“Oh yes, and how I miss the shops!” Sara exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you just love to look through the sewing patterns at Debenhams or wander through Covent Garden?”
“I would rather attend the theater,” Sibylla replied. “I do find it strange that there is absolutely no public life here in Morocco, no theater or opera, no balls or sporting events.” She rummaged in a box until she found a small button and held it against a tiny white cotton gown to see how it looked.
“Social life takes place behind thick walls in this country. It took me a while to become accustomed to that as well,” Sara admitted.
“And that is precisely why I have to escape from this confinement for a few days!” Sibylla persisted. “I spend almost all day in this house with its tiny windows or else in the courtyard. When I go out walking, I reach the city walls within ten minutes at most. I’ve seen nothing of the countryside!”
“I do understand you, my dear Sibylla.” Sara said with a sigh. “But I think it is a very bad idea.”
The foreign merchants and their consuls from England, Spain, Portugal, France, the Netherlands, and Denmark had joined a caravan arranged by Samuel Toledano. It consisted of fifty heavily laden camels, five camel riders, and several assistants, who took care of the animals. Once in Marrakesh, they would join other caravans to become a giant caravan, consisting of several hundred animals, that would then head through the Western Sahara to the legendary city of Timbuktu. The caravans traveling south transported dates, oil, henna, salt, cotton cloth, glass beads, metal products, rugs, and ceramics. On their return, they brought ostrich feathers, ivory, gold, and, most important, slaves.
To protect the small caravan from bands of thieves on its way from Mogador to Marrakesh, it was escorted by thirty riders from the sultan’s cavalry. The governor of Mogador himself rode along on a magnificent Arabian stallion, his most prized gyrfalcon on his arm.
The road to Marrakesh, a dusty, well-trodden path, led directly eastward. Not far outside the walls of the city, they rode through groves of argan that, according to Sara Willshire, grew nowhere else. These primeval trees with their wide crowns bore plumlike green fruit with kernels from which the natives extracted a nutritious, gold-colored oil. Apparently, the fruit was popular with goats as well—to her great amusement, Sibylla spotted several grazing up among the branches.
The argan groves were followed by juniper bushes and low-growing shrubs. Every now and then they saw some abandoned, dilapidated mud huts and small harvested fields. They crossed through brooks that were almost completely dry after the long summer and offered just enough water for man and beast. Intoxicating oleander bloomed along the banks. Nadira pointed out grasshoppers and chameleons to Sibylla and Sara, and once, even the papery skin out of which a snake had slipped. The farther east they traveled, the sandier the ground became. Finally, the Atlas Mountains became visible in the blue haze.
The first two nights, they pitched tents. Dozens of little campfires sparkled in the darkness. Nadira made tea and ricelike couscous, to which she added olive oil and butter. Sibylla sat next to her husband on a flat stone near the fire and thought it very exciting to be traveling in a way which had long been relegated to the past in Europe.
“This is our second picnic together,” she whispered to Benjamin, scooping up her couscous with a piece of freshly baked flatbread, as per local custom.
“True,” he replied and glumly regarded his tin bowl. “Only back then the food was better.”
The second night, they were awakened by loud shouting and rifle shots. Horses neighed, camels howled, and donkeys screamed.
“Hyenas,” Consul Willshire explained when Benjamin and Sibylla stumbled out of their tent. “No need to worry. The sultan’s riders have shot a few and chased off the rest.”
Heading out the next morning, they were confronted by the bodies of the large predators, which the cavalry had laid out as deterrents around the edges of the camp. Sibylla shuddered at the sight of their powerful fangs.
By the third day, she began to feel the effects of the heat. She felt exhausted and dusty when, toward evening, they rode through the arched gate of the only caravanserai along the route. The lodging for travelers and traders was no more than a plain building made of rammed earth, its four walls surrounding an interior courtyard with enough room for two caravans the size of theirs. Storage rooms and stalls for the animals were on the first floor and the travelers slept in simple windowless rooms on the second. There was also a small prayer room. The gate was locked at night for protection.
Nadira was building a fire to cook over when a group of women came into the courtyard. They immediately attracted Sibylla’s attention as they were not veiled. They circulated among the travelers with baskets filled with flatbread, eggs, goat cheese, and dried meat for sale. Sibylla was fascinated by their proud, open faces. The skin on their suntanned foreheads and chins was tattooed. They were barefoot, their wide skirts decorated with multicolored braids and tassels. They wore blouses and colorful scarves on their dark hair.
“These women are members of the Chiadma tribe,” Consul Willshire explained to Sibylla. “They are Berbers, the people who lived in this area for years before the Arabs.”
“Chiadma,” Sibylla repeated. “I have heard you mention them before. You were talking about feuds with another tribe—the Haha, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s right,” Willshire agreed. “Berbers are hotheads. They do not respect authority and one can never be certain that their intentions are peaceful.”
Sibylla watched the women’s skirts swaying around their hips. Several of the travelers, especially the foreigners, who had not seen such an unfettered display of femininity in some time, stole desirous glances.
“They are here alone, without men. They seem to enjoy more freedom than Arab women,” Sibylla observed and was astonished to see the consul blush.
He cleared his throat. “One could say so, Mrs. Hopkins. Indeed, one could say so.” He cleared his throat again. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to check that our boy has seen to the mules. Because as always, if you want a job done well—”
And he was gone.
“Do you think we ought to buy some meat for dinner from them?” Sibylla asked her husband, who merely shrugged.
“If you insist, but don’t be surprised if they try to sell you a boiled cat as rabbit stew!” He turned and took their luggage to their room.