The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  “Good advice!” Frédéric smiled.

  “What have you brought us?” André pointed to the bulging linen sack hanging from the sheikh’s saddle.

  The man’s suntanned face turned serious. “I have long been in your debt because those ignoble bastards from my people attacked your home and brought misery to your family. I swore to you that I would atone for this sin, and now the day has come at last: my sons have ended the lives of those good-for-nothing criminals. They tracked them down and killed them the way they deserved. Now vultures pick the flesh off their bones and their souls rot in the pits of hell!” He waved André nearer. “Here, my friend, I want to prove to you that I am speaking the truth.” He loosened the lacing of the sack.

  André carefully peeked inside and pulled back immediately. “My God, that stinks to high heaven!”

  Yet he had seen enough to recognize the leader’s stained face, despite the decomposition and the maggots. His eyes began to water and he was forced to support himself against the horse’s shoulder. His rib cage quivered as he took a deep breath and felt the leaden weight that had been pressing on his shoulders ever since the robbery slowly lift.

  “I thank you, my friend,” he whispered quietly. “You have given me back my peace of mind.”

  “What is it?” Frédéric asked, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like three-week-old carrion.”

  André stepped aside so that his son could look inside. An expression of grim satisfaction appeared on Frédéric’s face. “Thanks be to the justice of God!” He raised his clenched fist to the heavens.

  “Where was the murderous gang hiding?” André asked.

  “Those villains had hidden high up in the mountains, but not too high for my sons,” the sheikh declared with pride.

  André smiled. “You have brought us good news, my friend. Please be our guest. Malika has made a delicious lamb roast. And that,” he said, pointing to the sack, “will be thrown to the vultures.”

  Frédéric roared with laughter, but the sheikh raised his hand. “I have more important news for you: when they were tortured, the bastards confessed that there was someone else. Someone who instigated the attack against your estate.”

  “What are you saying?!” André grabbed the reins of the man’s horse. “Who was it? Is he still alive? Where is this fiend?”

  The sheikh shrugged sorrowfully. “Before my sons could beat that information out of those villains, the weaklings were already dead! The only thing they know was that the stranger came from Mogador.”

  “Mogador! And I was sure they just wanted to drive us off their land!”

  The sheikh’s revelation changed everything. André tried to think who in Mogador could possibly have become his enemy. He shook his head in confusion. What if this unknown man should strike again? He needed to find him as quickly as possible.

  “Frédéric!” He turned to his eldest. “You’ll have to look after your brothers and sister for a while. Always keep the gate closed and never leave the house alone or unarmed. I’m riding to Mogador to hunt down this devil, whoever he is.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Mogador, May 1862

  “My brother writes that you are planning to begin your well-earned retirement when you return to London, Captain Comstock,” Sibylla said as they looked at the Queen Charlotte, anchored far out in the harbor basin.

  A light wind off the ocean mitigated the heat and heavy gray rain clouds were piling up. The sun appeared intermittently, transforming the water into a silvery mirror. Alongside the great West Indian ship, a skiff was bobbing in the waves. It was ferrying the last packages to the Queen: wall hangings from Fez, earthenware amphorae, silver teapots, colorful tea glasses, and filigree lamps. These special orders had been brokered by Lalla Jasira, who was happy as always to earn good commissions thanks to the growing enthusiasm of European ladies for all things Oriental.

  Captain Comstock took his pipe out of his mouth and stroked his white-gray whiskers. “Yes, Mrs. Hopkins, it’s time for saying good-bye. My faithful old Queen and I are getting scrapped. Speed’s what counts in modern times. ‘Time is money,’ your brother told me when we left London. ‘Can’t afford to be sentimental,’ he said. ‘If we want to keep up, we have to use more modern ships.’” Comstock sighed sadly. “I know full well what he meant: soon, steel beasts will rule the oceans instead of the wind and true sailors.”

  “But progress brings benefits for many people,” Sibylla tried to console him despite feeling nostalgic herself. Had it really been more than twenty years since she had arrived in Mogador on this very same ship? Now the Queen Charlotte was going to be decommissioned. Nothing and no one was immune to the passage of time.

  Comstock watched another small skiff approach. It was heading for the quay to take him on board. “Well, it’s time to say goodbye to Mogador.”

  “I wish you an easy adjustment to life on land.” Sibylla chuckled.

  “If I have a hankering, I’ll head down to the Thames and greet the ships from all over the world and remember at least I don’t have to deal with bad winds or lazy sailors anymore!” He studied Sibylla for a moment. “Aren’t you ever homesick for England, Mrs. Hopkins? Don’t you want to go home?”

  She shook her head with a smile. “My dear Mr. Comstock, I’ve lived here for so long, Mogador is my home.”

  The skiff arrived at the quay wall. As the helmsman threw the mooring rope, the harbormaster approached. “Your ship is ready to leave, Captain. Here are your customs papers.” He handed Comstock a leather portfolio, nodded politely to Sibylla, and left.

  The captain of the Queen Charlotte adjusted his bicorne and straightened his shoulders. “All right, Mrs. Hopkins—” He was about to bow, but Sibylla raised her hand.

  “Just a moment, Mr. Comstock.” She handed the old mariner a flat box that she had been hiding behind her back. “As a memento of your years at Spencer & Son.”

  When he opened the box, a beautiful pocket watch on a gold chain was revealed. Sibylla had had his years of service engraved on the watch’s cover.

  “Mrs. Hopkins, this is much too elegant for an old sea dog like me.” His voice failed. He took off his bicorne and pressed it against his chest.

  “As one of the most loyal captains this company has ever had, especially after the mutiny on the Queen Charlotte, you have truly earned this. Although,” she added sternly, “at the very end, you did cause me some anguish.”

  He looked at her with such embarrassment that he completely missed the playful sparkle in her eyes. “Are you talking about Miss Emily? I only meant well, Mrs. Hopkins, you have to believe me! And, with all due respect, it was a great honor for me to wed your daughter and the Arab gentleman. Life on board is rather hard, no room for feelings, if you understand what I mean. And if a chance comes along unexpectedly to be a part of so much happiness . . .” He cleared his throat. “That is something you never forget.”

  “I doubt I’ll forget it soon myself,” Sibylla replied dryly. “Fortunately, everything is turning out well now.”

  Emily, Sabri, and Victoria had been back in Mogador for ten days, and Emily was bursting with enthusiasm over her trip.

  When the Queen Charlotte had arrived in Lisbon, the rainy winter months had just come to an end, and she had greeted the hilly city on the Tagus wearing a spring dress. Emily was enchanted by the flowers on the balconies of the bourgeois houses, the green parks, and the boulevards with their modern gas lamps. She had admired the splendor of the royal palace and visited churches, monasteries, and cathedrals. Victoria had taken her to exhibitions and elegant shops and, in the evenings, the three of them had attended theater and opera. One weekend, they had made an excursion to the fashionable resort of Estoril and, another time, they had taken a trip by train. During her two-month stay in the Portuguese capital, Emily had experienced countless things for the first time.

  But now she was happy to be home again and was consumed by preparations for her wedding, assisted by all the Hopkins wome
n as well as the bin Ibrahims. This morning, right after breakfast, she had gone with Victoria to the seamstresses and embroiderers to try on her wedding dresses. Victoria had been a bit envious when she discovered her sister-in-law was getting not one but ten dresses for the three-day celebration. Sabri’s sisters had explained it was simply the custom in this country. A bride should feel like a princess out of One Thousand and One Nights on the day of her nuptials.

  While Emily was trying on dresses, Sibylla had auditioned musicians. And, after prayers, she was to meet Almaz and Haji Abdul’s first wife in order to taste a few of the abundant dishes that were to be served at the feast. In between, she’d found time to stop by the harbor to bid Captain Comstock farewell.

  “Mummy! Here you are!” a voice behind her called out. “We have to hurry if we want to be on time to meet Almaz and Sabri’s father’s first wife!”

  She shook the veteran mariner’s hand. “Fair winds and following seas, Captain. That’s what you say, isn’t it? I wish you many happy years!”

  He beamed and bowed awkwardly. “Always an honor to work with you, Mrs. Hopkins!”

  Mother and daughter headed to the warehouse together. It was almost noon and the muezzin would soon call the faithful to prayer. But for now, the quay buzzed with life. Ships were being loaded and unloaded. Sailors scrubbed decks, mended sails, checked anchor cables and ropes. Workers were hauling sacks and rolling barrels back and forth between ships and warehouses, and the harbormaster was standing next to the captain of an American frigate and checking whether the number of bales of cotton on the paper corresponded with the actual number delivered.

  “I miss Sabri,” Emily sighed. Since their return from Lisbon, his family had insisted that they live separately in their respective family’s homes until the wedding. They were not even permitted to visit each other.

  “If you hope to have a peaceful relationship with your future family, you will have to endure this yearning, whether you like it or not—watch out!” Sibylla grabbed Emily’s arm and pulled her away from a suspended crate spinning dangerously on its way off a Danish ship.

  “I’m so happy that Uncle Oscar and his family are coming for our feast!” Emily said once the danger had passed. “It’s all right if Grandmother Mary finds the journey too strenuous, because I’m going to meet her soon anyway.” Emily and Sabri were planning to travel to London for their honeymoon and stay there for one year so that Sabri could further his medical training and Emily could finally undertake her art studies.

  “The rooms for Oscar’s family still have to be made ready. I really don’t know how we’re going to get everything done in time!” Sibylla sighed as they entered the warehouse. “Wait here. I’ll be right down.”

  As Sibylla ran up the stairs to the second floor, the muezzin’s call to prayer came from the minaret; the hall rapidly emptied out, as did the entire harbor, with the exception of a few Christian sailors.

  Emily leaned against a pallet of leather and dreamily stroked the smooth material. She thought of Sabri and how much she loved him. So much that she would have endured anything, even leaving Mogador forever.

  She had sensed it immediately when they first met on his return from London. Now that they were married, she was sure: he was the one. She had never thought that it would be so wonderful to be man and wife—one flesh, as Captain Comstock had read from the Bible when he married them. She closed her eyes and thought back to their first night together in the captain’s quarters, which Comstock had lent them for the occasion. She thought of Sabri’s arms, which had held her so tightly and told her that she belonged to him from now on; of his mouth, which had caressed not only her mouth with his lips and tongue but also all the other areas of her body, especially those where her most overwhelming sensations lay hidden. A strange, greedy desire had taken hold of her when he tenderly touched her in these hidden places . . .

  The warehouse gate creaked on its hinges. Emily turned around and watched it being opened slowly, stealthily. A shadow lingered a moment, then entered. A tall man in a black djellaba and a black turban crossed the hall and climbed the wooden stairs so rapidly that he did not notice Emily standing there in the semidarkness. He hurried toward her mother’s office. Emily stayed quiet as a mouse next to the pallet. The hairs on her neck stood on end when she saw that the stranger had covered his face except for a small slit for his eyes. Who was this man? He wore Arab clothing and yet he had not answered the call to prayer. She held her breath and watched as the stranger raised his hand and knocked. She could hear her mother’s muffled voice telling the man to enter. He opened the door and disappeared.

  Emily had a tingling sensation in her stomach, half frightened, half curious. Without making a sound, she climbed the stairs and tiptoed to the closed office door. She hesitated, but her curiosity won out. She crouched down and peered through the keyhole. The stranger was standing with his back to the door, so Emily’s view was partially blocked, but even so, she could see the unspeakable terror on her mother’s face.

  “Hello, Sibylla. Why are you looking at me like that? Do you no longer recognize your husband?” The stranger removed his scarf.

  “Benjamin?!” Sibylla stammered and then again, “Benjamin?” She recognized his voice, that slightly nasal, haughty voice, like an echo from times past, and his icy blue eyes. And still she could not believe it—she had thought him dead for twenty-two years, burned to death in a blaze no one could have survived. But there he was, standing before her, pale and shrunken, his face covered in scars and bulges as though liquid wax had hardened, no eyelashes, eyebrows, or proper nose. She had the feeling a ghost was standing in front of her, and she shuddered with fright.

  Benjamin pulled his lipless mouth into a hideous, knowing grin. “I’ve changed a bit, haven’t I, my dear? But the same is true of you. You have aged.” Before she had a chance to react, he was by her side, touching her hair, now more white than blonde, with fingers that resembled claws, bulging and fissured. She recoiled full of disgust, but he quickly grabbed her wrist. “Go ahead and look at me, look at my new skin! It took me one whole year to grow into it.”

  “Let go of me at once!” Sibylla freed herself with one lurch and sought refuge behind her desk.

  “Oh, calm down, Sibylla! I have always found your money far more attractive than you. But then, you always loved your books more than you did me.”

  He stepped over to her abacus, which stood in front of the wall in a large wooden frame on a movable table, and idly moved some beads along the wires.

  “How did you survive? I saw the ruins. No one could have made it out alive.” She stared at his back, still struggling to understand that it was really and truly Benjamin standing there.

  He moved awkwardly, not because of her question but because his cloak scraped against his scarred skin. He would never get used to this feeling of being sewn into a suit that was too small for him. He pushed one of the wooden beads. It glided silently along the wire and crashed against the frame.

  He was tormented by more than his deformities. The horrific images of the bombardment haunted him as clearly and vividly as if he had escaped the inferno yesterday and not many years ago. He could still hear the earsplitting crash of the cannonballs, the impact of the incendiary projectile that swallowed his screams of fear. He could still feel the sand and dust, mortars and small rocks raining down on him, and he still had to force himself not to fall on his knees and whimper, covering his head with his arms whenever the air around him shimmered with heat or smelled of gunpowder and sulfur.

  His fingers clenched the wooden frame of the abacus.

  “Where have you been all these years?” Sibylla asked. “Why did you never get in touch or come back?”

  “Be quiet!” He spun around, making his cloak fly, and she flinched. “Do you want to make me believe that you’ve missed me? Don’t bother. I know that you let that Frenchman kiss away your tears before even the first month of mourning had passed. I know that and then some!”


  She clutched the edge of her desk and shuddered to think that Emily might enter at any moment to find out what was taking so long. She did not even want to imagine what Benjamin might do if he discovered Emily and began asking questions.

  But for now, Benjamin was not asking anything. He was absorbed in memories. Almost a whole year of darkness lay between his old life as the respected businessman Benjamin Hopkins and his new existence as a nobody disfigured by fire. This new life had begun with unspeakable pain in the naval hospital in Gibraltar. Military doctors and nurses had told him what he no longer remembered: that French soldiers had found him lying on the beach after the bombardment. Unconscious, naked, and covered in terrible burns, he was found between two dead French soldiers. The French had taken him for one of theirs, carried him on board one of their warships, and transported him with other casualties to Gibraltar. He had been expected to die, but—to the great astonishment of all—he had grimly clung to the little bit of life left in him.

  By the time he was finally better and the physicians cautiously began speaking of survival, he knew that he would have to start a completely new life. If he returned to Morocco, he would surely be arrested again. So he caught a ship headed to London, went underground in the large city, and built a small import-and-export business. His talent as a businessman was all he had left. He did well in his business and could have lived undisturbed until the end of his days. But thoughts of the fortune hidden away under a sundial in Mogador ate at him. Only after twenty years had he finally summoned the strength and courage to retrieve it.

  “You could have come back, Benjamin.” Sibylla’s voice intruded into his reminiscences. “I had gone to see Abd al-Rahman, don’t you remember? He pardoned you. You were free!”

  The ground under his feet swayed as Benjamin realized that he had been living in hiding for nothing.

  “Is that true?” he asked flatly. “You really convinced the sultan all by yourself?”