“Morocco’s red gold,” Sibylla said with a smile. “That’s what my father calls it.”
“Because it is the world’s most precious spice,” André replied with excitement. “It is a secret in most of the world, but the Chiadma taught me how to grow it.”
“And how is it that you, a European, came to be privy to this secret?”
“I arbitrated between the sheikhs of the Chiadma and the sultan, and was thus able to resolve a feud. As an expression of their gratitude, the Chiadma initiated me into the cultivation of saffron. Because, you see, the feud between them and the Alaouites had persisted for centuries and had brought their people to the brink of destruction. So now they prefer to pay him the ushur, the agricultural tax, rather than try to usurp his throne.”
“Perhaps one day you will sell the Chiadma’s saffron to us.”
“I would, but your husband refuses to buy. He tells me the export taxes are too high and that he has other merchandise he can export at a lower price.”
Sibylla looked him straight in the eye. “If you had negotiated with me, we would have found a solution satisfactory to all.”
He gave her a mischievous smile. “I do not doubt it. One day, when I grow my own saffron, I shall come to you first, my lady.”
“Benjamin had a hard time of it at the start,” Sibylla said, feeling the need to apologize for her husband. “But then, after Thomas’s birth, business began to take off. Now he is so busy that we hardly see each other.”
She glanced over to the children. It was little Sabri’s turn to hold the line, but John was already impatiently tugging at his kaftan.
“Benjamin did want to fly his kite with the boys,” she mused. “But then the Queen Charlotte came in earlier than expected.” Sibylla took another handful of pistachios. “Is it true that Sultan Abd al-Rahman often seeks your counsel? The rest of us foreigners are no more than useful infidels as far as he is concerned.”
André laughed. “Well, I do allow His Majesty to beat me at chess. But to speak seriously: Abd al-Rahman is a great admirer of Napoleon and I was a major in the Chasseurs d’Afrique—though I did not join until 1823, several years after his death. And I am not certain that the sultan truly trusts me. I shall find out soon, though. The Berbers in Algeria and their leader, Abd el-Kader, have issued another jihad against us French. I have no doubt the sultan is having me watched to see if I will join my native country to wage war against the true believers.”
“And? Will you?” Sibylla’s heart skipped a beat.
“Mon Dieu, no!” André crumpled the empty pistachio bag. “I took my leave of fighting a long time ago. If I could, I would purchase a piece of land here and grow my own saffron. Unfortunately, the sultan does not permit Christians to own land.”
Sibylla studied him with curiosity. Was this a good moment to ask if he planned to live in this country with a woman? Or if he perhaps already had a wife?
They were interrupted by loud shrieks coming from the beach. John was lying flat on his stomach in the sand and bawling at the top of his lungs. Tom had one of the Arab boys by the collar and was yelling in Arabic. “Let go of the string, you swine, or the djinn’s curse be upon you!”
The boy had apparently taken the kite’s string away from John, and Tom was coming to his beloved brother’s aid.
“Dear me!” Sibylla laughed awkwardly. “I must remind the servants to watch their language in the children’s presence. Boys!” She jumped to her feet. “You are not to fight!”
She ran to the children, and André followed. John scrambled to his feet and she picked him up. The little Arab boy had fallen into a clump of sea pink and had dried petals all over his clothing and in his hair. His face was very angry as the Frenchman gave him a stern talking-to. Eventually, he returned the line to Tom, his head hung low.
“However did you manage to appease them so quickly?” Sibylla asked once they were sitting in the sand, watching the children play peacefully once more.
“I threatened to unleash the ghosts of the Christian slaves who were walled in when this fortress was built,” André answered with a grin.
“What? Immured people? That’s the kind of talk with which you frighten children? You can’t be serious!” Sibylla shuddered.
“I’m not. To be honest, I am not sure if this old wives’ tale is true. In fact, I asked the boy if he was such a weakling that he felt it necessary to take things from a much smaller boy. And I could not help but notice, madame”—André scrutinized her with feigned severity—“Thomas can curse alarmingly well in Arabic.”
Sibylla was embarrassed. “He must have picked it up from some playmates or the servants. There are some disadvantages to having your children learn the local language.”
“You must plan to stay in Morocco for some time.”
She laughed. “In truth, there is very little that would entice me back to London. And what about you? What keeps you in this country? Is it a woman?” Sibylla reddened as the last question slipped out. “Please forgive my curiosity!”
“Madame, there is nothing to forgive.” In fact, with those four jealous little words, she had just made him the happiest man in Morocco.
If any woman could keep me here, it would be you, Sibylla Hopkins, though it is precisely because of you that I should leave as quickly as possible—after all, what could we hope for beyond a few stolen moments?
But he said, “You’re wondering if I have taken a Chiadma wife. The answer is: no, I have not.” He was delighted by the relief on her face. He paused for a moment and then continued, his voice tinged with mischief. “But one might say that a Chiadma woman has taken me for her husband.”
“Oh? Really?” She could hardly disguise her disappointment. “These Berber women seem to have rather loose morals,” she added a little disapprovingly.
“No, no,” André countered unsmilingly. “That is far from true, madame. They are merely different from European and Arab women. The Berber tribes hold women in high regard. They are strong and free and make their own decisions. There are even some famous warrioresses among them. Have you ever heard of al-Kahina, the sorceress? When the Arabs invaded the Maghreb more than a thousand years ago, she united the tribes of the Zanata Berbers and led them against the intruders. The Zanata made her their queen. A captured Muslim she had adopted betrayed her to the enemy, and it cost her her life.”
“She must have been a fascinating woman, a true Amazon,” Sibylla said quietly. How sheltered and uneventful her own life seemed by comparison—even if she had managed to escape her father’s strict supervision. Rouston, on the other hand, had married a Berber woman, who most likely was a second al-Kahina. Sibylla felt her heart sink at the thought.