Leo Africanus

by Amin Maalouf

  I was happy to see Hiba happy and carefree for the first time for months; she felt humiliated by the birth of my daughter, and one night, going into her room, I came upon her wiping away a tear with the end of her scarf; when I ran my fingers through her hair, stealthily caressing her ear, she pushed me away with a gentle but firm hand, murmuring in a sorrowful voice which was unfamiliar to me:

  ‘In my country, when a woman is sterile, she does not wait until her husband repudiates her or abandons her. She goes away, hides herself, and makes herself forgotten.’

  I tried to adopt a playful tone, the way she normally spoke herself:

  ‘How do you know that you won’t give me a fine boy next Ramadan?’

  She did not smile.

  ‘Even before I came to puberty, the soothsayer of my tribe said that I should never become pregnant. I had not believed it, but I have been with you for five years, and you have had a child by another.’

  Not knowing what else to say, I drew her close to me; she freed herself, her face twisted with pain.

  ‘Would you agree to set me free?’

  ‘To me you are my beloved, not my slave. But I don’t want you to stop belonging to me.’

  I put my hands tightly around her wrists as if they were claws to draw her palms to my lips, one after the other.

  ‘Have you forgotten our night at Timbuktu, have you forgotten all our nights together, and our promises never to leave one another?’

  A cool breeze swept in through the open window, blowing out the candle in the bronze holder. It was dark and gloomy, and I could no longer see Hiba’s eyes. Her voice came to me from afar, shuddering, like some plaintive cry from the desert.

  ‘Often, lovers hold each other by the hand and dream together of happiness to come. But as long as they live their happiness will never be greater than at that moment when their hands were clasped together and their dreams melted into one.’

  Eventually she opened her arms to me that night; out of weariness, duty, remembrance, I do not know. But since then a light veil of sadness had never left her eyes.

  So I was happy to see her laugh again and clap her hands in time to the music of the Andalusian orchestra. In the middle of the meal my poet stood up to declaim, from memory, verses he had composed in my honour. From the first couplet, my palace was already the Alhambra and its gardens those of Eden.

  ‘May you enter there, on the blessed day of its completion, your heir seated upon your shoulders!’

  A shiver from Hiba ran through my arm which was around her. She sighed in my ear:

  ‘God, how I should like to give him to you, that heir!’

  As if he had heard her, the poet looked towards her with compassion as well as desire, and interrupting the flow of his verse, improvised two lines, uttered in a singing voice:

  Love is thirst at the edge of a well

  Love is flower and not fruit.

  With a spontaneous movement I picked up my purse and threw it towards him; it must have contained more than fifty dinars. But the smile which radiated from Hiba’s face had no price. I spent the whole night gathering its fruit.

  Six months after this banquet, I had a visit from an officer of the royal guard; the sultan wished me to see him that very day, just after the siesta. I put on suitable clothes and left for the palace, intrigued, but not without a slight pricking of unease.

  The sovereign welcomed me with a torrent of courtesies, and his familiars imitated him, fawning and grimacing. He recalled my first visit on my return from Timbuktu, and my mediation at Tafza, which had brought into his treasury in that year more gold than did all the city of Fez. After having sung the praises of my uncle, my ancestors, and of Granada, he began to extol my prosperity, my eloquence and my brilliance to his companions, as well as my vast knowledge, acquired in the most prestigious schools in Fez.

  ‘Didn’t you know Ahmad the Lame at the madrasa?’

  ‘Indeed, my lord.’

  ‘I have been told that you were one of his best friends, the only one he would listen to with respect and attention.’

  I immediately understood the reason for the summons and the unexpected praise. Ahmad was beginning to assume some importance, and many young students at Fez and Marrakesh had left their homes to take up arms at his side in the struggle against the slow invasion by the Portuguese which was threatening the whole Atlantic coast. The Lame One was travelling up and down the country with his supporters, sharply criticizing the Sultan of Fez, who was becoming worried by this and wished to parley with the dangerous rebel. Using me as mediator.

  I decided to take advantage of the occasion to settle some old accounts which were close to my heart.

  ‘Sharif Ahmad often came to my house, when we were at college. He proved himself a real brother to me when my sister was imprisoned in the lepers’ quarter, may God efface remembrance of it from my memory and from hers!’

  The sovereign cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment.

  ‘What became of that unfortunate woman?’

  ‘A worthy young man, a porter, took her hand in marriage, and then took refuge somewhere with her, without daring to give us any news of them, as if they were criminals.’

  ‘Do you want a safe-conduct for them? A pardon? My secretary will prepare one.’

  ‘Your goodness has no limits! May God grant you long life!’

  I had to utter these hallowed formulae, but I was determined not to let go. I leaned towards the monarch’s ear.

  ‘My friend Sharif Ahmad was deeply concerned at the unjust fate suffered by my sister, victim of the hateful vengeance of the Zarwali.’

  ‘I have been told of the role played by that man.’

  I was greatly surprised to know that the sovereign had been told of these matters in detail; I forebore from asking him why he had done nothing at the time, since I wanted to keep him on my side. Thus I continued, still in a low voice:

  ‘In Ahmad’s eyes, the Zarwali had become the example of the depravity, which, he said, is corrupting the morals of the people of Fez. I have even heard that he had mentioned this man frequently in his harangues. May God guide him along the way of Truth,’ I added cautiously, not wishing to seem to share the Lame One’s opinions.

  The sultan thought to himself and hesitated. Then, without saying anything, he adjusted his turban and sat up straight on his throne.

  ‘I want you to go to see Ahmad.’

  I inclined my head to show I was listening. He continued:

  ‘You must try and calm him down, to rekindle in him more cordial feelings towards me, our dynasty, and the city of Fez, may God protect her from the unbelievers and the ambitious! I am ready to help this young Sharif, with money and arms, in his struggle against the Portuguese invaders, but I need peace on my flanks if I am to engage in my turn in the fight to defend my kingdom, which is now greatly weakened. Tangier has fallen to the Portuguese, as well as Arzila and Ceuta; Larache, Rabat, Chella and Salé are threatened, Anfa is destroyed and its inhabitants have fled. In the north the Spaniards are occupying the coastal towns one by one.’

  He pulled me towards him and lowered his voice. His courtiers drew back, although pricking up their ears imperceptibly.

  ‘In a few months I am going to send my army against Tangier and Arzila once more, in the hope that this time the Most High will send me victory. I would like to have the Sharif as an ally in this undertaking, and rather than raising the provinces against the Muslim kings, I would like him to attack the Portuguese at the same time as me, because both of us are warriors in the holy war. Can I entrust you with this mission?’

  ‘I shall do my best, for nothing is dearer to me than the unity of the Muslims. As soon as you give me the command, I shall leave for the Sous to meet Ahmad, and I shall do everything to make him more amenable.’

  The sovereign tapped me on the shoulder to show his satisfaction, and asked the captain of the orderlies and the chancellor, the keeper of the royal seal, to approach him.

&nbs
p; ‘You will send a messenger this very evening to the house of the Zarwali. You will order him to leave our city for at least two years. Tell him that he should go on the pilgrimage, and then return for some time to the village of his birth.’

  All the courtiers were listening avidly. In a few hours the rumour was going the rounds of the city, from mouth to mouth. No one would dare to greet the exile, no one would dare to visit him, and it was not long before grass began to grow on the road to his house. I was savouring my just vengeance, little knowing that it would bring down additional unhappiness upon my family.

  When I took leave of the sultan, he asked me to return the next day, as he wished to consult me about the financial affairs of the kingdom. Henceforth I was with him every day, attending his audiences, even receiving certain petitions myself, which did not fail to arouse the jealousy of the other dignitaries. But I was quite indifferent to this, because I intended to leave for the Sous in the spring, and when I returned to busy myself with my caravans, and above all with my palace, which was growing large and more beautiful in my head, but which was making little progress on the ground, because the last months of that year had been rainy and cold, and the building site of my dreams was no more than a lake of mud.

  The Year of the Lame Sharif

  917 A.H.

  31 March 1511 – 18 March 1512

  That year, according to plan, the Sultan of Fez and the Lame Sharif each launched separate attacks against the Portuguese, the former seeking to recapture Tangier, the latter trying to relieve Agadir. Both were repulsed, with heavy losses, no trace of which can be found in the poems composed in their honour.

  I had arranged to be present at the time of these days of fighting, making myself record my impressions in writing each evening. Re-reading them in Rome several years later, I was astonished to see that I had not devoted a single line to the progress of the battles. The only thing to capture my attention was the behaviour of the princes and their courtiers in face of the defeat, behaviour which did not fail to surprise me, although my attendance at court had relieved me of a number of illusions. I will cite a brief extract from my notes by way of illustration.

  Written this day, the penultimate day of the month of Rabi‘ al-Awwal 917, corresponding to Wednesday 26 June of the Christian year 1511.

  The corpses of the three hundred martyrs fallen before Tangier were brought back to the camp. To flee this sight, which caused my heart to crumble, I went to the sovereign’s tent, where I found him conferring with the keeper of the royal seal. On seeing me, the monarch beckoned me to come nearer. ‘Listen,’ he said to me, ‘to what our chancellor thinks about what has happened today!’ The latter explained for my benefit: ‘I was saying to our master that what has just come to pass is not such a bad thing, because we have shown the Muslims our ardour for the holy war without making the Portuguese feel bruised enough to take vengeance.’ I nodded my head as if in agreement, before asking: ‘And is it true that the dead are counted in hundreds?’ Sensing some recalcitrance or irony, the chancellor said no more, but the sovereign himself took over: ‘There were only a small number of cavalrymen among the dead. The others were only infantrymen, beggars, louts, good for nothings, of whom hundreds of thousands exist in my kingdom, far more than I could ever arm!’ His tone wavered between heedlessness and joviality. I took my leave on some pretext or other and left the tent. Outside, by the light of a torch, some soldiers were gathered around a corpse which had just been brought in. Seeing me come out of the tent, an old soldier with a reddish beard came up to me: ‘Tell the sultan not to weep for those who have died, for their reward is guaranteed on the Day of Judgement.’ His tears flowed, his voice choked abruptly. ‘My eldest son has just died, and I myself am ready to follow him to Paradise when my master commands it!’ He took hold of my sleeves, his hands, clenched with despair, telling a story very different from the one on his lips. A guard came to warn the soldier not to bother the sultan’s adviser. The old man slipped moaning away. I returned to my tent.

  I had to leave for the Sous several days later, to meet Ahmad again. I had already met him at the beginning of the year to bring him the sultan’s message of peace. This time, the master of Fez wanted to inform the Lame One that the Portuguese had suffered more losses than ourselves, and that the sovereign was safe and sound, by the grace of the Most High. When I rejoined him, the Lame One had just besieged Agadir, and his men were bubbling over with enthusiasm. Many were students, from all corners of the Maghrib, who longed for martyrdom as they would have languished for a mysterious lover.

  After three days the battle was still raging, and spirits had become inflamed with the intoxication of blood, vengeance and sacrifice. Suddenly, to the amazement of everyone, Ahmad ordered that the siege should be lifted. A young man from Oran who criticized the order to retreat in a loud voice was beheaded immediately. When I showed my surprise at seeing the Lame One so easily discouraged, so quick to abandon his undertaking, he shrugged his shoulders:

  ‘If you want to mix yourself up in politics, and negotiate with princes, you will have to learn to scorn the appearance of things.’

  His nervous laugh reminded me of our long conversations in the madrasa. As we were alone under a field tent, I questioned him directly. He took some time to explain to me:

  ‘The inhabitants of this region want to get rid of the Portuguese who are occupying Agadir and overrunning the plain around it, making it impossible to work in the fields. Since the master of Fez is far away, and the master of Marrakesh never leaves his palace except for his weekly hunting expedition, they have chosen to send for me. They have collected enough money to enable me to equip five hundred cavalrymen and several thousand infantrymen. It was then my duty to launch an attack against Agadir, but I had no desire to take possession of it, as I would have lost half my troops in the battle, and, even worse, I would have been obliged to station the rest of my army here for years to defend the town against the continual assaults of the Portuguese. I have better things to do today. I must mobilize and reunify the whole of the Maghrib, by subterfuge or by my sword, for the struggle against the invader.’

  I clenched my fists as hard as I could, telling myself that I should make no reply; but as I was still in my twenties I could not control myself.

  ‘So,’ I said, spacing out my words as if I was only trying to understand, ‘you want to fight against the Portuguese, but you are not going to throw your troops against them; you need these men who have answered your call for the holy war for your conquest of Fez, Meknes and Marrakesh!’

  Without stopping at my sarcasm Ahmad took me by the shoulders:

  ‘By God, Hasan, you don’t seem to realize what is happening! The whole Maghrib is in uproar. Dynasties will disappear, provinces will be sacked, cities razed to the ground. Observe me, gaze upon me, touch my arms, my turban, because tomorrow you will no longer be able to stare at me nor brush your fingers against my face. In this province, it is I who cut off men’s heads, it is my name that makes the peasants and the people of the cities tremble. Soon, this whole country will bend the knee as I pass, and one day you will tell your sons that the Lame Sharif was your friend, that he came to your house, and that he was worried about the fate of your sister. As for me, I shall remember nothing of it.’

  Both of us were trembling, he with impatient rage, me with fear. I felt myself threatened, because, since I had known him before the days of his glory, I was in some sense his property, as beloved, scorned, and loathed as my old patched white coat had been for me on the day that I encountered fortune.

  Thus I decided that the time had come to go away from this man, since I could no longer ever speak to him as one equal to another, since I would henceforth have to shed my self-esteem in his antechamber.

  Towards the end of the year an event took place whose details I only came to know much later, but which was to have a serious effect on the lives of my family. I shall tell the story as I have been able to reconstruct it, without omitting an
y detail and leaving it to the care of the Most High to trace the line separating crime and just punishment.

  The Zarwali had left on the pilgrimage to Mecca as he had been ordered, and was then going in the direction of the area where he was born, the Bani Zarwal mountains in the Rif, where he was to spend his two years of banishment. He did not return to the province where he had carried out so many exactions in the past without some apprehension, but he had made contact with the principal clan chiefs, distributed some purses, and had seen to it that he was accompanied on the journey by some forty armed guards and by a cousin of the ruler of Fez, an alcoholic and fairly impoverished prince whom he had invited to live with him for a while, hoping in this way to give the mountain people the impression that he was still well in at court.

  In order to reach the Bani Zarwal, the caravan had to go through the territory of the Bani Walid. There, on a rocky route between two shepherd villages, the silhouette of an old woman was waiting, a dirty black mass, out of which all that emerged was a palm opened carelessly for the generosity of passers-by. When the Zarwali drew near, riding a horse with a harness, followed by a slave holding an immense umbrella over him, the beggar woman took a step towards him and began to mumble some pious entreaties in a voice that was barely audible. A guard called to her to go away, but his master made him be silent. He needed to re-establish his reputation in the land he had robbed. He took several pieces of gold from his purse and held them out in a conspicuous manner waiting for the old woman to cup her hands to receive them. In a second, the beggar woman gripped the Zarwali by the wrist and pulled him violently. He fell from his horse, with only his right foot staying in the stirrup, so that his body was upside down, his turban brushing the ground, and the point of a dagger at his neck.