They entered a courtyard surrounded by a colonnade and filled with a rectangular water basin. Sibylla noticed how pleasantly the water cooled the heat of the desert. “We are so close to the Sahara, and yet there is so much water here!” she marveled.
“His Imperial Majesty has it channeled here from the Atlas Mountains. In this way, he honors God, who has given the people water and thereby awakened the barren soil,” the eunuch explained with great dignity.
They had reached the end of the water basin and were passing an octagonal latticed pavilion. In it lounged a pair of lions watching the visitors with vigilant amber eyes. Sibylla had seen live lions only once before in her life, many years ago in a traveling menagerie of exotic animals in London. As she passed the bars, the male uttered a low warning growl. She looked at the powerful animal with the black-and-yellow mane and the deadly paws, bigger than two men’s fists.
“I should not have thought the name ‘lion’s court’ was meant literally!” she whispered to André.
“A reminder of the ruler’s power,” he replied quietly. “Do not let it intimidate you.”
“The audience will take place here,” Feradge interrupted.
“Here?” Sibylla said without meaning to.
She had expected an official venue, a throne room with dignitaries and courtiers—certainly not a garden. The eunuch led the guests to the other side of the cage. Silk rugs were spread out on the ground and braziers emitted the scent of fragrant resins. Under a red silk canopy, flanked by two slaves who were fanning him with palm fronds, Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman, Imam of all True Believers and Ruler of Morocco, Descendant of the Holy Dynasty of the Alaouites, the last free ruler of Arab North Africa, sat on a divan. He was dressed all in white, with a carefully groomed short salt-and-pepper beard, alert black eyes, and a well-nourished, round face.
The sultan greeted Rouston first. His gaze lingered on the medal of honor. He recognized that André was wearing the uniform of the victors of the Algerian War and understood it to be a show of power.
Sibylla bowed respectfully. “Assalamu alaikum. Imperial Majesty, I am deeply moved by your receiving me and Monsieur Rouston. Please allow me to offer you this modest gift.”
She turned to André, who placed the saddle at the sultan’s feet.
The monarch bowed his head graciously. “Wa-alaikum salam, merchant lady. We thank you for the honor of your visit.”
He clapped his hands. A slave appeared from the shadows of the colonnade, picked up the saddle, and carried it away. Had Sibylla not already learned that Arabs considered it impolite to pay more attention to the gift than to their guests, she might have feared that he was not pleased with it.
The sultan pointed to another divan opposite his. “Please, my honored guests, take a seat. Please do us the honor of drinking some spiced coffee with us.”
Again he clapped his hands. More slaves appeared. One brought bowls with water and towels so the monarch and his guests could rinse their hands. Another brought tiny, delicate porcelain cups. A third served sweetmeats, and a fourth handed His Majesty a coffee mill so that he could grind the freshly roasted beans himself. Then one of the slaves brewed the spiced coffee over one of the coal pans. Feradge stood behind his master’s divan and directed the ceremony with tiny gestures.
“Your Arabic is excellent, Mrs. Hopkins,” the sultan remarked courteously while he filled the cups.
“Learning the language of a country that has welcomed my family with such kindness is the least I could do,” Sibylla replied modestly.
The encounter continued like this for quite some time. Moulay Abd al-Rahman and his guests exchanged pleasantries as though they were at a picnic.
“Now, I am certain that there is a reason for this urgent request for an audience?” the sultan eventually asked.
Although Sibylla was sure that Abd al-Rahman was already familiar with the reason, she calmly answered, “Your governor, Qaid Hash-Hash, has been holding my husband on the Island of Mogador for several months.”
The sultan’s kindly expression suddenly turned severe. “The merchant Hopkins traded in slaves. We do not permit infidel visitors to our country to engage in this type of business—in agreement with your English queen, as you surely know.”
“My husband has been negligent in the respect he has paid you, Your Imperial Majesty,” Sibylla conceded. “But he has assured me that he is innocent and has himself fallen victim to a conspiracy. It was likely one of his captains who conducted these odious deals behind his back.”
“Do you then accuse us of holding an innocent man captive? We have it on good authority that your husband shipped slaves from our coast to the Caribbean!”
Sibylla decided to drop the presumption of innocence. She lowered her head in supplication. “As the mother of two small sons, I throw myself at your feet, honorable monarch, and ask for mercy for my husband. You are renowned as a wise and magnanimous ruler. Please do not deny a mother’s plea!”
Abd al-Rahman’s face twitched. He motioned to Feradge, who leaned over him, and a rapidly whispered exchange arose.
“Your husband has severely damaged our reputation in the world. This kind of offense can be absolved only with some kind of compensation,” Abd al-Rahman finally pronounced.
There it was: the demand for money Sibylla had been dreading, for she still had little. “I suspect I know which captain is responsible for these trades, and I will be personally responsible for seeing to it that he receives his proper punishment in England. Not the slightest blemish will remain on Your Imperial Majesty’s honor.”
“That will not suffice,” Abd al-Rahman replied coolly.
André took this opportunity to intervene. “Perhaps it will suffice if we bring news about Abd el-Kader, the Algerian rebel—and your own subject, Thabit al-Khattabi. The two of them have made a pact that is not likely to please Your Majesty.”
Abd al-Rahman froze. “What about al-Khattabi?”
“This information is worth Benjamin Hopkins’s freedom,” André replied. “And not only that. In exchange for this information, I ask that you hand over Abd el-Kader, who is hiding in the Rif Mountains and whom you are protecting.”
Sibylla held her breath as she watched the two men size each other up. The sultan’s black eyes glowed, but André did not seem to fear him. Finally, Abd al-Rahman clapped his hands, and when a slave appeared, he rapidly whispered a command to him.
“The merchant will be released,” the sovereign declared. “Our scribe will give Mrs. Hopkins an official order for the qaid. Abd el-Kader’s handover depends on the information you have, Rouston, so speak!”
Abd al-Rahman’s demeanor remained tense but steady while André laid out the conspiracy that Abd el-Kader and Thabit al-Khattabi had hatched. Sibylla was on pins and needles. Even the lions paced in their cage and uttered menacing growls.