The Punishment of a Vixen Read online

  “You are all right?”

  It was the first time he had shown the slightest concern for her. She thought he was not only thinking of her reaction to the corpse, but that he had expected her to feel sick from the method by which she was travelling.

  “I am all right,” she answered. “Where are we going?”

  “We are staying tonight at the Kasbah belonging to one of the most important Sheiks in South Morocco. It may not be very comfortable for you, because you will be in the women’s quarters.”

  Nevada looked at him wide-eyed.

  “Do you mean – the harem?”

  “A harem in Morocco does not have exactly the same meaning as one in Turkey,” Tyrone Strome replied, “but I don’t suppose you would notice the difference.”

  Nevada was silent.

  She felt suddenly more afraid than she had ever been before. There was something frightening about going to a strange place of which she knew nothing and where she would be of no consequence save that she belonged to Tyrone Strome.

  As if he knew what she was feeling, he said,

  “We are only staying for one night, but it is important for me not only to meet the Sheik Hassam El Zigli with whom we will be staying but other Sheiks and Caids of the neighbourhood.”

  “Why should you want to meet them?” Nevada enquired. She wondered if he would give her a truthful answer or if it had something to do with his secret exploits.

  To her surprise Tyrone Strome replied,

  “I am writing a book.”

  “A book!”

  It was somehow the last thing she had expected him to say.

  “Does it surprise you?” he asked. “Morocco has always been a country of mystery, very little is known about it and less still about the people who inhabit it.”

  Nevada’s eyes were on his.

  She was interested despite herself – extremely interested and she was frightened in case he should stop telling her what she wished to know.

  “About eighty-six per cent of the Moroccan population is Berber or Arab,” Tyrone Strome said, “and the Berbers are the magnificent, age-old mysterious backbone of North Africa.”

  He smiled as if at the romanticism of his words before he went on,

  “They are a Mediterranean people and not at all Negroid, nor are they Semitic. In fact where they come from God only knows.”

  “And you are writing about them?”

  “It is very difficult to find out all I need for a book. They have lived in North Africa, especially among the mountains, since the dawn of time. The Pharaohs of Egypt, mystified by them, called them Lebu – the Greeks who were equally mystified called them Nomades. No one even knows where the word Berber comes from.”

  “And you like them?”

  “They are a people whom I find fascinating,” Tyrone Strome replied, “and they are completely unspoilt by civilisation.”

  He laughed.

  “Where else in the world today will you find slavery taken as a matter of course, men who are prepared to live by the sword and dagger and women who are pure and obedient?”

  The last two words held an innuendo which told Nevada that he was mocking at her, but for once she was not annoyed.

  “Tell me more,” she begged.

  “You will find that this world is worth studying, worth exploring,” he answered. “But, if we are to arrive at our destination as early as I intend, I suggest that you eat quickly.”

  Because she was extremely hungry, Nevada obeyed him and they finished their meal in silence.

  She had the feeling as she did so that this was the last European food she might eat for a long time and she wondered what lay ahead.

  As soon as they were finished, they set out once more and now the surroundings seemed to alter and the ground become more rocky and rough.

  Suddenly, ahead of them, Nevada saw what seemed to her to be an enormous fortified town.

  She stared at it in astonishment for it was of colossal construction, surrounded by ramparts of various heights and sizes.

  It topped a slight elevation and the buildings were all bristling with very high crenelated ramparts from which here and there a massive tower protruded.

  As Tyrone Strome led the caravan nearer, it seemed even bigger and more impressive and hastily Nevada tried to remember what she had learnt about the Kasbahs in the books she had read on the yacht.

  Somewhere she had learnt that they were like large Medieval castles, being occupied by the Chieftain of the tribe together with all his followers, servants and anyone who owed him allegiance.

  Besides human beings, his animals, cows, goats, sheep, donkeys, mules and chickens also sheltered in the Kasbah as was their right.

  In the daytime all the beasts would be driven out either to work or to fend for themselves, but at night they returned through the main gate to stay safe and protected until dawn.

  The Kasbah was not therefore just a habitation but a little Principality, a self-sufficient domain that provided most of the things necessary for daily life except tea, coffee and sugar.

  Tyrone Strome had now reached an enormous wooden brass-studded door. It was open and a number of white robed men came running out to welcome him.

  They led everyone inside and now Nevada could see a whole succession of twisting galleries off which she had an occasional glimpse of courtyards and fountains.

  Still on her camel she was carried through a labyrinth of twisting passages filled with men, children and animals, until finally she reached what she guessed was the centre of the Kasbah where the Sheik himself lived.

  Here, she realised as she dismounted, everything was very different.

  She followed Tyrone Strome through an elaborately carved door and found herself in what she could only describe as a Palace.

  Looking at the austere, windowless, gaunt outside of the Kasbah, it was strange to find inside that there were floors of the finest mosaic and walls covered either with carved arabesques or tiles of intricate patterns in many colours.

  The ceilings were of carved wood and richly painted, columns with carved capitals separated some of the rooms and there were screens of latticework that were very lovely.

  Multi-coloured High Atlas rugs covered the floors and Nevada saw silk-embroidered hassocks of red, green, white and yellow leather made from goatskin.

  Silver lanterns were suspended from the ceilings and she thought, as she glanced around, that the whole place seemed mysterious and Eastern in a way she could not describe.

  Sheik Hassam El Zigli, an elderly man with a white beard, wearing in his belt a jewelled dagger covered in precious stones, came hurrying forward to greet Tyrone Strome with every mark of respect.

  He ignored Nevada standing a little behind him and, only after the men had talked together for some moments, did Tyrone Strome apparently mention her presence.

  The Sheik snapped his fingers.

  A servant appeared and beckoned Nevada to follow him.

  She felt suddenly afraid of leaving Tyrone Strome and disappearing into this huge labyrinth that seemed to be half Palace and half slum.

  Then she told herself he would despise her more than he did already if she showed any fear.

  Without looking at him, she followed the servant and once again they were moving through long twisting passages for what seemed to Nevada to be a very long way.

  Finally there was another impressive door, carved and ornamented in Moorish fashion, and the servant knocked.

  It was opened by a veiled woman who, although Nevada could not understand what was said, was obviously told who she was.

  The woman beckoned her in, the door was shut behind her and she felt more alone than she had ever felt in her whole life.

  The woman spoke to her, but she could only shake her head. Then she was led through another passage and finally into a large room in which there were a number of women.

  They were unveiled and were sitting either on the floor on colourful rugs or on low couches co
vered in red velvet.

  Some of them were young, but a large number were old with wrinkled faces and greying hair.

  These all wore a profusion of jewellery and Nevada guessed that they were relatives of the Sheik, all of whom she had learnt lived in the women’s quarters of a Kasbah.

  Someone took her haik from her and, when the women saw her caftan, it obviously interested them and they were impressed.

  Several of them wore embroidered caftans like hers and others had the beautiful addition of a mansouriah, an outer caftan of light veiling.

  It made those who wore it seem to be cloaked in a soft-coloured mist.

  A grey-haired woman beckoned to Nevada to sit beside her on the couch and another younger woman, who was dressed so plainly that she suspected that she was a slave, brought her a glass of mint tea.

  It was hot and sweet, but at the same time it was more thirst-quenching than anything she had ever drunk.

  As soon as she finished her glass, it was filled again and now she sipped it more slowly, looking round her and knowing that to be in the harem was an adventure few European women had experienced.

  With sign language the women admired her jewellery and showed her theirs.

  Some of them had very heavy amber necklaces, others had gold and silver pieces set with huge amethysts which came from the High Atlas mountains, turquoises, corals and many other stones that Nevada did not recognise, but which she guessed were mined somewhere in the vicinity.

  There were so many things that she would have liked to know, so many things she would have liked to ask.

  She wished now that instead of fighting with Tyrone Strome she had taken the opportunity when they were on the yacht to learn at least a few words of Arabic.

  When she had almost exhausted her entire repertoire of mime, another woman appeared carrying a small baby in her arms.

  “Vous parlez français?” the woman said at length with a very pronounced accent, which made even her French difficult to understand.

  “Oui, oui,” Nevada replied eagerly.

  It was difficult because not only was the new woman’s French very limited but she spoke so badly it was hard to make sense of what she said, but somehow they managed to communicate with each other.

  Nevada learnt as she expected, that the elderly women were the mother, grandmother, sisters and aunts of the Sheik.

  He had four main wives that were allowed him by his religion and the younger teenage girls were concubines.

  They had pale skins, little more than faintly coffee-coloured, their features were exquisite, their faces very attractive.

  Their hair was dark, long, silky and every one, Nevada realised, had a queenly carriage that would have made them outstanding in any country in the world.

  Two were so beautiful that she thought they would have been an instantaneous success in New York or London.

  They had huge dark eyes, short noses and full curved lips and to Nevada their self-assurance was extraordinary.

  They did not giggle self-consciously as schoolgirls did in New York, nor did they look shy or stare at her rudely as she might have expected.

  Their smiles were charming and friendly and, by the time they all sat down to a meal, Nevada, despite the fact that she could not communicate except through the woman who spoke French, no longer felt afraid.

  As they sat on cushions or on the rugs, slave girls served them with soup which was a meal in itself and was known as a harira. It contained chicken, dried mutton, chick peas, parsley, ginger, onions and saffron.

  When these ingredients were well cooked and they were mixed with a platter of rice seasoned with spices. To this was added tomatoes, bread yeast and eggs.

  Two bowlfuls of the harira were, Nevada found, very filling, especially as it was followed by the traditional Moorish sweetmeats made of honey and almonds, which were simply delicious.

  The meal was followed by the inevitable mint tea and, as soon as they had finished, all the women jumped up and almost as if by magic their lithams appeared and they put them over their noses.

  Nevada looked enquiringly at the woman who spoke French.

  “Dancing,” she explained. “We go see dancing.” “Where?” Nevada enquired.

  But this was too difficult to explain and she merely took Nevada by the hand and pulled her along the corridor following the others.

  Nevada found herself on a terrace enclosed with white latticework, which circled all sides of a huge open courtyard.

  Below she could see a number of white-robed Sheiks seated on cushions, their feet on brightly coloured carpets and in the centre of them on the right of his host was Tyrone Strome!

  He looked very proud and arrogant, Nevada thought, and equally very much at his ease.

  The courtyard was lit by the star-strewn sky above and the light from two fires on either side, made of burning palm leaves.

  Quite suddenly Nevada felt a surge of rebellious indignation at the manner in which she was being treated. How dare Tyrone Strome force her, a white woman, an American, rich and important in the Social world, to peep at him through latticework!

  Without considering the consequences of her action, she pulled off her litham and ran along the terrace and down some steps she could see in one corner which led into the courtyard.

  It took her only a few seconds to continue running across the empty space towards the Sheiks. She stood confronting them, the flames from the fires glittering on her red hair and her angry eyes.

  “Messieurs,” Nevada cried loudly and, when the Sheiks’ faces were all turned towards her in surprise, she continued speaking in French,

  “I have been brought here against my will. If any one of you will escort me to the nearest British or French Consulate, I will reward you with any sum of money you wish to ask!”

  She paused with the Sheiks were all staring at her and she thought they must understand what she was saying.

  “I am rich – very rich,” she continued. “Help me – please help me.”

  Her voice which had rung out in the courtyard, died away and she waited.

  Sheik Hassam turned his head to speak to the Moor next to him, another bearded Sheik on Tyrone Strome’s left leant backwards to whisper in his ear.

  Nevada looked from one to another. Surely, she thought, someone would come to her rescue.

  Then Tyrone Strome spoke to her in English.

  “No one has understood you,” he said coldly. “They only speak Berber. But the gentleman beside me has offered a camel and four sheep for you. He said he likes women with spirit, because it amuses him to beat it out of them.”

  Nevada felt her heart thump, but her eyes, with a defiant effort, met his.

  “Shall I accept his offer?” he asked. “It is quite a good price for a woman in this part of the world.”

  “How dare you!”

  For a moment Nevada forgot the Sheiks, her surroundings, in fact everything but Tyrone Strome and her persistent battle with him.

  “The decision is yours!” he insisted. “It’s a matter of indifference to me.”

  She drew in her breath. She had the terrifying feeling that he might actually hand her over to the Sheik and she would be lost.

  Yet her pride made her stand staring at him, her eyes blazing with anger. Then she capitulated. With a sound that was a cry of despair, she turned and ran from the courtyard.

  As she reached the steps up to the terrace, she heard the Sheiks laughing.

  On the terrace the women looked at her, when she joined them, with horror. Then, too polite to embarrass her, they concentrated on what was happening below.

  Now there was the sound of music and Nevada realised that the women had moved their positions and were above the Sheiks.

  Twenty musicians had seated themselves at the far end of the courtyard and were playing drums augmented by reed pipes and bendirs, a type of tambourine.

  The music had a strong, rhythmic beat and a second later several dancers appeared in the centre
of the courtyard.

  The dancers were in muslins and silks and wore a profusion of jewellery.

  “These the Tiznet dancers,” the woman who spoke French whispered to Nevada, “very famous, very exciting.”

  Nevada remembered that in one book of Tyrone Strome’s she had read that the Tiznet dancers could rival all other dancers in North Africa including the Ouled Nails who were notorious for their sensual exotic movements.

  The dance the Tiznet girls were doing was, she thought, similar to the Turkish ‘belly dance’. The girls stood almost immobile while their whole bodies shook and quivered.

  The golden light from the fires made their bodies throw huge dark shadows, which gave the scene a strange and almost sinister appearance.

  As they danced, somewhere from the courtyard came the sound of high-pitched chanting which mingled with the music.

  The dance finished and, while the dancers remained in a semicircle, into the centre of them came a woman who made Nevada draw in her breath.

  She was obviously very young and her figure was exquisite, her long hair was loose and covered with jewels and blue veils.

  “She dances la Guedra,” the woman who spoke French whispered in Nevada’s ear.

  The dancer knelt down, her eyes were closed and her dance began with the quivering of the wrists, then it progressed to the arms, the neck, the head, the torso, the hips and finally the whole body.

  It seemed as if some internal flame swept gradually through her, growing, expanding, until at last it devoured her.

  As she moved and her blue veils slipped, Nevada realised that she was naked above the waist!

  Swaying, abandoning herself to the beat with every contortion of her lissom body, she was the embodiment of everything that was sensual.

  Nevada could only watch, realising that the dancer was growing more and more abandoned, moving more and more quickly, her arms seeming to writhe like serpents, her eyes closed, her lips parted until it was obvious she attained a state of ecstasy.

  She was fascinating, voluptuous, passionate and she not only aroused the Sheiks but also the women who watched her.

  Their breath too, was coming quickly and they seemed almost hypnotised as their bodies were also moving and quivering in time to the rhythm and the beat.