The sun had risen when Sohkoor led the way through the gate of Bab Bou Jeloud into the Medina of Fés el-Bali. Inside, jostled by the crowd in the narrow streets, they walked their horses for a few hundred yards, then left them at a stall, all the disguised troopers except one staying with them. Sohkoor, the trooper, a nervous corporal named Ahmed, and the others plunged into Medina, bound for the souk of the spice traders.
The sights and smells and sounds assailed Wake as they passed through souks of iron workers, dye makers, carpet weavers, dagger forgers, copper and silver smiths, silk and cotton spinners, pot makers, leather tanners, and gun makers. Not a modern convenience was in sight, everything being done as it had been for centuries.
Rork’s eyes were wide with wonder as he saw silk being woven with gold thread, leather being carved with razor sharp khanjars, red-hot wrought iron being bent by hammers, and six-foot-long rifles being fashioned into works of silver inlaid art. The heavy aroma of acrid smelting and sweet cooking fires was accented by whiffs of spices and incense. Throughout there was singing, from guttural working beats to religious chants to lilting melodies.
They passed a silk spinner, the thread stretching for twenty feet as he wove delicate strands of gold through it. “Incredible, sir,” said Rork. “Like going back in time, it is.”
“A thousand years back in time,” agreed Wake.
Cutting through the dyers’ souk, they followed Sohkoor around huge mud-walled vats of bright-colored dyes created from indigenous plants: indigo blue, mascara black, mint green, poppy red, henna orange, and the most expensive—guarded by armed men—saffron yellow. Inside the vats were men dyed the same color, pressing the dyes into cloths of agave and cotton and silk.
He watched a green-skinned man plod his way around the vat, eyes downcast with a hopeless look. Sohkoor explained that the same families had worked in these souks for generations upon generations. It was what they had always done in life, and what their descendants would always do in the future, which Wake found depressing.
After the dyers’ souk they walked fast down a main street, across a tiny plaza and joined a crowd squeezing into another alley. After making lefts and rights at unmarked passageways, Sohkoor led them down a final side passage only three feet wide—the thirty-foot-high walls towering above them, giving Wake the terrifying vision of what it must be like to be buried alive. Sohkoor glanced back, gestured for them to follow, then darted into an open doorway on the right and a vast open space lined with vendor stalls. This was the rear entrance to the spice market and Wake’s nostrils were immediately overwhelmed by flower perfumes from rose and jasmine, seed pressings from sandalwood and cedar and curry, and crushed mélange of amber and musk.
Sohkoor motioned for Woodgerd and Wake to enter a stall through a short door and for Faber, Rork, and the soldier to stay outside. Faber’s protest was lost to the crowd as Wake bent down and entered a dark room lit by lamps. Strange incense overpowered all his senses, making him feel light-headed, while haunting melodies echoed from a hidden flute player. The half-light gave off disquieting shadows and he struggled to keep his equilibrium while keeping up with Woodgerd and Sohkoor. They stopped at a larger room, dim like the rest, where a man dressed in ornate robes of red and purple stripes reclined on a pillowed couch. The man immediately rose and embraced Sohkoor, greeting him warmly.
Sohkoor pointed to pillows set against a wall for the two Americans, then sat with the host, smiling and making small talk in Berber as servants brought tea and round bread for everyone. The two were still conversing rapidly in their language when a servant brought a tray of spices out for Wake and Woodgerd to peruse, gesturing that they should sample them. The rose oil was beautifully delicate, the jasmine very strong. Then the servant started rubbing a cloth bag of anise seeds, suddenly thrusting the bag tight against Wake’s nose. He couldn’t believe the result—the heated seeds created a smell that blasted open his sinuses, intruded into his brain, and made his head fly backward.
The usually taciturn Woodgerd laughed. “They did that to me too when I first got here. It is supposed to help clear your mind, in addition, of course, to blowing your nose wide open. They think they just gave you a great gift—most people have to pay for that, Wake. Say thank you.”
Wake tried to focus on the grinning servant and gasped out, “Shukran,” to which he got the enthusiastic reply, “la shukran ’la wezhb!” repeatedly.
Sohkoor concluded his talk, standing and bowing to the other man, who was never introduced to the foreigners. Woodgerd and Wake followed suit and stood, a little unsteadily on Wake’s part, then followed the scholar out the way they had come. Sohkoor didn’t speak until they got close to the doorway, still in the gloom of the lamps.
“I do not want our French companion to hear this, but it is what I thought, Colonel. The Berbers of Tilaal Mumeet, three hours’ journey from here to the south, were approached by the renegades only two days ago and offered sale of the captives. They declined, knowing it to be a crime and, most importantly, hearing that the sultan was angry. We must go to them tonight. And, of course, we have another task tonight as well.”
“Yes, I
