The Lioness of Morocco

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The Lioness of Morocco Page 20

by Julia Drosten


  “Can I not leave you two alone for half an hour?” Sibylla was kneeling in her room surrounded by piles of books. She was placing those that had survived the Hahas’ destructive frenzy on the only unbroken shelf and the damaged ones in a box—not to throw away, but to have rebound.

  “It’s my very favorite!”

  Sibylla sighed and followed her son to the courtyard. Johnny was lying on his stomach and peering into the hole left by the cannon. “It fell in,” he explained sadly.

  “Let me have a look, darling.”

  She squatted down next to him and looked into the hole. The bricks Benjamin had used for the base were mostly destroyed and the pedestal of the sundial had been lifted out of the foundation. Sibylla sighed. She had no choice but to lie on her stomach and try to fish the marble out. She reached her arm in blindly, turning over stones and digging in the earth—without success. Just as she was about to give up, she felt a hollow under the base. Several bricks had been broken here as well. She carefully felt her way into the opening and finally touched something cool, smooth, and soft: linen. It was a sack about the size of a child’s head, with something jangling inside when she pulled on it. She found the cord, opened the sack, and let her hand glide inside.

  Coins, she thought, stupefied. She grasped one and carefully withdrew her arm.

  “Do you have the marble, Mummy?” Tom was hopping from one foot to the other.

  “No, but . . .” She opened her fist and held her breath.

  “What’s that, Mummy?” Tom asked.

  Johnny leaned over and declared with a frown, “That’s not Tom’s marble.”

  Sibylla stared at the yellow shimmering coin on her palm. She carefully brushed away some dirt although she was already sure it was a British sovereign, an extremely valuable coin with a high gold content.

  But how did a British gold sovereign get under Benjamin’s sundial? As she turned the coin over between two fingers, she tried to make sense of her discovery. The coin could not have belonged to Mr. Fisher, the previous resident, because the date on the coin was 1839, meaning it was new. It must have belonged to Benjamin, just like the others in the sack. But why was it under his sundial?

  Because he did not want anyone to know about it.

  She got down on the ground again and explored the hole more extensively. It was about three hands high, an arm’s length wide, and a yard deep. The entire space was filled with similarly stuffed sacks.

  Now Sibylla understood why her husband had been so nervous upon hearing of the qaid’s search. Why he had insisted on knowing exactly where the henchmen had looked and how much money they had found. She now understood the reason behind his prodigality—Benjamin had become richer than he had ever dared hope and he had wanted all the world to see, even as he knew he needed to hide it. And at the same time, he had lied to and betrayed his wife mercilessly, relentlessly, to the very end. She had fought for his life and mourned his death, and he had deceived her.

  When night had fallen, Sibylla returned, stealthily, like a thief in her own house.

  She pulled so many sacks out of the hole that it took a large basket and several trips to carry them to her bedroom from the courtyard.

  She also found a leather portfolio—stained from the soil—which contained detailed accounts of Benjamin’s appalling transactions. Sibylla learned not only how many slave journeys the Queen Charlotte had undertaken, but also how many Africans were on board each time, how many died at sea, how much her husband had paid for their provisions, who had collected bribes, and lastly, in which Caribbean ports Captain Brown had sold the slaves.

  Locked in her room, by the flickering light of an oil lamp and with growing disgust, Sibylla read these accounts of horror. It was difficult to believe that, in the last three years, her own husband, the father of her children, had sold around two thousand human beings into slavery. Had she known him so little, or had he been a different person before greed changed him?

  Her hands shook as she began to count the money. There were precisely 16,625 British gold sovereigns, an incredible fortune, amassed through inconceivable misery. She contemplated the floor of her bedroom, covered with little towers of coins, and for the first time, felt relief that Benjamin was dead. Yet his fate did not absolve her of the decision of what to do next.

  She anxiously listened for sounds in the house, but all she heard was the sound of her own breath. She did not want this blood-drenched money. And now that she had it, they were all in grave danger. The qaid would have her arrested, perhaps tortured. In England, she would be held to account in court for Benjamin’s misdeeds. The scandalous trial would do untold damage to the Spencer & Son Shipping Company and forever cast a pall over her sons’ lives. Not to mention the many people who would happily commit murder to get their hands on such a treasure!

  Sibylla’s head hurt. She remembered the half-empty bottle of whisky in Benjamin’s desk. She had never tasted whisky. The strongest beverage a lady was permitted to drink was a little glass of port, but at this moment she did not care. She urgently needed something to calm her nerves.

  A little while later, she was back in her bedroom. “No one!” she swore as she held the list of Benjamin’s accounts over the flame of the candle and watched it turn to ash. “No one is ever going to find out about this!”

  At dawn, Sibylla stood on the shore, far behind the harbor, where there were only gently undulating dunes overgrown with grass. It was still dark over the ocean. She listened to the soft splashing of the water and watched the fishing boats returning from their nightly sardine catch, their lights swaying gently on the waves. She’d had to get out of the house, where everything reminded her of Benjamin and the horror he’d wrought. The beach felt soothing, safe.

  “Allahu akbar!” The muezzin’s ceremonious call to prayer broke the silence. A thin strip of light over the city announced the day.

  Sibylla put her head back and breathed in the fresh salty air. I should throw the money into the sea, she thought, and suddenly felt an irrepressible urge to laugh. She well and truly had the exciting life she had always wished for as a young girl in London. How naive that girl had been.

  She definitely did not want to use Benjamin’s gold treasure for herself, but she did not want to sink it in the Atlantic either. For the time being, the money was hidden under some floorboards in her bedroom that the Haha had pried up. She had pushed her bed over it. Not as good a hiding place as Benjamin’s, but the best she could manage on short notice.

  The muezzin had finished his call and daylight was breaking fast. The ocean changed from gray to blue. She thought she could make out the whitecaps of the waves and the outlines of the fishing boats, which extinguished their lights one by one. Movement in the corner of her eye told her she was no longer alone. She turned her head. André! She had not seen him since she had been taken to the Warspite with her children. She had assumed he was no longer in town.

  She ran toward him, flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him with abandon. Any passerby could have seen them, but after a few glasses of whisky and the discovery of Benjamin’s dirty money, that hardly seemed to matter.

  “André! Thank God! How did you know I was here?”

  He freed himself somewhat breathlessly. “I slept on the beach because the French consulate has been destroyed. You, my dear Sibylla, reek of alcohol, if you will permit me to say so. And you also look as though you’ve been working a field!”

  She glanced down at her soiled kaftan and her dirty fingernails and laughed. “Well, not exactly a field, but you’re close.”

  He looked at her somewhat confused. “Have you had any news about your husband?”

  She stopped laughing. “Dead. Burned to death. There is not a stone left of the western bastion, where his cell was.”

  “I’m very sorry,” he said, looking aggrieved.

  She stared at him with determination. “I don’t want your pity, André. Benjamin is dead, but I am alive. And I swear to you: today is the b
eginning of a new life for me!”

  He took her hand and they walked along the water’s edge, farther and farther away from the city, silent and content to be together. The air was still cool, but the sun warmed it more and more as it rose. Rabbits scampered across the sand and storks circled in the sky.

  Sibylla gripped André’s hand and led him to the dunes, where it was warm and protected from the wind.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She looked at him. “Show me how it really is when a man and a woman love each other.”

  He thought he had misheard her, but then she slid off her leather slippers. When she was about to pull her tunic over her head, he stopped her. “Wait!” He cleared his throat. “I want to do that.”

  He took off his jacket and laid it on the sand. Then he sat down and pulled Sibylla next to him. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. Her forehead and blonde eyebrows, her eyelids, the freckles that the sun sprinkled on the tip of her nose, and her soft, moist mouth. He slipped his hand under her clothing, stroked her delicate skin, and felt the curves of her body. He pulled the tunic over her head and smiled when he felt her getting goose bumps. Then he leaned over and kissed her nipples. He helped her get out of the wide chalwars. He saw her naked for the first time, and the sight of her slim figure, her small breasts, her softly curved Venus mound aroused him.

  Sibylla blushed. Uncertain whether she was pleasing to him, she pulled up her legs and wrapped her arms around her knees. He let her be as he himself undressed. She watched him intently and thought about how strange it was that she and Benjamin had never seen each other naked even though they had been married for over four years and had two children together.

  “Are you all right?” André inquired.

  She nodded. He took her in his arms and she allowed herself to be rolled onto her back while he pressed his body against hers. His body completely covered hers, making her feel safe and protected. While they kissed again, her hands slid from his shoulders to his buttocks, then down his arms to his fingertips. He felt completely different from Benjamin—broader, stronger. She had only ever felt her husband through his nightshirt, but that was enough to know that he had a narrow body with no muscles. But here with André, she could feel his strength and the firm, smooth flesh under his soft skin.

  Yes, thought Sibylla, what we are doing here is right. Right and good.

  The sun had moved over the buildings of Mogador and was quickly warming the sand on which they lay. Sibylla was nestled closely to André and said sleepily, “Now I have really felt what it’s like to be loved.”

  He kissed her hair. “Je t’aime, Sibylla. I am glad that I can finally tell you that.”

  She lifted her head out of the crook of his arm and looked at him. “I want to ask you something, André.”

  “Yes?”

  She thought about Benjamin’s gold in its makeshift hiding place. “What would you do if you unexpectedly received something very valuable that you cannot and would not keep?”

  Worried, he answered, “I do hope that you aren’t referring to us and to the feeling we have for each other.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “What, then?”

  She hesitated. “Something that Benjamin has left me.”

  He frowned as he thought. “If you don’t want to keep it, give it to someone who needs it.”

  She reflected and smiled. “Why not? No, truly, that sounds very sensible.”

  A short while later, she carefully extricated herself from his arms. “I have to go. The Haha have turned our house upside down. There is a lot of work waiting for me.”

  André reached for his jacket. “I’m leaving Mogador today. The qaid no longer needs me and, quite honestly, I can hardly wait to see the land the sultan has given me.” He tied the sash of his tunic. “Do you want to come? Perhaps you’ll like it so much you’ll want to stay—with your sons, of course.”

  Sibylla blushed. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to remain here in Mogador for the time being. I have to figure out how to proceed without Benjamin. I could imagine myself taking over the business for Spencer & Son permanently—if I can convince my father, that is.”

  André bent over to tie his boots, trying to hide his disappointment. “I’ll ride alone then. I don’t have any idea how much work awaits me, but I would like to visit you now and again.”

  She beamed at him. “That would be wonderful!”

  Qasr el Bahia in the Atlas Mountains, May 1840

  André slid out of his saddle, kneeled on the ground, and picked up a clump of soil and crumbled it. Was this soil suitable for his great dream of growing saffron? He let the soil run through his fingers.

  Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman’s present lay on a plateau a quarter mile above sea level in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. At this altitude, the little sand-colored bulbs of the Crocus sativus received sufficient warmth without being parched by the desert heat. At the same time, it was not so high that the valuable bulbs would freeze in the cold earth during winter. The air and the chalky ground stored enough moisture, although the region was dry and deficient in rain. Irrigation was also provided. The sultan’s architects had installed the same underground rhetaras as on the caravan route to Marrakesh and thereby irrigated the magnificent pleasure garden that had flourished here at one time. He would build low protective walls out of quarry stones to prevent the thin layer of soil from being blown away by the wind. André got up, placed one foot in the stirrup, and mounted his mare.

  I shall do this, he thought as his gaze wandered over the area and he felt a deep sense of contentment.

  He had been filled with pride a week before, when he rode through the gate of the impressive four-part complex that was half palace, half fortress. The sultan had named this property Qasr el Bahia, the Palace of Beauty, and André immediately understood why.

  It had taken him almost a whole day ride’s from Mogador on the rocky, winding path along the riverbed of the Oued Igrounzar, first east and then south, until he had found the tributary of the Oued Zeltene and first seen the property from afar. Its majestic walls were painted red-golden by the evening sun and the cedar forest on the hills behind it almost black with the coming night. All of it—the mud-and-stone fortification walls, the stables, storage buildings, and farm buildings—reminded him of a Chiadma tighremt: a closed-off compound that could be easily defended against enemies. In the residential buildings, however, he found the colorful opulence of Moorish architecture.

  Although a closer look revealed that the erstwhile splendor of the Palace of Beauty had faded, this did not dampen his enthusiasm. The wind, heat, and cold had taken their toll on the walls, the two-winged cedar gate hung crookedly from its hinges, and wild animals had taken up residence in the buildings. When André entered the stables, he disturbed a family of jackals. Swallows and sparrows nested in the rafters, and wild pigeons filled the two towers to the right and left of the gate.

  Upon entering the rooms of the former lord and his court, he discovered mice living in the torn upholstery of cushions and sofas. In one room, he stumbled over a fallen chandelier and, in another, moth-eaten rugs. Floor tiles were broken and the roof had holes in several places. There was much work to be done, but his Chiadma friends would surely help him.

  André was completely alone here and grateful for the solitude. He made himself a bed in the stable next to his horse and awoke in the middle of the night when a predatory animal slunk around outside, growling and hissing. Yet he was not frightened. He was happy and full of plans for the future.

  The following morning, he saddled his mare and explored the grounds. Bees buzzed among the poppies and thistles. There were wild roses and sprawling bougainvillea. He even discovered an olive grove and the remnants of water basins. Standing in the center of the courtyard was the emblem of Qasr el Bahia, a magnificent Atlas cedar tree. He planned to build terraced fields to ensure his saffron crocuses would get ample sun. In between, he would plant po
megranate trees. The juice of their fruit was in great demand by rug makers as a dye. And he would plant a new flower garden. Or better yet, he would ask Sibylla to do that, so that she could see that Qasr el Bahia was her home as well.

  When he returned to the residential buildings around noon, he encountered two thin, ragged shepherd boys eyeing him suspiciously. The bigger one, who had a conspicuous port-wine stain across his face, stared at him with hostility and squeezed a rock in his hand. However, when André shifted his gun to the front of his saddle, the boy dropped his rock. André greeted them, first in Arabic, and, when they did not respond, in Tachelhit, a Berber language spoken mainly in the south of Mogador. Now the one with the port-wine stain replied that they belonged to the Ait Zelten, a clan belonging to the Haha tribe.

  André thought it wise to explain the ownership situation right away. “His Imperial Majesty Moulay Abd al-Rahman, the ruler of this country, has given me Qasr el Bahia as a gift. Go and tell your sheikh that Qasr el Bahia now belongs to André Rouston, and also tell him that I look forward to smoking shisha with him.”

  “This land always belonged to our people until the sultan stole it from us. He has no right to give it away!” the boy explained angrily.

  The little one chimed in. “Where are our goats going to graze now?”

  André pointed to the entire area around them. “There is plenty of land around this estate. And anyway, I’ll need some skilled hands to help me rebuild. With the money I pay, your sheikh will be able to buy feed as well as comestibles.”

  “The Ait Zelten are no accursed slaves!” The older one spat on the ground in front of André. He motioned to the younger one and the two of them and their herd went on their way.

  Mogador, June 1840

  Shortly before dinner, Sibylla was sitting at the table in her drawing room. She wanted to write a letter to her father, but her mind kept returning to her meeting with Qaid Hash-Hash that afternoon. He had deigned to speak with her only after she had had him informed that she was in possession of something for which he was searching. Of course, he had known what it was and had flown into a terrible rage when she had refused to divulge Benjamin’s hiding place for his treasure. But she had shocked and subdued him with her proposal that the entire amount be used to rebuild Mogador with only one stipulation: that he proclaim to the whole city that Benjamin Hopkins had always been a respectable businessman and never involved in the slave trade.

 

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