Faber was mounted just ahead of them in the column, looking every inch the gentleman, having said little beyond “good morning” to Woodgerd and Wake.
Woodgerd rode up. “Hope you’re both ready, Wake, ’cause we’re moving out now. Do not fall behind.” With that he was off, spurring his horse toward the front of the column fifty feet forward of them. Wake took out his watch—Woodgerd was right on time.
“Yamshee!” rang out, repeated several times back along the line. Unbidden, the horses all began to walk, the slow clatter sounding thunderous as it echoed around the walls of the Kasbah. As they passed through the massive gate Wake saw several of the men glance up at a solitary window cut into a wall of the fortress. A deep voice from the window chanted above the noise of the horses.
“Hadh hasan . . . wa ’alaikum as-salaam wa’re hhmat ulaahi wa barakaatuh . . .”
Horsemen around them exchanged glances and began whispering, as Rork said, “Oh Lord, I didn’t like the sound o’ that, sir.”
Wake didn’t either. “It did sound pretty ominous, didn’t it? I wonder what it meant?”
Both were startled by a cultivated reply in the dark. “In English a rough translation is ‘Well done, and peace is upon you, as well as God’s mercy and His blessings.’ It is not ominous gentlemen—it is beneficent, and the guardsmen around you appreciate that His Majesty took the time to say it to them.”
Wake and Rork turned around in their saddles to look at the horseman who had ridden up behind them. He was a short nondescript man dressed in dark trousers and shirt, with a check-patterned cloth around his head. Riding a gray with an ease that showed he was at home on a horse, the man came closer. His beard and moustache were neatly trimmed, complementing a pleasant face. Unlike many people Wake had met in Morocco, the man looked him straight in the eyes.
“Lieutenant Peter Wake and Bosun Sean Rork, sir, of the United States Navy. Thank you for translating that, or I should say shukran, I believe. I hope I pronounced that correctly. Your English is perfect, by the way.”
The man trotted up to ride beside them. “How very quick you are to learn our language, Lieutenant. Yes, you said ‘thank you’ very well. Of course, I need no introduction to you two gentlemen, for everyone around here knows that America has sent two of her gallant sailors to assist in this sad, and somewhat dangerous, endeavor.”
He swept his hand with a flourish from his chest out in a circle, then toward Wake and Rork. In anyone else Wake would have thought it a silly gesture. With this man it came across as a normal adjunct to the conversation. He went on.
“However, I have been remiss in not introducing myself to you earlier and must sincerely apologize. Please do not think me crass. I am Mu’al-lim Sohkoor, the Royal Scholar of the Court of Hassan, Sultan of Morocco, Lion of the Atlas, Protector of the Faith, and Defender of the People of Islam.”
Another flourish, followed by a disarming smile. “As-salaamu aliakum. Sabaa al-khair. Peace be upon you and good morning.”
Wake glanced at Rork, bouncing along staring at their companion, dumbfounded. Wake felt pretty dumb himself. “Sir, it is an honor to meet you. I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage with your extensive knowledge of our two languages, for we only speak English and a little Spanish, and just a few words in French.”
Again the paternal smile. “It is one of the reasons I am along, Lieutenant. To translate and facilitate. These are my people and I understand them better than most.” Sohkoor shrugged. “Sometimes even the mightiest swordsman needs the songbird to beguile the wily foe he cannot come to grips with.”
“Now that sounds Irish,” offered Rork.
Sohkoor chuckled. “Ah yes, my new friend. The Gaels have many sayings that are worthy of all peoples, Mr. Rork. But that one is Berber. Perhaps they learned it from the Irish.”
“Aye, mayhaps they did, sir—we Irish do travel a bit.”
“I must go bid my respects to the French ambassador, gentlemen. His is a particularly sad journey,” Sohkoor eyed Wake, “which we must all do our best to assist. Ma’a s-salaama.”
He leaned over, whispering a word in his horse’s ear, then galloped forward to trot alongside Faber in front of them. Wake heard Sohkoor speaking in French without hesitation.
Rork nodded toward Sohkoor. “Watch that one, sir. He knows more than he lets on.”
Wake recalled Sohkoor’s face moments earlier when referring to Faber. Sohkoor wasn’t there just to assist, Wake decided. No, the man radiated confidence and command. He wasn’t just a scholar.
“I think we’d better watch them all, Rork. We’ve no friends here.”
***
The sun was blazing, chokingly hot in the dust of the road, less than an hour after it rose. In the light Wake was able to see the composition of the force. It was considerable—a reinforced company of mounted troops and a battery of horse artillery. But they weren’t dragging light cannon. Instead, they had two wicked-looking American Gatling guns.
After winding their way through the Jewish Quarter, or Mellah, they emerged from the congestion of the city and followed the south bank of the river. A mile further they joined the main coast road to cross the river at a ford to the Salè side, scouts reporting in to Woodgerd that the road was clear of bandits. More scouts came from the seacoast village of Casablanca, forty-five miles to the south, reporting no sign of trouble in that direction. The evident relief of the scouts made Wake wonder how much control the sultan exerted outside the walls of his palaces in the cities of Morocco.
In the afternoon the column turned easterly and began to climb the eucalyptus-scented hills that ranged parallel to the coast. Faber still rode alone twenty feet ahead
