“If I am to examine him, you’ll have to make room, Mother.” Thomas sat down on the bed. He palpated André’s face while Sibylla watched intently.
“The skull is not broken,” Thomas finally determined. He took the oil lamp from the nightstand and held it over André’s face. “The wound looks bad, but it’s already begun to heal and the bone is intact. I’m going to clean and bandage it. We can treat the swelling with cold compresses. And the rest we shall have to leave to time.”
“The rest?” Sibylla probed. “Do you mean if he’s going to wake up?”
Thomas gently opened André’s eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and examined the pupils under the light. “The loss of consciousness is profound. I’ll be able to tell whether he’s suffered any brain damage only once he has awakened. I hope that that will happen within the next two days.”
“And if not, Hakim?” a quiet voice asked. “Does that mean Baba will die?”
A dainty young woman dressed in traditional Berber attire was standing in the doorway. Emily introduced her. Thomas hesitated. Malika was certainly entitled to know her father’s likelihood of survival, but at the moment, Thomas himself was uncertain.
Finally, he explained, “The sooner your father regains consciousness, the better his chances of a full recovery. But even if it takes longer, we shan’t give up hope!” he added upon seeing Malika’s horrified expression. “Your father is a strong man. His chances are good. Would you please take me to your mother now, Mademoiselle Rouston?”
Malika nodded. “She’s in the bedroom she shares with Baba.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Sibylla asked.
Thomas picked up his doctor’s bag from the floor. “Get some hot and some cold water, soap, and clean towels, and bring everything here. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve taken a look at his wife.”
“I’ll show you where everything is, Mother,” Emily spoke up. “And then I’ll see if Sabri needs help.”
The bedroom was empty when Thomas and Malika entered. The rumpled bedclothes indicated that Aynur had lain here, but she had vanished.
“I told her not to get up!” Malika became very agitated. “She has a fever and she’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Do you have any idea where your mother might be?”
“No doubt she’s keeping vigil over Tamra, her servant. Tamra’s death has devastated her. Christian and I had to drag her away from the body so that we could tend to her wounds.” Malika rushed to lead the way to the adjacent chamber, a small room with a narrow bed against a brown mud wall, a woven rug, and a chest under the small window. A single candle stood on the ledge and its flickering light allowed him to make out the body of a very old woman on the bed and Aynur sitting on a stool next to her. Her back was turned and all Thomas could see was the long dark-blue veil that covered her hair.
“Imma,” Malika began, “the hakim is here. He wants to treat your wound.”
Thomas took a step forward. “Madame Rouston? I’m Dr. John Hopkins from Mogador. I’m told you were shot during the raid. With your permission, I would like to examine your wound.”
Aynur turned partway around. “I’ve been waiting for two days to bury Tamra next to my little daughters. As long as she lies here, waiting for her immortal soul to rise to God, I am not going to leave her side, Hakim.”
“The cemetery lies outside the walls,” Malika quietly explained. “And we’re afraid that the attackers are still out there.” She turned toward her mother. “I have good news, Imma. Qaid Samir has sent soldiers to protect us. We will bury Tamra first thing in the morning. So, please, allow the hakim to examine your wound.”
Aynur thought for a moment. Then she rose. “Very well then, Hakim. Examine me.”
She led Thomas and Malika to her bedchamber and sat down on the edge of the bed. When Thomas examined the wound, he discovered that she had, indeed, only been grazed. Using a pair of tweezers, he debrided the necrotic wound margins and crusted blood, washed the wound with lukewarm water, and dabbed it with a solution of silver salts. Then he took out a small linen sack containing dressing made of small, soft balls of cotton threads, which he placed on the wound and gently pressed down. “This dressing will cushion the injured arm and absorb pus and moisture. As soon as you feel any pain, please let me know, and I’ll give you some laudanum,” he said to Aynur while he bandaged the arm with a clean linen cloth.
“God helps me to tolerate my wounds,” she replied proudly.
Thomas could not help but admire her. In London, he had treated strong workers, seasoned men who toiled on the docks or operated dangerous machinery in factories, but none of them had tolerated pain with the same pride and determination as this small, delicate woman.
“I’ve got the water, soap, and towels ready for you,” Sibylla said from the doorway. In a matter of seconds, she had taken in the furniture, mirrors, and candlesticks, and finally the bed, covered with silk and brocaded pillows. Yet her face did not betray her feelings about being in the very room where the man she loved had spent countless hours with the other woman in his life.
She greeted Aynur calmly and politely. “Good evening, Madame Rouston. I do hope my son is taking good care of you.”
“He is an irreproachable hakim,” Aynur replied with like equanimity.
The two women scrutinized each other for a few seconds. Then Sibylla turned to go. “I wish you a restful night, madame.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Hakim, please, you must to help! My son, he very hurt!” The Ait Zelten man tugged on the young doctor’s sleeve. His Arabic was broken, his voice hoarse with worry.
Sabri looked up from the deep laceration on a woman’s calf that he had just sutured with catgut thread and adjusted his glasses. Night had long ago fallen on Qasr el Bahia and it had become noticeably chilly in the courtyard. But Sabri was as unaware of that as he was of his own exhaustion. He worked untiringly, even after Thomas had come outside to assist him. Emily did not leave Sabri’s side. She handed him the instruments he needed, fetched fresh water and clean towels, and acted as interpreter for the Ait Zelten.
Many people had sustained their injuries—luckily only minor—in their attempts to flee from the attackers. There were mainly contusions, bumps, cuts, and dislocated joints. People had stood for hours by the large fire Frédéric and Christian had lit in the center of the courtyard, warming themselves by the flames and patiently waiting until they could be seen by either the Arab or the foreign hakim.
“What kind of injury does your son have?” Sabri asked while he bandaged the woman’s leg, but the man only pointed to the tents and urged repeatedly, “Please come, Hakim! There!”
“Would you accompany me, Miss Emily, despite the late hour? I fear I’ll be needing your interpreting services.”
“Of course.”