6 Wave after wave of French military boats crossed the Mediterranean Sea. There were cruisers and ironclad battleships, as well as the new dreadnoughts—a faster and sleeker class of battleship. In addition, the French had various troop transport ships and support ships to provide reinforcements to the larger war ships. French officers stood on each ship’s deck smoking cigarettes, the collars of their black pea coats pulled up high around their faces. They watched the horizon with the intensity of an osprey hunting for a tasty bit of mackerel.
All night the ships thundered across the water, looking like a fat flock of metal geese as far as the eye could see. Smoke billowed from their stacks and French flags proudly flew in the wind.
By daybreak, the majority of one group of ships had reached Tangier and began bombarding the city. Shells fell on buildings and soon massive fires broke out across the entire city.
Shortly afterward, the troop transport ships arrived, and French marines attacked the city, battling street by street. The Sultan’s troops met them with resistance, but they were no match for the superior French army. The battle soon raged through city squares and business districts. Urban guerrilla fighting broke out, with the Moroccan troops firing from the shadows of apartment building windows. All around Tangier, chaos developed as the city’s inhabitants ran to put out flames that threatened to engulf their city, all the while dodging bombs and bullets from the French.
Within the day, the French had taken Tangier, with the exception of the Sultan’s palace.
The second fleet landed at Casablanca the following day, and it took just four hours to capture that coastal city.
The French generals had their orders. Some of the troops from Tangier would march down and capture Marrakesh, since Casablanca was already secure.
Soon, the French would capture all of Morocco’s major cities.
Caid Ali Tamzali monitored these developments with great glee and anticipation. He knew the French had plans to attack this week, and the resistance had turned out to be even less than they had anticipated. His troops had already secured the surrounding areas of his kasbah and had subdued the nearby tribes.
There would be no further resistance from any of the tribes.
All the Caid had to do now was to wait for the French to capture the Sultan. Then he would be named the new Sultan of Morocco and allowed to rule with an iron fist.
Tariq and Melbourne Jack stood on the outskirts of Chaouen. The journey had been relatively easy and the donkey had proven to be an excellent purchase. Tariq’s feet were nearly healed, and his new shoes fit wonderfully over his bandaged skin.
Jack was nervous.
They had so far managed to avoid bandits; now they were returning to a city where the Caid’s troops would be hunting for Tariq. It would be very dangerous, and Jack wasn’t sure exactly how Tariq might make it through town unnoticed. This problem had been bothering him since the previous day, when he had suddenly come up with this plan.
“Tariq, I’ve got an idea about how we can hide you from the troops, but you’ve got to trust me, okay?”
Tariq nodded, as this issue had been bothering him as well.
They walked the final mile or so to the edge of the city. Before they entered, Jack stopped and told Tariq to hide out with the donkey until his return.
It was half an hour before Jack returned with something in his hand.
“What’s that?” Tariq asked.
“It’s a burqa,” he announced before unveiling a large black robe with a matching headdress and veil.
“A burqa! But that’s for girls!” Tariq protested.
“It doesn’t matter who it’s for—it will keep you protected from view and your identity secret.”
Tariq took a look at the burqa. It was so long that it would cover every inch of skin on his body. The veil completely covered his head and face. Trying it on, he realized it was way too long. Cloth hung from his arms and dragged on the ground.
“Are you kidding me, Jack? I can’t wear this thing,” he continued to protest.
Jack began making some adjustments at Tariq’s feet and, producing a needle and thread, he quickly stitched up the fabric so it wouldn’t drag on the ground so much. Satisfied, he pulled up the veil to see Tariq’s face and proceeded to put black kohl around his eyes.
“Jack! Are you serious?” Tariq whined.
“If anyone takes a close look, we’ve got to have you looking like a girl. Nobody will be so bold as to pull up your veil, but they might take a closer look through it.”
Tariq sat in his burqa, completely covered from head to toe and feeling very silly.
“Tariq, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve got to wear one as well,” Jack told him.
“What?”
“It wouldn’t look proper to have a western man walking around with a Moroccan girl dressed in a burqa, now would it? We’ll pretend we’re mother and daughter out strolling through the city.”
Tariq started laughing at the thought of Jack wearing a burqa.
“I thought you might like that,” Jack answered and began putting on his own robe.
“The donkey and our provisions should be safe. It’s my hope that we can find your friends in short order. If anyone suspects us and calls the guards, we’ve got to be ready to make a quick exit and get out of town—understood?” Jack said in a stern voice.
“Yes,” Tariq answered, suddenly remembering they were in a great deal of danger.
“Okay then—let’s go find your friends.”
Jack and Tariq walked the city streets of Chaouen completely shrouded by their burqas. They tried their best to walk in a feminine manner, which was made easier by the fact the burqas didn’t allow for much room to walk. Tariq’s head was hot, and it was very itchy. He had no idea how girls did this every single day of their lives! It would be completely miserable to have to walk in public all the time completely covered. Only a small number of Moroccan women wore burqas, but he still felt empathy for the women who did. Although the fabric was lightweight, it was still a burden to grab or hold anything. He felt his own breath against the veil and decided he really, really needed to brush his teeth. His breath smelled awful, which only made the experience that much more miserable. Attempting to see was also a difficult challenge. He felt as if he lived permanently behind a window drawn with cotton shades. He could only see that which was right in front of him; things at a distance were almost impossible to make out.
For two hours they walked the city streets, and nobody paid them any amount of attention. They hadn’t found any sign of Fez or Aseem, and both of them were now sweating profusely through their burqas. A couple of times, they had to stop in an alley and ensure nobody was watching before they took off their veils just to cool down their heads. Jack was even sweatier than Tariq, and his face had flushed a deep red.
They were stopped at a village market to get a better vantage point of the square. Tariq’s feet were still bothering him a bit so Jack decided to allow him to rest at the market while he scouted around by himself. Tariq, trying to be inconspicuous, stood just outside the market next to a brick wall.
Suddenly, a feminine voice spoke to Tariq as he was looking around the square. It was a soft voice, melodic, and very sweet.
“You’re not a girl, are you?” she asked.
Tariq didn’t know what to say. If he answered in his normal voice, undoubtedly she would know he was pretending. If he tried to imitate a girl, it’s possible he would come off as a complete idiot.
So he just stood there ignoring her.
“It’s okay, I promise I won’t tell on you. It’s just that your feet are those of a boy.”
Tariq looked down and it was true—his shoes were poking out from under the burqa and they were undoubtedly boy’s shoes as they were leather and dirty. There hadn’t been time to find him proper shoes for a girl—besides, how many people actually look at a girl’s feet?
Tariq squinted through his burqa to catch a glimpse of the face of his new coconspirator, and he was shocked by what he saw.
The girl was also dressed in a black burqa from head to toe. Only her eyes peeked out from a cutout in her veil. They were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen in his life: green and mesmerizing and completely exotic. Black kohl outlined her eyes, which made them look even more intoxicating.
“Thank you,” was all he managed to say, and the girl giggled with delight.
“You’re the first boy I’ve talked with in over two years who wasn’t my uncle. I used to have loads of friends who were boys. But since I’ve reached marrying age, I’m not allowed to talk to any of them.”
Tariq didn’t know what to say to this. This girl had absolutely no idea what he looked like or who he was, and now she was spilling all her secrets to him.
“I’m on a secret mission,” he replied, trying to sound important.
“A secret mission?” she repeated, her tone rising with excitement.
“Umm…yes.”
“What kind of secret mission?” she asked.
“Well, if I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret mission, would it?”
She punched Tariq in the arm after that reply, and he yelped in surprise. A couple of people in the market looked at the two of them but then went about their business.
“Tell me about your mission or I’m going to start yelling and you’ll be exposed for sure,” she scolded.
“I can’t.”
“Okay, I’m going to count to three. If you don’t tell me, then I’m going to start yelling.”
Tariq couldn’t believe what was happening. Who was this girl and why was she talking to him?
“One.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say that might appease her.
“Two.”
She was about to count three when he finally gave in.
“Okay, okay—but we’ve got to go somewhere more secluded before I can tell you.”
“Why not here?” she asked.
“Because I’m terribly hot, and I’m about to suffocate in this thing. I don’t know how you girls can wear this thing all day.”
“You get used to it. Okay, follow me—but you better tell me about your secret mission!”
“I will, I will,” Tariq promised.
Tariq followed the girl down a small alley. Once they were safe from being spied on by others, he lifted up his veil and let out a deep breath. His face was so hot, and it was a relief to feel the cool air against his skin. Tariq paused after taking a couple of breaths, expecting this new girl to lift her veil as well. She simply stood there staring at him.
“Aren’t you going to take off your veil?”
“No,” she answered tersely with a puzzled look, as if she were trying to place him from somewhere.
“I know you,” she told him.
“No you don’t, I’m not from Chaouen,” he answered.
“I don’t know you, but I know of you. You’re the boy who is wanted by the Caid, aren’t you?” she asked him.
Tariq almost fainted. He knew he was wanted in Chaouen, but he had no idea just how aggressively the Caid was hunting him. He suddenly felt sick—as if he might vomit and pass out all at the same moment.
“Don’t worry,” she said, trying to reassure him, “your identity is safe with me.”
“How did you know?” he asked, not even wanting to go through the effort of protesting.
“Wanted posters are up everywhere with pictures of you and your friends. Also, my uncle is in the police force. A reward has been offered to anyone who captures you.”
Tariq was sure he was going to pass out upon hearing this news.
Just then there was a moment of silence. The girl paused, wondering if she should tell Tariq something.
“I hate my uncle. He is brutal and a very corrupt policeman. My father and mother were killed in a fire and I was forced to live with him. My father was a very kind man, but his brother is evil. He is already trying to find the highest price for my hand so he can marry me off.”
Tariq could hear the hurt and sorrow in her voice. He suddenly felt such empathy for this girl.
“Is this really why you were forced to wear a burqa? It wasn’t that you reached marrying age, it was that your father died and your uncle made you wear one.”
Tariq could see the sadness in her eyes as she nodded that this was the truth.
“If you help me, then perhaps I can help you,” he said, without even thinking of why he was saying it. In fact, the entire conversation had left him dizzy. He felt a kind of magnetic pull to this girl, as if she could get him to say and do anything she wanted.
“How could you help me?”
“I’m not sure, but I know I can.”
“How can I help you?” the girl asked.
“I’m looking for two friends of mine, and it’s very important that I find them. One is as tall as me—with dark skin and short hair. The other is short with round glasses. They would probably be together.”
The girl nodded her head.
“If it’s the boys on the poster, I know where they are,” she answered.
“What? How?” Tariq answered, exhilarated by her answer.
Just then, they both heard a woman’s voice call out.
“Azmiya? Azmiya?”
She quickly turned, obviously worried that someone would find her talking with a strange girl. It was uncommon that she ever had a moment of privacy when she was outside her uncle’s home. Most times, the head servant wouldn’t let her get away from her side. However, today she had been haggling with a garment merchant, which allowed Azmiya time to step away.
“Azmiya? That is your name?’ Tariq asked.
“Yes! Go to the blue fountain with koi and you will find your friends,” she answered before hurrying away.
“How will I find you?” he asked, but she was already running down the alley.
Just like that, she was gone. Tariq just stood there with a stupid look on his face, a bit stunned by what had just happened. Putting his veil back on, he went to the market to look for Melbourne Jack. He suddenly realized he had a predicament on his hands. How could he possibly find Jack when many women were wearing burqas? They all looked alike to him. He couldn’t just walk up to some woman and call out Jack’s name. He’d be found out for sure.
For fifteen minutes he stood by himself and he began feel very nervous. It wasn’t normal for a Moroccan girl to be by herself for such a long time, and people were starting to stare at him. But something else also held his attention. He couldn’t stop thinking of Azmiya. They’d only talked for a minute or two, but still he found himself going over every moment of their conversation.
A shopkeeper kept eyeing him suspiciously. After a few more moments, he came directly up to Tariq and began to pester him.
“Are you lost? Where is your mother?” he asked, to no response from Tariq.
“It’s not proper for a girl to be standing by herself. You will come and wait with my wife until we can find out what to do with you,” the man said. Still Tariq said nothing.
That’s when the man looked down and saw Tariq’s shoes peeking out from under the burqa. Tariq tried to shuffle them back under the robe, but the damage was already done.
The man reached up and snatched the veil off of Tariq’s head, completely exposing his face.
“What in the name of—” the man stammered when, inexplicably, a fist came out of nowhere and punched the man square in the face. The man went flying across a table, his legs tumbling over his torso as he landed with a somersault.
“Come on!” Jack yelled, grabbing Tariq by the hand and pulling him along.
“Wait!” Tariq said, yanking his veil from the man’s fist before running after Jack. He put the veil on as best he could while running at a full sprint.
“Wait, stop them!” He heard a woman’s voice call out from behind them and soon everyone in the square stopped to watch as the two robed figures broke through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea.
“This way!” Jack yelled, and they turned right and ran out of the square at a full sprint. Tariq looked behind him, and to his surprise, saw there were two guards chasing after them.
“We’re being followed!” Tariq yelled. Jack turned around and shook his head. Although they had both hiked their robes up to their thighs so they could run at all, they were no match for the two guards running at them at full speed. He knew they would be caught in moments.
Without warning, Jack stopped, whirled around Tariq, and in one motion, his robe exploded in a cloud of fabric, twisting around him like a cyclone devouring a tree. Out of this whirlwind, two wooden boomerangs flew out at full speed, crisscrossed in midair, and struck the guards directly in their heads. Both were knocked backwards with such force that their legs lifted completely off the ground and their bodies landed in the dirt with a loud thump. Jack ran to them, made sure they were unconscious, and gathered his boomerangs.
“Let’s go! They’ll have friends!” Jack yelled and they walked briskly away, their disguises back intact, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the unconscious guards as possible.
“We have to find the blue pool with koi,” Tariq told him.
“What?” Jack asked.
“A girl told me.”
Jack stopped in mid stride. Although he couldn’t see Tariq through his veil, he tried to picture his face.
“What girl? What are you talking about?”
“A girl told me that’s where we could find Fez and Aseem. That’s all I know.”
“I leave you alone for two minutes, and you talk to some girl and find out where your friends are?” Jack said and then laughed with appreciation. Life was never boring with Tariq around.
“Okay then, let’s find this blue pool after we secure the donkey,” he said and the two of them walked off in search of the mystical pond with the Japanese fish.
The Black Mamba stood staring over the marsh as fog rolled in and enveloped the tall grass a gray mist. The ground was soft and muddy and his boots were sucked in with each step. The marsh stunk of the entrails of many animals that had met their death in the mud.
Across the marsh, the Mamba could see numerous campfires flickering in the night. He could hear the voices of men and the occasional beating of drums. Flanking him on each side were two lines of fifty fighters each, all of whom he knew to be capable in battle. Directly to his left stood Jawad, dressed in black with his sword in his hand. Behind him were five more rows of soldiers and the French Legionnaires.
Silently the group made their way across the marsh, crouching low in the night, each man trying not to make a sound.
The closer they crept in the darkness, the campfires grew bigger and bigger and the men’s voices grew louder. The Mamba’s eyes narrowed and he looked every bit the predator poised to pounce on its unsuspecting prey.
Two days ago, the Mamba received word from one of his spies that a small resistance force was gathering to fight the French. Mostly, these were farmers and peasants who were ill-prepared to fight an organized army. They were a motley crew from many small villages that dotted the countryside. The Caid was had been taxing them to starvation and as a result, most simply felt they had nothing to lose and chose to fight. Despite these weaknesses, they still remained a threat and needed to be dealt with swiftly and unmercifully.
The Mamba welcomed this fight; it had been too long since he had tasted the sweetness of battle.
The soldiers drew near, until finally they were within fifty feet of the group. There were maybe two hundred of them—a ragtag bunch, by the looks of them—and they hadn’t had the good sense to post a sentry as a lookout. Undoubtedly, they were scared and unorganized, more accustomed to feeding goats than waging war.
Reaching down, he grabbed a fistful of mud and rubbed it between his hands. He took one final breath, allowing the foul stench to fill his nostrils, then bellowed to his troops in his most threatening voice.
“Attack!” he screamed.
He and his men fell into a full sprint as the group of rebels stared wide-eyed at the marsh, suddenly spotting hundreds of soldiers charging on them, ready to attack. Most of the rebels scattered. Some fell down, clawing for a weapon, and a few tried to fight, but most simply began running as fast they could in the opposite direction.
The ones who stayed to fight were cut down within seconds. Others, who were asleep, jumped up from their blankets only to be trampled and slashed to their deaths with sharp and swift blades.
The Mamba and his soldiers followed the others into the night, killing anyone they found. Only a few slipped from their fingers into the safety of the adjoining hills.
Surveying the remains of the camp, the Mamba stepped over any corpses in his path. Wiping blood from his sword, he picked up a piece of rabbit still roasting on a stick and took a bite of the juicy meat. It was a little overdone, but delicious—not too gamey. The juices dribbled down his chin as he continued to take one huge bite after another.
Battle always made him hungry.
Jawad walked up next to him. Blood was splattered on his shirt, and his pants and boots were muddy and filthy from the bog.
The Mamba smiled at him.
“I see you managed to get one,” he said, thoroughly happy with his apprentice.
“Three,” Jawad said proudly.
“Excellent! Well, they weren’t much competition, but they do make a tasty rabbit,” he mentioned and allowed Jawad to tear off a hunk of meat from the stick.
“What should we do with the bodies?” Jawad asked.
The Mamba eyed the corpses and continued to eat.
“The buzzards must eat, as must the hyenas,” he said with a shrug before continuing to eat his rabbit.
Jawad took a bite of the rabbit, and it was very hot to his tongue. He didn’t want to appear weak to the Mamba, so he carefully chewed the flesh and tried to blow on it without making it obvious.
“I have word of your friend Tariq,” the Mamba said.
Jawad was astonished at this news.
“Where?”
“In Chaouen. Apparently a boy who matched his description broke into the local garrison and caused a commotion. Some guards captured him in the mountains, but he managed to escape,” the Mamba explained, his expression so intense that he seemed to be in a trance.
Jawad was excited by this news. He understood that to kill Tariq would put him on a pedestal with his master.
“We will leave for Chaouen tomorrow. Perhaps we can learn some news that will lead us to him.”
Jawad was even more excited about this bit of information.
“I cannot wait to find him,” he said.
The Mamba stared at him and a smile formed on his face.
“Good! We must track down any rebel filth that dares to defy the Caid. Tariq is gaining quite a reputation and killing him would be a powerful and symbolic blow to any who oppose us.”
The Mamba and his soldiers slept on the battleground that night. By morning, buzzards had begun devouring the many carcasses left behind to rot. The giant birds hovered over the bodies—sometimes fifteen at a time—and picked apart the fleshy parts. The bodies had already started to decompose, and the smell was nauseating.
Jawad was glad when they were finally back on the road, away from the carnage of battle.
Zijuan was crouched in the darkness, waiting for her pursuers, when she saw the first few come up over the ridge. Even in the moonlight, she could see they were dressed completely in blue—the Tuareg! But what were they doing in the mountains? Relieved, she watched as they walked along the trail.
That’s when she saw them—Malik and Sanaa!
“Sanaa!” she shouted, jumping out from the shadows and completely frightening everyone in the group.
“Zijuan?” Sanaa replied and ran to her mentor. Both women hugged one another tightly.
“I thought you were dead,” Zijuan whispered in her ear.
“I thought I was as well.”
“The Mamba?” Zijuan asked.
“Yes,” Sanaa answered in a weak voice.
Zijuan released her grip and saw that Sanaa was crying. Zijuan could not remember a time in her life that she had ever seen Sanaa cry. Perhaps when Sanaa had been a young child, but certainly not in many years.
Whatever happened on the trail put a look of fear in Sanaa’s eyes that Zijuan had never seen before.
Zijuan finally looked at Malik, noticing the bandages around his eyes and the walking stick he held in his right hand.
“Malik,” she said and went to him.
Malik smiled and held out his arms to embrace Zijuan.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“The Mamba blinded me,” he answered, in a voice so sad that it nearly made Zijuan weep on the spot.
“What?”
“He stitched our eyes open so the sun would blind us. Sanaa was lucky, but I was the unfortunate one.”
Zijuan looked at Sanaa and saw the stitch marks in her eyes. They were mostly healed, but were still visible if one looked closely.
“There is one more thing to tell you,” he added.
“What is that?”
“Sanaa and I are married,” he explained and a wide smile broke out on his face.
“It’s about time,” Zijuan answered and hugged him again.
“What are you doing on this trail?” Sanaa asked.
“Looking for a new place for the tribe. I found a place just around the bend.”
Malik smiled at this.
“Great minds think alike. I know the exact spot you are referring to, and that is where I was headed with the Tuareg. No doubt the tribe is scattered and hiding in desolation,” Malik replied.
“Yes, they are in bad sorts,” she agreed.
“And what about Tariq, how is he?” Malik asked.
Zijuan lowered her head and did not answer.
“What is wrong, Zijuan?”
“I did not find Tariq. His friends returned to the camp for a short while before returning to Chaouen,” she replied solemnly.
“He wasn’t with them?” he asked.
“No, they came alone.”
Malik allowed himself to ponder the consequences of this news.
“That can only mean he is dead or has been captured,” he said, his voice falling to a whisper, as if this news knocked the wind from him.
Zijuan placed her hand on his shoulder for reassurance. She understood the news about Tariq would hit him almost as hard as it had her.
“Come, let us set up camp and you can introduce me to your new friends,” Zijuan said, turning to meet some of the Tuareg who had gathered close. Their indigo veils and robes were majestic, as were their friendly smiles and mesmerizing dark eyes. Zijuan had only met the Tuareg once—a long, long time ago—and came away impressed by their fighting spirit and their generosity.
“I am Moussa Ag Arshaman,” a fair-skinned man said, as he approached and bowed to Zijuan.
She returned his bow and continued to study him. Moussa Ag Arshaman was renowned throughout Africa as a genius on the battlefield and as a fearless warrior.
“I have heard of you,” Zijuan said with a measure of respect.
“And I have heard of you, Zijuan,” he said with conviction, as if to show he respected her all the more because she was a woman, not in spite of it.
“Let’s set up camp; we have much to discuss,” Sanaa said, and soon the clearing was alive with activity as the Tuareg soldiers established a makeshift camp and began preparing the night’s dinner.
Marrakesh fell soon after Tangier and Casablanca. The French quickly seized control of most of the major cities in Morocco. French troops marched from street to street rounding up any suspected resistance soldiers and placing them in makeshift concentration camps.
Only one stronghold was left.
Moroccan troops had garrisoned in the Sultan’s palace as a last resort. They stood twenty or thirty deep in areas—ready to fight to the death for their leader.
The French, now fully organized, realized they had to capture the Sultan’s palace to truly cripple the Moroccan forces.
The battalions gathered just outside the Tangier city limits as generals organized their troops and companies. Soldiers were each given a fresh supply of bullets and ordered to sharpen their bayonet blades until they were sharp enough to easily cut through a tough piece of meat. The men were replenished and now stood ready for a fight.
The French set up their artillery positions to shell the Sultan’s palace at daybreak, just before twenty thousand French troops arrived to attack in a coordinated strike of biblical proportions. Attacking in waves, the French planned to engage the Moroccan troops in fierce hand-to-hand combat until the Sultan’s palace had been overtaken and the French flag—the drapeau tricolore—flew overhead.
The Sultan, a young man of twenty, paced in his chambers and frantically tried to think of an escape. He, by birthright, had inherited the position of Sultan, the supreme ruler of Morocco. This title had been handed down for generations, going back hundreds and hundreds of years.
He had been given the title of Sultan when he was just sixteen.
Of course, he was completely ill-prepared for such a responsibility and mostly allowed his many advisors to run the country. He was, for all intents and purposes, little more than a figurehead. Still, to the Moroccan people, he was a historical symbol of their strength and courage. If he died, many Moroccans would see it as the symbolic death of their country.
Dressed in the finest silk, with an ivory bracelet on both wrists and eight heavy gold chains hanging from his neck, the Sultan considered his options over and over in his head.
He didn’t have any.
The French had no intention of cutting a deal with him. They wanted to install their own ruler. It would be, to them, a moral victory to take out the Sultan.
In truth, he wasn’t a very good leader; he was more interested in the many spoils and luxuries his position afforded him. He squandered millions on fine clothes and jewelry and the latest western fashions. While his country starved, the Sultan engaged in four-month-long tours of Europe and entertained anyone with a royal title.
He wasn’t a tyrant, that much was true, and he didn’t rob the treasury as completely as many of his ancestors had done. Yet, he didn’t make any improvements either. He was as plain-vanilla a ruler as anyone could be. He simply wanted to be left alone with his toys.
All that was about to change. He had been given word that French forces were organizing outside the city gates and would attack his position at dawn.
Images of Marie Antoinette flowed through his head. Would they behead him as well, and parade his severed head around town in a kind of sick ritual?
At that moment, he wanted to be anyone other than the Sultan of Morocco.
