“Why did you not just keep the money, Mrs. Hopkins?” he wanted to know when she was leaving.
“Because I wish to give it to someone who really needs it,” she said, thinking of André. She added, “And no one needs it more than the citizens of Mogador.”
How grand, she thought triumphantly, to see such respect on the governor’s face!
Sibylla dipped her quill in the inkwell and returned to the letter. She wanted to inform her parents about the bombardment of Mogador and tell them that Benjamin was killed as a result. She also wanted to suggest to her father that she continue managing Spencer & Son’s business in Mogador permanently. She would not, however, mention the slaves or the money under the sundial.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes,” Sibylla called.
Nadira entered. “The captain of the Queen Charlotte is here, my lady. He insisted on seeing the master. I told him that the master was dead. And so he wants to speak with you.”
“Where is he?” Sibylla shot out of her chair. Brown! At last! For months she had waited to confront him.
“I have shown him into the master’s old office.”
“Thank you, Nadira.” She ran along the gallery. But when she reached the door to Benjamin’s office, she stopped dead in her tracks. The red-haired, bearded man inside might have been wearing the uniform of a captain for the Spencer & Son Shipping Company, but he was definitely not Nathaniel Brown.
When the stranger beheld Sibylla, he quickly removed his bicorne and bowed awkwardly. “My sincerest sympathy, Mrs. Hopkins, for the death of your husband. My name is William Comstock, and I’m helmsman and temporary captain of the Queen Charlotte.”
Sibylla motioned to the divan and sat on a chair. “Why temporary captain? What has happened to Brown?”
“Dead, Mrs. Hopkins. Killed in a mutiny.”
She was horrified. Mutiny was a serious crime, punishable by hanging. “Tell me,” she demanded.
Comstock reported that they had been on the open seas when some of the crew had mutinied. Brown, all the officers, and the first mate, who had tried to overpower the leader, were murdered. But then a quarrel had broken out among the mutineers and the leader had had several of his cronies hanged on the mainmast.
“That was good for us loyalists, Mrs. Hopkins, ’cause then it was easier to kill the leader and those other criminals. And now we are here, because we had got off course quite a bit and Mogador was the nearest port.”
Sibylla needed a moment to recover from the shock. The only good that had come out of the mutiny was that the contemptible Nathaniel Brown had descended into hell!
She crossed her arms and looked at Comstock. “You have acted bravely, Comstock, but there is something I must ask. How was it possible to transport so many slaves on the Queen Charlotte without my father’s knowledge?”
The man grew pale. “I don’t understand, madam . . . what do you mean?”
“Don’t play me for a fool! I know that the Queen Charlotte secretly transported slaves and not just one time.” She swallowed before continuing. “And I also know how my husband figured into it. So, out with it!”
Comstock cleared his throat. “The Queen only got loaded to half capacity in Mogador. When she left, she didn’t set course for America, but south to Cape Juby. That’s where we took on the blacks and then sold them in the Caribbean. In the logbook, we said there was storms, calm, fog, and the like to explain the delays.”
“And the whole crew participated?” Sibylla asked, repulsed.
“The officers were bribed, and Brown told the ordinary sailors he would throw them into the ocean if they didn’t cooperate. It’s some of them that mutinied. They wanted their cut.”
“And what about you, Comstock? Did you receive your cut?”
He hung his head. “I swear to God, I wouldn’t have taken a shilling but for my wife. She was so ill, and them doctors is such cutthroats.”
She bit her lower lip and pondered his words. Finally, she said, “At least you are being honest now. And you proved your loyalty to the company during the mutiny. For that reason, I will not say another word about this contemptible slave trade—on condition that, from now on, you are a reliable and loyal employee of Spencer & Son.” She scrutinized Comstock.
He jumped out of his seat and bowed low. “Thank you, Mrs. Hopkins! That’s really very generous of you, Mrs. Hopkins!”
“Very well then.” Sibylla got up and accompanied him to the door. “Sail home to London and brief my father on the events, but leave my husband’s name out of it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Qasr el Bahia, end of June 1840
“You have company, André!” Udad bin Aziki, sheikh of the Chiadma Berber, shaded his eyes and squinted to the east.
“Who could it be?” André wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
It was almost noon and the sun was bearing down relentlessly on the flat roof of the left watchtower of Qasr el Bahia. He and Udad’s sons had been busy since early that morning covering the holes in the roof with palm fronds. They were using a thick mixture of clay, sand, straw, and dung that bin Aziki had put together. Once the mud had dried, it would keep the interior of the watchtower cool despite the sun’s heat, and conversely, warm, by holding in the accumulated heat.
“I see only a dust cloud,” Aziki reported. “It’s not very fast, but it’s big.”
“I don’t think it’s the Ait Zelten,” said André, also watching the cloud. “But we should lock the gate just in case.”
Ever since André had settled at Qasr el Bahia, Ait Zelten men had been skulking around the premises. While they never came close, they followed the activity there with both suspicion and curiosity. Their sheikh had never paid André a visit, but his men were still letting their herds graze on his land. Winter and spring had been very dry, so that the low pastures already did not provide enough nourishment for the herds. Since André knew the Berbers depended on whatever the barren land gave them and that, aside from their horses, their goats and sheep were their most prized possessions, he left them in peace in the hopes that the sheikh would later remember his generosity.
After closing the heavy gate and locking it with a crossbeam from the inside, he climbed back up the watchtower.
“By the beard of the Prophet!” bin Aziki muttered when he recognized the first riders. “Is this a procession?”
André squinted and hesitated. “The first rider is the sultan’s personal eunuch. It’s safe to open the gate again. We have nothing to fear from Feradge.”
Half an hour later, horses, mules, camels, donkeys, and people filled the interior courtyard of Qasr el Bahia. Feradge dismounted and greeted André. His face glistened with perspiration; his brocade robe was covered in dust. Still, he radiated all the solemnity of a master of ceremonies. He explained that His Most Holy Majesty Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman had sent his best mosaicist, blacksmiths, gardeners, carpenters, and lime-and-mud plasterers to help the Frenchman. Rouston was to dispose of them as he saw fit.
“I also bring another gift,” Feradge continued. “His Imperial Majesty thanks you for advocating for the interests of Morocco after your compatriots dictated their demands following the ignominious bombardment of Mogador and Tangier.”
The eunuch whispered a command to a waiting boy, who ran off and soon returned with an adult slave holding a camel’s reins. It was wearing a silver-studded bridle and a blanket adorned with tassels and fringes, and carried a palanquin that was closed off on all sides by curtains. An older black woman wearing a striped turban and a cotton dress followed behind.
“What the devil . . .” André mumbled as the camel slowly kneeled.
Feradge stepped close to the animal, opened the door of the palanquin, and solemnly declared, “A gift for you, Monsieur Rouston!”
A hand appeared, small and narrow like that of a child, only gloved in silk and adorned with precious rings. Feradge grasped it gingerly and a small veiled figure s
lid out of the palanquin. The wind gently blew her silk veils—rose and gold, orange and deep red, they seemed to change color like the desert sands throughout the day. Gold wrist and ankle bangles jingled softly and André caught a glimpse of tiny pearl-studded slippers. He was almost paralyzed when she turned around and scrutinized him with kohl-rimmed eyes crested with long curved lashes and, above them, arched eyebrows like butterfly wings. She studied first his face, then his figure, and he noticed the interest he aroused in her before she gracefully pulled the veil over her face and turned away once more.
Feradge looked pleased with the Frenchman’s dazed reaction. “His Imperial Majesty knows how lonely the Palace of Beauty is without women and children, and so, he sends you a flower from his garden: Aynur El Glaoua. Her father is the chief of the Glaoua Berbers. He had her educated at his court.”
André had perspiration running down his back and the midday sun had nothing to do with it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his friend Udad bin Aziki, whose expression did not betray his thoughts, but the man’s sons grinned and smirked. The young Berber woman stood just a few feet away. Her fluttering veils traced the silhouette of a delicate feminine body. Against his will, André felt a tingling sensation in his loins and forced himself to look away.
The Berber woman summoned the older woman with a tiny movement of her hand and whispered something to her. The servant nodded and said to André, “El Sayyida Aynur wants to know where the harem quarters are. She wishes to retire.”
He fought the urge to laugh out loud. “There is no harem here, and I do not intend to create one.”
“Then have some other rooms prepared for me!” He was startled to hear her voice, which was melodious and soft, yet determined and surprisingly powerful. She stalked away with her veils flowing as though she owned Qasr el Bahia, and he just watched her go, unable to utter a single word.
It was only after she had disappeared inside the house that he found his voice. “Take her away!” he snapped at Feradge. “I don’t want her here!”
The eunuch wrung his bejeweled hands. “That would be a disaster, Sayyid! You may not refuse a gift—or do you wish to insult His Imperial Majesty?”
“It’s not possible, Feradge, please try to understand!” André threw up his hands in exasperation. The whole thing was a colossal disaster! How could he go to Sibylla and say, “Dearest, you don’t mind that the sultan has placed a seductive harem girl in my bed, do you?” Qasr el Bahia was the paradise he wanted to share with Sibylla and only Sibylla!
Feradge too was frantic. “What do you not like about her, Sayyid? She has the figure of a gazelle. You will not find a single blemish on her skin. Her hair is soft as silk, her teeth are like a string of pearls, her mouth is sweeter than honey, and I swear by God and on my life that she is a virgin. Not even the sultan has broken this rosebud!”
“Well, I won’t break it either, because I’m sending her home today!” André cried out angrily.
Feradge tore the turban from his head and pulled his curly hair. “Do you not understand, sir, that you cannot send her back? She would be dishonored; His Imperial Majesty would have her killed!”
“Merde! Putain bordel de merde!” André clenched his fists. Even uttering the worst curses, he knew, did not change the fact that he was caught in a terrible trap. “Is there no solution?” he implored the eunuch.
Feradge sighed deeply. “I am going to be entirely honest with you, Monsieur Rouston, even if His Imperial Majesty throws me to his lions for this . . . Aynur is without a doubt one of the most beautiful roses in the sultan’s garden. But every rose has thorns and Aynur’s are particularly sharp.” He looked in the direction in which the young Berber woman had disappeared, and continued. “Aynur’s father is wealthier than the sultan. From his fortress, Aghmat, he controls the only caravan route from the Sahara to Marrakesh. His Imperial Majesty the sultan—may God grant him a long life—knows that the Glaoua sheikh craves power. That is why he forced him to educate Aynur and her siblings at his court. As long as the sultan has his children, the Glaoua will not instigate an uprising. But Aynur has become very burdensome because she is as unpliable as a cork oak and refused the sultan when he wanted to possess her. If you send her back, he will kill her.”
A sharp pain throbbed behind André’s forehead. He felt as though the ground underneath him were opening up and swallowing the very thing of which he had been dreaming: a life with Sibylla at Qasr el Bahia.
Feradge looked at him with pity. “Keep her here for a while,” he counseled softly. “And if you still don’t want to keep her, send her not to the sultan but to her family.”
At the beginning of August, André was standing on one of the newly planted fields, surveying his land. On the southern slope, several terraced areas were still untilled. He would wait until the following spring to plant orange trees there. But soon he would be able to plant the saffron crocus bulbs his friend Udad bin Aziki was sending to him.
First thing the following morning, the sultan’s workmen would leave Qasr el Bahia. Only one gardener, a cook, and a stable boy would remain. With the help of the sultan’s workmen, André had transformed Abd al-Rahman’s dilapidated and overgrown weekend palace into a halfway-livable property. True, there was still much to be done, but the roofs were newly covered, the stables repaired, broken door and window hinges fixed, broken wall tiles and floor mosaics replaced, and the hearths cleaned.
They had toiled from dawn till dusk for six weeks. Six weeks without Sibylla. André could hardly wait to see her again. Early tomorrow, he would ride to Mogador at last, and by afternoon, he would hold her in his arms.
“You wished to speak to me?” The Berber girl’s servant stood behind him.
He cleared his throat. He had assiduously avoided his “gift” for the last six weeks. Aynur had withdrawn with her servant to the former harem quarters, where he had not set foot even once. At the very beginning, he had asked Feradge if the two women had everything they needed and when the eunuch had nodded sadly, he had banished Aynur from his thoughts.
“Pack your mistress’s belongings. You are both leaving Qasr el Bahia tomorrow morning. You are returning to Aghmat. Sheikh Udad bin Aziki of the Chiadma Berbers will accompany you.”
“But, Sayyid—” The old woman looked at him with fear.
“Go! Tell your mistress to get ready!”
“Very well, master.” She scurried away.
“You cannot return to Aghmat, Sayyida! You know your father will punish you!” Tamra, Aynur’s servant, anxiously paced the floor of the small room in which the two women had slept these last six weeks.
“But what am I to do?” Aynur stood at the window and stared into the inner courtyard, then pushed away from the windowsill, making her bangles jingle. “He does not want me. He has not looked at me even once!”
She had been seven years old when her father sent her to the sultan’s harem in Marrakesh.
“My little flower, you are more beautiful than the full moon when it rises over the top of the Atlas Mountains,” he had told her. “Make sure that your beauty catches the sultan’s eye. Then he will follow you like a little dog follows its mistress, and he will do whatever you wish—for the benefit of our family.”
During the following ten years, Aynur had received a thorough education. She could recite poems by Al-Jahiz, as well as the fables of Ibn Al-Muqaffa and the erotic verses of the Persian poet Hafez. She played the lute and sang. She was fleet-footed as she danced to the flute and the riq. She could prepare traditional spiced coffee and serve it gracefully, and it was while doing so that she finally caught the ruler’s attention. Just as her father had predicted, the sultan was enchanted. That very evening, she was bathed, made up, bedecked with jewels and pearls, and sent to Abd al-Rahman’s bedroom, smelling of precious oils. As soon as he started to touch her, she had hidden behind the bed like a frightened kitten and, when he had yanked her onto the cushions and pawed her with his greedy fingers, she had fought h
im with all her might.
After this unsuccessful night, she had been ostracized at court. All the women of the harem, from the favorite concubine to the lowliest of slaves, had laughed at her. Abd al-Rahman had issued an order prohibiting her from ever coming into his sight again. Her family, fearing that the entire clan had now fallen from the ruler’s favor, shunned her.
The foreigner, her new lord, represented her last chance. This man was no longer very young either, but he was handsome and well built. He appealed to her. But even more appealing was the idea of becoming the mistress of Qasr el Bahia.
“He has not even looked at me,” she repeated, perplexed. “And I don’t have crooked teeth or warts on my face, and I am a virgin!”
“There must be another woman who has captured his heart,” Tamra explained. “We have to make him forget this woman. There is no other way for you.” She studied Aynur. “Where are you in your menstrual cycle?”
Aynur did a quick calculation. “The moon is full in two weeks. That is when it begins again.”
“That means you are now ready for his seed!” the servant said with excitement. “You must lure him into your bed this evening. Remember: you have this one night to save your life!”
Aynur lit up as Tamra’s words sank in.
“Go to the foreigner and tell him I want to prepare a farewell dinner for him.” Aynur ran to a chest of drawers on which stood a small carved wooden box. She opened it, took out a pea-sized ball covered in gold leaf, and held it between her thumb and forefinger. “I will season his food with the nectar of paradise. And then I will tear the other woman out of his heart.”
The Lioness of Morocco Page 21