Be sensible, she told herself. Stay calm! You saw with your own eyes that the fortress on the Island of Mogador burned down to the foundation walls after the bombardment. No one could have survived such an inferno.
She pensively stroked the cold, shiny blade of the shovel with her finger. Who had trespassed into her home? Who, except she and Benjamin, knew about the slave gold?
Mogador, November 1861
Sibylla watched as the pale veils of steam gathered under the blue, white, and green tiles of the dome and floated away through the vents in the walls. It was an honor to bathe with the wives of Qaid Samir el Tawfiq in their hamam. She enjoyed the scent of frankincense, cloves, and sandalwood wafting from the coal pans, the warmth of the heated marble bench on which she sat, the women’s voices that rippled like a soft melody through the room, and the muffled clatter of their clogs on the stone floor. Not far from her, there were three young concubines splashing in a large, round water basin, naked as the day they were born. Despite their nakedness, all the women here moved about without any shame, and they all looked beautiful in their own way. It did not matter if they were young and slender like gazelles, or whether their bodies showed the signs of age or numerous pregnancies, whether their breasts were like round little apples or like big, heavy pears. Only the slaves, who tended to, washed, and cared for their mistresses, were wrapped in thin cotton robes.
One of them sat behind Sibylla and massaged a paste made of salt and fragrant honey into her back.
“Ouch, that hurts!” she complained.
“Pardon me, Sayyida, but your back is harder than the bench I’m sitting on. You have too many worries,” the slave explained as she kneaded Sibylla’s muscles with expert hands.
“That may well be,” she mumbled, thinking about the mysterious break-in three weeks earlier. She and John had made inquiries, but to no avail, and the uncertainty was weighing on her.
“Just let her do her job, Mrs. Hopkins,” Lalla Jasira, sitting on an adjacent bench, interjected. “She will help you feel better. After all, a visit to the hamam should enhance not just one’s beauty but one’s health as well.”
“I don’t know how I ever lived without this pleasure,” Sibylla agreed. “It is like heaven on earth.”
“And the perfect way to end a successful business transaction, don’t you think?” Lalla Jasira added with satisfaction.
She had sold Sibylla a consignment of silk pillowcases for a very nice commission. Her nephew Sultan Sidi Mohammed’s three hundred wives had embroidered them with pearls and gold cords using ancient techniques.
Sibylla had been delighted when Lalla Jasira had shown her the samples. She was sure to get an excellent price for this charming work.
More than a public bath for women, the harem hamam represented a world of seclusion. The only way a little bit of light could enter was through the solitary window in the dome. Sibylla, Lalla Jasira, and all the concubines and wives, small children, and slaves melted like shadows in the warm, foggy steam.
The slave standing behind Lalla Jasira was holding a thin loop of thread she used to swiftly pluck her mistress’s eyebrows into gently curved wings. Meanwhile, the slave tending to Sibylla had filled a wooden bucket with warm water, and began to rinse her back in gentle, even motions.
Sibylla looked up when a eunuch opened the door leading to the antechamber of the hamam, where the women undressed. Wahida came in with a very young, strikingly beautiful woman. As soon as she clapped her hands, two slaves rushed over to her.
“Here, cleanse and wash this kitten from top to bottom and in all orifices. I want my son to discover a fragrant flower in his bed!” Her shy young companion cast her eyes down as Wahida pushed her forward.
Wahida had been emancipated ever since the death of Qaid Hash-Hash and, as the mother of the reigning governor, was the highest-ranking woman in his harem. She took her role very seriously and controlled not only her son’s love life but also his wives and concubines.
“We have heard you and will obey, Umm Walad.” The slaves took the young woman to lie upon a large oven, the top of which was covered in smooth marble and overlain with sparkling quartz stones. They got out a bowl with fragrant lather and sponges made of palm fibers and began lathering the concubine from top to bottom.
“That’s Bahar, our lord’s new favorite,” Lalla Jasira informed Sibylla in a low voice. “For three weeks, he has wanted only her in his bed. That worries some of the others, especially Sukalina, the mother of Rami, his favorite son.” She sighed. “I thank God that those days are behind me. It was stressful, having to contend for the lord’s favor all the time. And I don’t envy Wahida for being in charge of the harem. I appreciate my peace, my poetry collection, and my business. Oh, here comes Sukalina with little Rami. Just look at her face, how she resents Wahida devoting her attention to the new favorite and no longer to her!”
Sukalina strode into the room like a queen, followed by her entourage of slaves and allies. Her jewel-studded clogs clacked provocatively. Throwing an angry look at Bahar, she slid her sublime body on the warm oven top and snapped her fingers. A slave rushed to her side.
“Where is the soap?” Sukalina hissed. “Why do I have to wait?”
The slave stammered an excuse and scurried away. Sukalina’s son, three-year-old Rami, toddled up to Wahida with a happy squeal. She bowed down to him and smiled. “Hello, my little prince, have you come to see your grandmother?”
“Rami, come here!” Sukalina commanded from the other side of the oven.
“That sounds very familiar,” Sibylla muttered. “Wahida has my deepest sympathy.”
A slave came over with a tray full of colorful glasses containing an ice-cold delicacy called sorbet, a mixture of pureed fruit and crushed ice. Lalla took two glasses from the tray and handed one to Sibylla. “What aggrieves you, my honorable friend? Certainly not the conclusion of our business, I trust?” she inquired with a smile.
“Oh, goodness, no. Please don’t worry.” Sibylla gloomily poked at her sorbet. She had been thinking of Emily again. She missed her terribly. It was almost a year since they’d seen each other. Was she well? Did she miss her mother sometimes? And most of all: When was she coming home?
“Lalla Jasira.” Sibylla turned to the other woman. “May I ask you a question?”
“But of course.” Lalla Jasira signaled the two slaves, who had begun combing their hair, to leave them alone. “Now we are undisturbed, my friend.”
Sibylla took a deep breath, struggling to find the words. “Am I a woman who cannot forgive?”
Lalla Jasira pensively ran her fingers through her long silver hair. “I am not in a position to judge that. What I do know is that we are all capable of change—perhaps from a person who does not forgive to one who does.”