Wake wasn’t impressed. “Yes, well I’m not Muslim, Sohkoor. I’m a Protestant Christian, a Methodist, and I’d like something a little more solid.”
“True, but you and I, and everyone of us here on Earth, share the strongest bond—for we are all the sons of Ibramin, or Abraham as you pronounce it. We must all share peace and work together.”
Sohkoor held up a hand. “You should know that the faith of Islam has Judaism and Christianity as its foundation, and is considered to be a refinement of the respected teachings of Moses and Jesus, whom we revere as blessed prophets. And it was your very own Augustine, the saint, who said that true faith is believing what you do not see—the reward is to see what you believe. Something you Christians have done for almost two thousand years.”
“Yes, well, I guess you’ve got me there, Sohkoor,” Wake said, admitting inwardly that the man had an infectious way about him. “When you start quoting the saints I give up.”
***
Meknes, the great former imperial capital of the Berbers, was to their south, but their route went east and then southerly into the mountains around a small town. Wake noticed the Arab soldiers kept glancing at it in the distance and murmuring reverently. He finally asked Sohkoor, “What is in that town? The troops keep watching it. Is there danger there?”
“That is Moulay-Idriss, named after the man who built it. He came to us from Mecca, taught us the peace of Islam and united us as one people. Our sultan, the great Hassan, is a direct descendant of Moulay-Idriss, who himself was the great-grandson of the Prophet Mohammed. It is a very holy place, respected beyond others and reserved for only the truest of believers—Muslims only, as your Vatican’s sanctum sanctorum is for your believers. Non-Muslims cannot go through there, which is why we are taking this detour.”
“Yes, but we’re all wrapped up in these jallabas and burnouses—nobody will really know and this is taking us out of our way to Meknes.”
“Ah, but we will know, Peter. So we go around.”
Wake glanced at Faber, riding behind him. “Well, don’t tell our French friend there or he will throw a French fit.”
After passing Moulay-Idriss, the trek continued along a ridge for hours, the main road visible in the valley a hundred feet below. Finally Meknes appeared and they descended closer to the city in midafternoon.
Sohkoor took the lead through a steep, narrow valley outside the walls of the city and through the congestion of a souk, the market a mass of energy and noise. At the Bab Al-Mansour, a massive ceremonial gate exquisitely decorated in mosaics and carved cedar wood, they came up to a formation of mounted men in tan cavalry uniforms, each one menacing with huge scimitars and lances. To the shout of their leader, the formation pranced their horses back and forth on a parade ground, charging and yelling in unison, the mock combat a terrifying medieval sight.
Wake thought Woodgerd would stop to receive professional courtesy and assistance. But instead he and Sohkoor nodded to each other and kept going around the city walls, the rest of them trailing along. At Bab Merima, near the Jewish Mella with its exterior windows and balconies that the Muslim dwellings didn’t have, they entered the maze of curving alleys in the Arab Medina of Meknes. Wake was instantly lost. The dark alleys were like canyons, the main streets about ten feet wide and the side streets maybe six. The din and stench assaulted Wake’s senses.
A thousand feet into the Medina, Sohkoor stopped at a small paneled door set into a large double door in the forty-foot-high mud wall of an alley. No sign or description was on the wall of the seven-foot-wide alley, jammed with people and beasts of burden, and Wake couldn’t see how Sohkoor had known where to stop—they had already passed at least a dozen similar doors. Sohkoor motioned Wake and Rork to dismount and come over, where he showed them a small carving on the door. “The hand of Fatima, revered daughter of The Prophet, placed here to ward off the Evil Eye of the Devil himself, just as you, the People of the Book, believe also. The Devil is very real, Peter.”
In Arabic he snapped out something to the guardsmen and stepped inside the little doorway, beckoning the others to follow. Inside, Wake was shocked to see a large dirt-floored courtyard, roofed with straw matting and surrounded by three stories of balconied buildings.
“A caravanserai, where the caravans put their beasts and cargo for the night,” explained Sohkoor. “The maalik, the owner, of a caravanserai, sees and hears many things from many people. Especially in Meknes, for caravans from Marakesh to the south, and across the High Atlas to the east, come through here.”
Stalls for horses and camels rimmed the sides of the ground floor. An outside stair led to the second level, where two men stood on the balcony, staring at the newcomers. They didn’t appear friendly, but Sohkoor and Woodgerd ascended the steps with no words or hesitation, leaving the others waiting below.
Faber was still in a foul mood, fuming at what he described as childish delays and subterfuges. Rork, as usual, stood quietly behind and to the right of Wake, who was astounded by this country scene deep within a filthy sprawling ancient city. It reminded him of some biblical story from his youth.
A heated discussion took place on the balcony, ending when Woodgerd violently pushed the larger man’s shoulder. Woodgerd’s oath was unintelligible to Wake, but the look on the other’s face was unmistakable. The man went from arrogant to terrified.
“Be ready to get under way, Rork. Trouble’s coming, dead ahead.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I’ll keep the door open.” Rork stood in the doorway, watching the
