Wake was glad for the cool shadows in the city and concentrated on not falling out of the saddle, for he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on. The wounds were leaking and each jolt opened them up further. They rode past the Jewish Mella and the crashing salute of guards into the ancient Kasbah of the city’s pasha, where non-Muslims were rarely permitted.
Abdel Aziz personally greeted them in the courtyard, snapping out commands to minions while grooms held the bridles. Some of the survivors fell off of their horses into the arms of servants. Wake was gently helped down to a chair, then carried inside on the shoulders of four men. Rork got the same treatment, managing a grin and “nicely done, lads,” as he was taken, by Sokhoor’s direction, to the same room.
Sokhoor then examined Wake in detail, nonchalantly explaining that he had studied medicine at the university in Damascus under the great Islamic physicians. After an hour of probing and palpating he announced the bullet had entered between the fourth and fifth rib, creased the right lung—by the grace of Allah it missed the heart and aorta—and exited between the third and fourth rib in the right posterior quadrant. There would be no surgery if there was no great inflammation, and Wake would definitely heal.
Wake’s eyesight and hearing returned and three days of rest and attention by Sokhoor, assisted by the pasha’s personal physician, enabled Wake to have the strength to stand. Every movement caused sharp pain as he walked the passageways in the Kasbah, determined to regain his mobility. During these days attendants bathed his wounds frequently, alert to signs of a dreaded mortal infection, but none appeared.
The following day he was greatly curious, for Sokhoor mentioned, as an aside during a conversation, that the vizier of Marrakech, cousin and covert supporter of Falah, had died abruptly of unusual causes. It seemed his heart had somehow “failed.” The mansion and grounds were immediately seized by the Pasha of Marrakech, looted of anything of value, and the twenty-four concubines, four wives, and dozens of children were expelled and told to head east into the desert. When asked for details, Sokhoor simply shrugged his shoulders and said it was God’s will and man’s mystery.
Messages arrived from Sultan Hassan that was he coming to make sure all was as well as possible, and at the end of the first week, the survivors were assembled in the main durhbar, or meeting hall, of Hassan’s personal palace in Marrakech. It was even more opulent than the palace at Rabat, the senses enchanted by lush fabrics, delicate perfumes, quaint stringed music, exquisite mosaics, and the most attentive servants Wake had ever seen. The former hostages were allowed the unheard-of honor of sitting down in audience before the great sultan, arranged in two rows of chairs.
Hassan, robed in golden silk, sat on a raised throne of cedar wood. Translated by a monotoned courtier, he was solicitous regarding the well-being of the missionaries, inquiring as to their comfort in detail. He apologized that this tragedy should have happened within his kingdom and the land of Islam. Then he edged forward, his tone softened as he looked into their eyes.
“I know that Mu’al-lim Sokhoor, my personal vizier, scholar, and emissary, has explained to each of you that the people who attacked you are not of our faith. You must know that we of Islam respect the People of the Book, Christians and Jews, as we respect ourselves. And that the teaching of our blessed Prophet, Mohammed, my direct ancestor and guiding spiritual mentor, expressly prohibits such actions as those which the devil’s animals had done to you, and others before you. The ShayTaan Taalib are not of any faith, but are followers of that monster of death, the Devil.”
Hassan straightened in the throne, his voice rising. “The remnants are being hunted down like the dogs they are, as I speak, and will be smitten,” a fist smashed down on the side table, “from the face of this earth.”
The missionaries sat there and listened vacantly but said nothing. They had seen too much, their friends and loved ones humiliated, tortured, and killed, and they themselves horribly maimed. Of the original twenty-one Christians who were captured, only fifteen had survived the ShayTaan Taalib.
Catherine cried quietly, and Henri Faber gripped his wife’s hand, stoically watching Hassan. Woodgerd, dressed in formal uniform, stood with his arms crossed behind his back near the sultan’s dais, staring impassively at the audience. Rork, next to Wake in the back row, watched intently but displayed no reaction.
Wake was mentally perusing the potential political repercussions of the missionary tragedy when he heard Hassan call out his name. Startled, he looked up and saw Henri Faber stand and approach the dais.
Rork touched his shoulder and whispered, “Come on, sir, they want us both up there, front an’ center.”
The three of them were joined by Woodgerd. Sokhoor appeared from behind the dais with a shadow box and held it for the sultan. Hassan looked each of them in the eye and boomed out an imposing phrase in Arabic, which was translated, “And now, by the authority granted me by the grace of Allah the Almighty and Merciful, Mohammed the Wise and Compassionate, and the Faithful of Islam, I present to each of these men the highest decoration of the Kingdom of Morocco,
