Sixty male slaves and twice as many women, some with children, accompanied the caravan that had set out from Marrakesh for Mogador one and a half days ago. The women were tied to each other with ropes only. Like the men, they were dressed in nothing more than loincloths, which barely covered their nakedness.
When the caravan had made camp the previous evening, the slaves had begun to sing, sadly and plaintively and with such profound despair that Sibylla broke out in goose bumps. They seemed so broken, so haggard and exhausted. It filled her with impotent rage to look on as the drivers beat them and drove them on. The only thing that enraged her even more was the undisguised lust with which the male travelers, both European and Arab, gawked at the poor women. She yearned to go after them with her riding crop the way the slave drivers wielded their whips.
The slave driver grudgingly lowered his whip, unwilling to strike the English lady. Sibylla, her heart racing with triumph and fear, turned her mule away.
How can Toledano permit this? she wondered, for the slaves were his. He had purchased them in Marrakesh from a northbound caravan and marked them with his brand. Sibylla had been racking her brain as to how anyone could treat other human beings worse than pack camels.
She jumped at the ugly curse flung by another slave driver swinging his whip above the heads of several women. Nadira, riding next to her mistress with her head hung low, flinched as well. Sibylla suspected she suffered not only at seeing her sub-Saharan compatriots humiliated so but was also reminded of her own history.
“Where do they come from?” Sibylla asked her. “Do they belong to your tribe?”
Nadira answered with a sad look. “These people are Igbo. I am Mandingo. But in our suffering, we are all brothers and sisters.”
Igbo and Mandingo. Sibylla had never heard of either. Nor had she any idea where these people lived, or that they might be from many different places, different tribes. She realized how little she knew of the inhabitants of this continent.
The slave driver again raised his whip to beat the two stumbling men, but he was seized by the arm by a rider galloping up from behind. The surprised man fell off his mule with a cry.
“Arrête-toi! Stop it!” André Rouston bellowed and spun his brown mare in such a way that her hooves stamped on the ground mere inches from the frightened driver’s head. The man quickly rolled out of the way and sprang to his feet, but the Frenchman was next to him again in no time and grabbed his arm again. “Your slaves are your brothers—that is what the Prophet commanded! The next time I see you or one of your friends mistreating these people, I will tie you together like these poor devils!”
The driver gave him a look filled with hate and tried to free himself. Disgusted, Rouston pushed him away so hard that he almost fell down again.
Sibylla watched with bated breath. At last, someone had found the courage to fight for the captives!
Rouston had joined their caravan in Marrakesh because he was on his way back to the Chiadma. Sibylla had not had the opportunity to speak with him herself since he rode a little apart most of the time.
“Is there a problem?” Toledano asked. He had hurriedly trotted up on his donkey from the head of the caravan. One of the slave drivers must have alerted him.
“Stop your men from mistreating these people!” the Frenchman snapped at him.
“With all due respect, Se?or Rouston, I acquired these Negroes legally and, if they are obstinate, they will be punished. Only then will they appreciate the power of their master.”
He spoke in measured tones. Yet his attitude left no room for doubt that he resented the interference.
“They’re not being obstinate, Se?or Toledano, they’re exhausted!” Rouston shouted, but the merchant merely nodded politely and rode away.
Meanwhile, Benjamin had ridden up to Sibylla. He was annoyed by the way his wife was admiring the Frenchman.
“So your heroic representative of the grande nation is trying to introduce these Negroes to the concept of human rights, is he?” he remarked smugly.
“No need to be so rude. You, after all, are in business with a slave trader,” Sibylla responded calmly.
He glared at her. “And aren’t you rather sanctimonious for someone whose grandfather made a fortune from the slave trade? Besides, Toledano is one of the sultan’s merchants. It’s impossible to do any business around here without him. Unless, of course, one is selling shoes directly to the sultan’s harem.”
“One might think you’re envious.”
“Envious? How ridiculous. I’m just reminding you to mind your own business. The Negroes are Toledano’s. He has paid for them and can do with them as he wishes.”
Before Sibylla could respond, Benjamin had pointedly guided his mule toward Toledano. She watched him ride away, her lips pressed together. Benjamin had been curt and irritated with her for the last several days. She had very much wanted to explore Marrakesh with him, but he had avoided her as though it were her fault the audience with the sultan had not gone as he had hoped. That same evening in their room in the inn, she had even told him how sorry she was, but he had cut her short and stormed out of the room.
In a few weeks, we are going to be a family. But even this child does not seem to be bringing us closer to one another, Sibylla thought glumly.
She knew Benjamin had come to Morocco full of ambition, anxious to impress his father-in-law and be rewarded with a management position back home. Yet one disappointment followed on the heels of another, first with Qaid Hash-Hash and now with the sultan.
Perhaps she was not doing her duty to help her husband gain a foothold here? Sibylla sighed softly. She felt no real desire to support him. She much preferred to act autonomously, to learn about both business and local culture on her own. She had bought several bolts of silk cloth at the souk in Marrakesh, which she planned to offer to merchants in London. Benjamin knew nothing about this and, judging by their latest row, he was not going to be at all pleased once he found out.
If I really want to heal the rift between my husband and me, I should stop trading, she thought. As difficult as it was, Sibylla resolved that this would be her last deal. She would soon become a mother and have no more time for business anyhow.
Irritated, she shooed away some flies buzzing around her face and, at that moment, was racked by a piercing pain.
“My lady? Are you all right?” In an instant, Nadira was by her side.
“No!” she gasped, holding her abdomen. “Get my husband! Quickly!”
Chapter Eight
“Don’t be troubled, Se?or Hopkins. Even the sultan himself—may the Almighty grant him eternal life—knows that one cannot skin an ox twice.” Riding next to Benjamin, Samuel Toledano studied him. “Believe me, there is good business to be done anywhere you want.”
Benjamin looked morosely at the slaves stumbling along one after the other. “That is surely not the case with your Negroes,” he grumbled. “I don’t suppose that these rawboned characters here will fetch much.”