Chapter 14
W ithin the hour, they had left Sefrou and were riding through lush, fertile plains on their way to Fes. As they rode past farms and small villages, the path became smoother and the riding easier. It was warmer than it had been in the mountains, and the scent of tilled earth and blooming orange trees filled the air. For a while, Melody was able to forget her sore muscles and the challenge ahead of them and try to enjoy the verdant scenery.
Omar and Fatima were riding together, and the other Berber men were clustered in front and behind them, clearly still anticipating possible trouble from nearby tribes. Melody had been riding alone when Rat pulled up beside her.
They trotted together in companionable silence for a while before Rat looked around to ensure that everyone else was preoccupied in conversation and far enough away, then said in a low voice, “Melody, what do you think is going on?”
Melody looked at her brother in surprise. He was seeking her opinion. He really must be feeling out of his depth.
She considered the question and the thoughts that had been buzzing around in her brain for the last few days. She answered carefully, “It has been interesting to learn that Berber tribes are so against French involvement in Moroccan affairs and were behind the Fes rebellion in April.”
Rat looked at Melody. Where was she going with this?
Melody continued, “That first day when we went with Alessandro to meet Omar, it seems that we were being watched when we entered the Medina, but how did that person know to find us there? The man’s subsequent appearance at the vice-consul’s home and death makes clear enough that his appearance in the Medina that day was no coincidence.”
“Is this about Fatima again?” Rat hissed in an even lower voice.
“Not just her. Presumably anyone in her household could have overheard our plans. And then, there is Omar himself.”
“Melody, really! Think what you’re suggesting,” Rat protested. “Omar has been nothing but gracious and helpful since the moment that Alessandro was arrested. Well, even before that, really. Why would either he or Fatima put themselves through this horrendous trek unnecessarily?”
While it was a question that had flitted through Melody’s brain on occasion, she now gave the answer she had landed on, “They would have no choice, would they? Anything other than a full-throated defence of Alessandro backed up by this kind of action would immediately cause suspicion to fall upon them.”
Rat conceded the point but pointed out, “You originally thought that we shouldn’t trust Fatima because she is half French, yet you are now saying that we can’t trust Omar because he is Berber, and they are against the French. Which is it?”
Melody shook her head. She didn’t know. All she did know was that they were surrounded by people who might all have their own reasons for stirring up a hornet’s nest in Morocco during those turbulent times.
“I do not know,” she admitted. “However, I think we need to assume that it could be anyone travelling with us or in Fatima’s household.” She then voiced something she had been chewing on for a few days, “It is possible that our murder victim was alerted to Alessandro’s attendance at the party and went there for the express purpose of attempting a second attack.”
“So, what do you believe happened? That Alessandro actually did kill him but in self-defence?”
“That is certainly one option,” Melody stated, trying to remember Mustafa’s exact words on the night of the murder. “From what Mustafa said, he went to fetch Alessandro and they both were returning to the gardens when another servant stopped the boy to ask him something. Alessandro continued to the gardens and when Mustafa joined him, Alessandro was bending over a body. We need to talk to the boy again and determine how long that delay was. There is a big difference between a few seconds and a few minutes.”
Rat still couldn’t get his head around what his sister was suggesting. “So, you think Alessandro is guilty of murder?”
“All I am saying is that it might be self-defence, which I assume is as valid in a Moroccan court as it is in a British one.” As she said this, Melody wondered whether it was true. She had a hazy enough understanding of British law, let alone Moroccan. Nevertheless, she was sure that if Alessandro had killed the mysterious man, it had been in self-defence and that had to count for something. Particularly given that the man had made a prior attempt on Alessandro’s life.
One thing that Melody was certain of was that she would assume that anyone in their caravan might be involved, directly or indirectly, with whatever Alessandro was caught up in. Well, anyone except Mustafa.
Though, should she be casting aside the boy as a suspect so quickly? It was awfully convenient that a young boy, who just happened to speak fluent English, had crossed Alessandro’s path multiple times, had saved him from an attack, and had been the person to call him into the vice-consul’s gardens. Was she being naive in crossing the boy off her list of suspects? As much as it pained Melody to consider that a young child might not be as innocent as he seemed, she realised that no one could be above suspicion, at least for now.
Omar had promised that if they kept up a good pace that day, rested for the minimum time needed, and left as soon as the sun rose the next day, they could reach Fes by the following evening. The thought of only spending one more night in a tent was motivation enough for everyone, and they passed the rest of that day moving at a good clip, helped by the flatter terrain.
Whatever novelty the trip had initially held for Melody had long faded. Now, even this new terrain had lost its appeal, and she barely moved her head to look at the changing landscape, increasingly frequent villages, and groups of children who would occasionally run alongside the caravan. Melody was used to the shepherds with their flocks, the nomadic tribes with their herds of camels, and the women gathered by streams washing clothes and gossiping. Any charm in it all had been lost days before.
Melody found the last night in the tent more bearable now that the end was in sight. Or, hopefully, was in sight. She had spent the ride that day thinking about how she might approach Fatima with her concerns. If Fatima’s loyalties were all Alessandro claimed, then wouldn’t she want to know if she had a treacherous servant in her household? And if Omar was the culprit, again, wouldn’t Fatima want to know?
Speaking with the woman did risk alerting Fatima to Melody’s suspicions, which wouldn’t be good if, in fact, she was the guilty party. Even so, there seemed no better alternative.
Because the day was Friday, their meal that evening had been couscous. Omar had explained that couscous was the traditional dish on the holy day of the week. Always happy to have a break from khlii, Melody enjoyed the meal more than usual. Given that they were planning to leave at sunrise, everyone bedded down for the night as soon as the meal was over rather than lingering around the fire as they sometimes did.
Melody and Fatima retired to their tent. As they removed their dusty clothes and prepared to wrap themselves in their blankets against the chill of the evening, Melody said as casually as she could, “Do you have any idea why Alessandro might have been targeted, Fatima?”
The two women’s conversation during the trek had been pleasant enough but relatively superficial for the most part. Now, Fatima looked over at Melody and asked, “What are you asking me?”
There it was, a direct question that demanded either an equally direct answer or a full retreat. Stealing herself for a difficult conversation, Melody said, “I assume that you are aware of Alessandro’s work for the British Government.”
For a moment, she worried that Fatima was not fully aware and that she had just given away Alessandro’s secret. However, to her relief, the other woman nodded and replied, “Yes, I am.”
Fatima didn’t explain why or how, and Melody decided that now wasn’t the time to press her for more of an explanation. Instead, Melody pointed out, “Then is it possible that someone in your household has overheard something, and that is why Alessandro was attacked.”
Melody wasn’t sure what she had expected Fatima’s response to be. Anger? Denial? Irritation? Instead, the woman seemed to be taking the question seriously. “You doubt the loyalty of my staff?” She asked in a concerned rather than defensive tone.
“Someone knew where to find us in the Medina when we went to see Omar. And then that same person turned up at the vice-consul’s party. Don’t you find that strange? Why would anyone want to harm Alessandro unless they realised the work he does as an operative?”
Fatima laughed, “Sandro is hardly an angel. The man owns many businesses and newspapers. It is possible that he has become a target for far less nefarious reasons than international intrigue.” While that was obviously true, something sat behind Fatima’s words that made Melody wonder just how much the woman herself believed them.
As her eyelids started to feel heavy, Melody’s last thoughts were that she needed to talk to Rat about what he knew of the mission that he and Alessandro had intended to complete in Morocco. The trek to Fes had not been the time or place for such a discussion, but as soon as they had some privacy, she would press her brother to reveal all that he knew. If someone was aware of Alessandro’s work for the Secret Service Bureau and that was why he was targeted, then it made sense that the attempted attack on him was aimed at preventing him from completing his mission.
Melody’s eyes were closed, and she was starting to drift off into sleep as she had this thought. But no sooner had it flickered in her consciousness than her eyes were wide open, and she sat up. If Alessandro’s mission had been compromised in some way, then so had Rat’s! Was her brother in danger? Now, she was even more determined to talk to Rat and discover what he and Alessandro had been tasked with achieving in Morocco.
After her epiphany, Melody took some time to fall back to sleep. She was in the middle of a lovely dream when Fatima abruptly woke her up with aggressive shaking.
“Heavens, Melody. I’ve been calling to you and trying to wake you more gently for some time,” Fatima complained. “The men are getting the horses ready. We need to be ready to go as soon as possible.” The woman held out one of the round breads that the men cooked on the coals for every meal and a glass of mint tea. “Eat and drink as quickly as you can. I am packed and ready to go. I’ll wait for you outside.”
Melody took a bite of the still-warm bread and a sip of the tea. Then another. She didn’t have much to pack and dressed quickly before finishing what remained of her breakfast. By the time she left her tent, it was evident that she was holding everyone up. Two of the men quickly took down the tent and packed it up as Melody apologised and made her way to her horse.
They broke for a brief, hurried midday meal, and then, instead of resting under palm trees as they usually did, everyone remounted their horses for a gruelling ride in the afternoon sun. Now that they were no longer in the mountains, there was no respite from the heat. Melody felt sorry for the horses, who were clearly as miserable as their riders.
Finally, just as Melody thought that the day’s ride might never end, one of the men at the front of the caravan called out something.
Omar was riding in front of Melody and Rat and turned to tell them, “The men can see Fes up ahead. It should not be much more than another hour.”
As relieved as Melody was to hear that, it felt like the longest hour of her life. The sun was starting to set when suddenly she caught sight of the city in the distance. Melody could see Fes’s minarets and rooftops rising out of the farmlands to great the waning sun.
Over the previous hour or so, the road had become busier, with traders riding or leading donkeys and mules laden with goods, villagers carrying sacks of grain, and camel caravans adding to the congestion. As their caravan mixed in with the other traffic, the air buzzed with the hum of voices in Arabic, Berber, and even Spanish and French. The voices mixed with the call to prayer.
As they heard the prayer call end, their caravan came to a halt. The men dismounted, pulled out their prayer rugs, and bowed towards Mecca in the east. Melody had watched this ritual many times. At that time of evening, the men were usually done in a little over five minutes, and this was no exception. In no time, they had remounted, and the group was again on their way.
Even in the dusk, Fes was clearly visible, lit by lanterns all along its fortified walls. Suddenly, Melody was fully alert and fascinated by the city appearing before them. The massive, ochre-coloured walls encircling Fes were dotted with watchtowers. A massive gate, made of heavy wood reinforced with iron and framed by intricate geometric patterns and Arabic inscriptions, was open and seemed to be serving as a bustling checkpoint. Merchants and travellers were coming and going, sometimes being stopped for inspection and questioning.
Omar turned again, “This is Bab Ftouh, one of Fes’s most prominent gates. We should expect to be questioned. Lalla Fatima will speak for our group.”
Considering Omar’s words, Melody assumed that this was because of Fatima’s status and connection to the Sultan. As they pulled up to the gate, the crowds parted for the obviously illustrious visitors, and Fatima moved to the front of the group. A stern-looking guard approached her horse, and they spoke for no more than a minute before he waved them on.