If there was one thing she had learned to appreciate in this country, it was the hamam. Back in England, she’d had her own bathtub, which had stood in her bedroom behind a screen. But to wash oneself in Morocco, one had to go to a public bath. The women’s section of the bath was also the only place—aside from a harem—where Sibylla encountered her Arab counterparts as they dedicated themselves to their beauty routines and exchanged the latest news. She had been quite inhibited during her first visit, not knowing what to expect. But she soon learned to relish the uninhibited, relaxed atmosphere and quickly forgot that she was covered by nothing more than a cloth around her hips. By now, her pregnancy was decidedly visible, but she was not the only one in this place who was with child, and all the women, pregnant or not, were happy for her, inquiring about her condition and showering her with advice.
Benjamin, needless to say, did not share Sibylla’s love of the hamam. While he did not try to dissuade her from going, he made no secret of his distaste and declared that not the Devil himself could get him to bathe with naked strangers. Sibylla had reconciled herself to the fact that she and her husband had little in common.
Chapter Seven
The audience with Sultan Abd al-Rahman took place the following day, the first day of the sixth month, Jumada al-Akhira, of the year 1252 after the Prophet’s departure from Mecca. The Gregorian calendar indicated that it was September 13, 1836. On her way back from the hamam the previous evening, Sibylla had learned that the city’s muezzins had announced the new month with the appearance of the tiny sliver of the new moon.
For her audience, she wore an outfit made of purple silk material interwoven with gold threads that she had found at the souk in Mogador. It was cut as wide as an Arab kaftan but as long as a European dress and concealed her pregnancy almost entirely. Following her directions, Nadira had sewn it together with a shawl that allowed Sibylla to conceal her hair.
She had slept soundly after her visit to the hamam. She felt well and rested and wildly relieved that the pulling in her abdomen was gone. The group from Mogador went on foot to the sultan’s palace, which was located in a large garden in the southern part of the medina. Most of the gifts had been loaded on a donkey, and Benjamin carried the special one for the sultan.
Once the souks lay behind, they crossed a large square filled with tents and stalls. Under the canopies, the city’s executioners waited for business alongside itinerant doctors and other traveling people. It was the place to have one’s teeth pulled or one’s future foretold.
After not quite half an hour, they reached another square ending in a hefty red sandstone wall with a closed wooden gate. The sultan’s green flags were flying on the bastion. There were guard tents on both sides of the gate. Sibylla was surprised to see the guards not standing at attention like their counterparts in London but sitting idly on the ground, sipping tea and playing cards.
Besides the merchants from Mogador, there were supplicants from Tangier, Rabat, and Tétouan, altogether several hundred people waiting to pay their respects to the sultan. Consul Willshire spotted James Butler, his counterpart in Tétouan, and Edward Drummond-Hay, the British consul general in Tangier. Sara introduced Sibylla to the wives of the English merchants along the Moroccan coast. While Mrs. Willshire and the other ladies lamented the strange food and hot climate, Sibylla went to look for Benjamin. Her husband was talking animatedly to Samuel Toledano. She knew Benjamin had high hopes for the audience. Most of all, he hoped his gift to the sultan, a valuable silver-studded hunting rifle made by England’s finest gunsmith, would impress the ruler of all the faithful.
Sibylla observed the Black Guards, the sultan’s slave army, with curiosity. They were lining up on both sides of the gate. These tall men were distinguishable not only by their uniform, a white kaftan and a red tarboosh, but also by their hard, unflinching expressions. Consul Willshire told them of the Black Guards’ undying loyalty to the Alaouites for almost two hundred years.
The Berbers too were represented in the square. The riders sat proudly on their beautiful Arabian horses and got the lively animals to perform all kinds of tricks.
Sibylla hoped that His Majesty would not keep them waiting too much longer and dabbed her forehead with a corner of her shawl. It was time by now for the noonday prayer and the sun was unrelenting.
“I believe there is some movement at the gate,” said Mrs. Butler, the wife of the consul of Tétouan.
The guards had finished their card game and stood at attention on both sides of the gate. The riders had taken their positions behind the perfectly straight lines of the Black Guards while the merchants eagerly waited at the other end of the square.
“Come with me,” whispered Benjamin, who had suddenly appeared next to Sibylla. “Let’s not miss this moment.” He took her hand and led her to the front.
As the massive wings of the gate opened, Sibylla held her breath. She had never before met a ruler face-to-face. She had seen King William IV in his box at the opera once, but that did not compare to this moment.
A single rider on a magnificently decorated white stallion came through the gate with measured steps. A bodyguard walked close to the horse and was closely followed by a eunuch carrying a giant carmine sunshade.
“That’s him,” Benjamin whispered. He had removed his hat, as had all the other gentlemen in their delegation, and his voice sounded solemn. “Toledano told me the parasol is his symbol.”
Sibylla took a closer look at the man. He was middle-aged, not particularly tall, with round, bearded cheeks and a gentle-looking face. His horse seemed more spectacularly decorated than he himself, she thought as she looked at his simple white kaftan. He wore neither medals nor rings, no chains or other regalia. Were it not for the red umbrella, he might have been any random subject. But then she remembered the impaled skulls she had seen by the city gate and told herself that it would surely be a mistake to underestimate this man.
“His Royal Majesty Moulay Abd al-Rahman bin Moulay Hicham bin Sidi Mohammed bin Moulay Abdallah bin Moulay Ismail, Imam of all Believers, Caliph of the Islamic Community and Sultan of Morocco of the Holy House of the Alaouites, who are descended from the Prophet’s daughter herself,” Consul Willshire intoned. He and his wife had fought their way to the front of the crowd to join Benjamin and Sibylla.
“May God bless our ruler’s life,” the Black Guards shouted in unison. They took a deep bow and touched their right knees as a sign of their devotion.
The sultan stopped in front of the delegation of merchants and it was only then that Sibylla caught a glimpse of the man riding a few feet behind him. At first, she took him for an Arab, not only because of the black hair visible under his turban but also the traditional kaftan and long pants he wore. Yet his suntanned, lean face was clean shaven, his features less aquiline, and his eyes less dark. He was also tall like a European. At least, his legs were a little too long for his petite Arabian mare.
“Who is that man on the brown horse?” she whispered to Sara.
The consul’s wife immediately knew who she meant. “That’s Monsieur Rouston. So he’s back at court,” she added wryly in her husband’s direction.