylla scanned the crowd until she spotted Nadira, sitting on the edge under the clock tower, with Firyal close to her. Tom and Johnny were with them.
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