Leo Africanus

by Amin Maalouf

  The Year of Sulaiman

  929 A.H.

  20 November 1522 – 9 November 1523

  That year, the Grand Turk found favour in my eyes once more. Of course, he never knew anything about it, but what does that matter? The dispute had raged inside me, and it was within me that it had to be resolved.

  I had been obliged to flee the most powerful empire of Islam to protect a child from the vindictiveness of a bloodthirsty monarch, and I had found in Christian Rome the caliph under whose shadow I would so much have liked to live in Baghdad or Cordova. My mind delighted in this paradox, but my conscience was not appeased. Had the time passed when I could be genuinely proud of my own without needing to brag about them?

  Then there was Adrian. Then there was Sulaiman. And above everything else this visit from ‘Abbad. On his return from Tunis he had come to see me, faithful to his promise, and even before his lips had opened his eyes were already pitying me. As he hesitated to shock me with what he had learned, I felt I should put him at ease.

  ‘One cannot reproach the messenger for something which is an act of Providence.’

  Adding, with an affected smile:

  ‘If a man has left his family for many years, he cannot expect to hear any good news. Even if you were to tell me that Nur had just had a child, that would be misfortune.’

  Probably thinking that his task would become even harder if he let me go on joking further, my friend made up his mind to speak:

  ‘Your wife did not wait for you. She only stayed a few months in your house in Tunis.’

  My hands were sweaty.

  ‘She went away. And left you this.’

  He handed me a letter which I unsealed. The handwriting had been executed with care, probably that of a public letter-writer. But the words were Nur’s:

  If it was only my own happiness that was at stake, I would have waited for you for many long years, if need be until I had seen my hair turn silver in the loneliness of the nights. But I live only for my son, for his destiny, which will come to fruition one day, if it pleases God. Then we shall summon you to our side so that you may share the honours as you shared the dangers. In the meantime I shall go to Persia where, although he has no friends, Bayazid will at least have on his side the enemies of those who are hunting him down.

  I leave Hayat for you. I have borne your daughter as you have carried my secret, and it is time that each one of us takes back that which is his own. Some will say that I am an unworthy mother, but you know that it is for her own good that I leave her behind, to protect her from the dangers which attend my own steps and those of her brother. I leave her as a gift for you, when you return; as she becomes older, she will look like me, and at every moment she will remind you of a blonde princess whom you loved and who loved you. And will always love you from the depth of her new exile.

  Whether I encounter death or glory, do not let my image tarnish in your heart!

  When he saw the first tear fall, ‘Abbad leaned his elbows on the window, pretending to be absorbed by some scene taking place in the garden. Ignoring the empty chairs which surrounded me I let myself fall to the ground, my eyes clouded over. As if Nur was in front of me, I murmured furiously to her:

  ‘What good is it to dream of a palace when one can find happiness in a hut at the foot of the pyramids!’

  After several minutes ‘Abbad came and sat down at my side.

  ‘Your mother and your daughters are well. Harun sends them money and provisions each month.’

  Two sighs later, I handed him the letter. He made a gesture of pushing it away, but I insisted. Without thinking too deeply, I was anxious that he should read it. Perhaps I wanted him to refrain from condemning Nur. Perhaps, out of self-esteem, I wanted him not to pity me as if I was an ordinary husband deserted by a wife who was tired of waiting. Perhaps I also wanted to share with a friend a secret which from now on I would bear alone.

  Thus I heard myself telling, in detail, the story of my Circassian, beginning with the chance meeting at a merchant’s in Khan al-Khalili.

  ‘Now I understand your terror when the Turkish officer took Bayazid in his arms in Alexandria harbour.’

  I laughed. ‘Abbad continued, happy to have been able to distract me:

  ‘I could never explain to myself why a Granadan could be so afraid of the Ottomans, the only ones who promise to give him back his city one day.’

  ‘Maddalena can’t understand it either. She wants all the Andalusians, Jews and Muslims, to rejoice with her every time she hears the news of an Ottoman victory. And she’s astonished that I remain so cold.’

  ‘Are you going to light her lantern now?’

  ‘Abbad had spoken in a low voice. I replied in the same tone:

  ‘I will tell her everything in small doses. I could not tell her about Nur’s existence before.’

  I turned towards my friend. My voice became feeble and thoughtful again:

  ‘Have you noticed how much we have changed since we came to this country? At Fez I would never have spoken of my wives in this way, even to my closest friend. If I had done so, he would have blushed to the peak of his turban.’

  Laughingly, ‘Abbad agreed with me.

  ‘I myself made a thousand and one excuses before asking my neighbour after the health of his wife, and before answering me, he made sure nobody listened, fearing for his honour.’

  After a long burst of laughter and some moments of silence, my companion began a sentence and then interrupted himself, hesitant and embarrassed.

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘It’s probably not yet the right moment.’

  ‘I’ve told you too many secrets for you to hide from me half of what you’re thinking!’

  He resigned himself.

  ‘I was going to say that henceforth you are free to love the Ottomans because Bayazid is no longer your son and because your wife is no longer a Circassian, because in Rome your protector has been replaced by an inquisitor, because in Constantinople Salim the Grim has been dead for two years and Sulaiman has replaced him.’

  In a sense, what ‘Abbad said was true. I was henceforth free in my feelings, in my enthusiasm, free to join with Maddalena in her spontaneous outburst. What happiness, what serenity there would be to be able to draw, amid the succession of events in the world, a dividing line between joy and grief! However, I knew that this happiness was denied me, by my very own nature.

  ‘But I know you,’ ‘Abbad continued without looking at me. ‘You cannot enjoy anything to its full.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘I think that, quite simply, you do not love princes, and sultans even less. When one of them wins a victory, you immediately find yourself in the camp of his enemies, and when some fool venerates them, that in itself is sufficient reason for you to abhor them!’

  This time, what ‘Abbad said was probably true. Seeing that I was not attempting to defend myself, he harried me:

  ‘Why should you be hostile to Sulaiman?’

  He spoke to me with such a moving naïveté that I could not prevent myself from smiling. At that very moment Maddalena came into the room. She heard the sentence my friend had uttered, which he hastened to translate into Italian for her, knowing that she would immediately bring him reinforcements. Which she did with vigour:

  ‘Why on earth are you hostile to Sulaiman?’

  She walked slowly towards us, still slumped against the wall like schoolboys reciting the long Sura of Women to each other. ‘Abbad sat up, a confused word on the tip of his tongue. I stayed where I was, thoughtful and perplexed. As if to accompany my thoughts, Maddalena launched into a passionate eulogy of the Grand Turk:

  ‘Since he came to power Sulaiman has put an end to the bloody practices of his father. He has strangled neither brothers, sons nor cousins. The notables who were deported from Egypt have been brought back to their homes. The prisons have emptied. Constantinople sings the praises of the young sovereign, comparing his actions to a refre
shing dew, and Cairo no longer lives in fear and mourning.’

  ‘An Ottoman sultan who does not kill!’

  My tone was full of doubt. ‘Abbad corrected me:

  ‘Every prince must kill. The main thing is that he should not take pleasure in it, as was the case with the old sultan. Sulaiman is certainly from the Ottoman race, and in conquest he yields nothing to his father. For two months he has been besieging the knights of the island of Rhodes, with the largest fleet that Islam has ever seen. Among the officers who accompany him is your brother-in-law Harun, and with him his eldest son, who will, one day, marry Sarwat, your daughter, his cousin. Whether you like it or not, your family are involved in that battle. Even if you have no desire to join them, should you not at least wish for their victory?’

  I turned back towards Maddalena, who was delighted at my friend’s words. I asked her solemnly:

  ‘If I were to decide that the time had come for us to take the road to Tunis with our child, what would you think about it?’

  ‘You have only to say the word and I should leave with pleasure, to get away from this inquisitor-Pope who is only waiting for the opportunity to seize hold of you!’

  ‘Abbad was the most excited of the three of us:

  ‘Nothing detains you here. Leave with me at once!’

  I calmed him down:

  ‘It’s only December. If we must go by sea, we cannot do so for three months.’

  ‘Come to my house in Naples, and from there you will embark for Tunis in the first days of spring.’

  ‘That seems possible,’ I said thoughtfully.

  But I hastened to add:

  ‘I shall think about it!’

  ‘Abbad did not hear the last part of the sentence. To celebrate my timid acceptance and to prevent me changing my mind he called from the window to two of his servants. He ordered one to go and buy two bottles of the best Greek wine, while the other had to prepare a pipe of tobacco.

  ‘Have you already tasted this sweet poison from the New World?’

  ‘Once, two years ago, at the house of a Florentine cardinal.’

  ‘Is it on sale in Rome?’

  ‘Only in certain taverns. But the tabacchini which run them have the worst reputations in the city.’

  ‘Soon the whole world will be full of tabacchini, and their reputation will be no worse than the reputation of grocers or perfume sellers. I myself import whole cargoes from Seville which I sell in Bursa or Constantinople.’

  I took a puff. Maddalena inhaled the perfume but refused to try it.

  ‘I would be too afraid to choke myself with smoke!’

  The Soussi advised her to heat the water to drink an infusion of the tobacco, with a bit of sugar.

  When ‘Abbad left us that day, Maddalena immediately threw her arms around my neck.

  ‘I shall be happy to leave. Let’s not linger here!’

  ‘Be prepared! When my friend returns, we shall take the road together.’

  ‘Abbad had been to Ancona on business, promising to be back within ten days. He kept his promise, only to be welcomed by a weeping Maddalena.

  I had been arrested the previous day, 21 December, a Sunday, while I was very unwisely carrying a pamphlet which a French monk had slid into my pocket at the entrance of the church of San Giovanni dei Fiorentini.

  Whether by coincidence or as a deliberate humiliation, when I was taken to the Castel San Angelo I was shut up in the same cell which I had occupied for almost two years. But, at that time I risked nothing more than captivity, while this time I could be judged and condemned to purge my crime in a far-off prison, or even in a galley.

  I would probably not have been so concerned if I had not planned to leave. However, for the first part of the time my captivity was less rigorous than I had feared. In February I was even able to receive a present from ‘Abbad which seemed sumptuous in the circumstances: a woollen cloak and a date cake, accompanied by a letter in which he told me in barely veiled words of the conquest of Rhodes by Sulaiman: The sea has brought our people to the summit of the rock, the earth has shaken with our cries of triumph.

  Seen from my cell, this seemed to me to be a personal revenge against Adrian and his dreams of crusade. And when, in the course of the following months, my detention became more and more harsh, when I had nothing more to read, nothing to write with, neither pen nor ink nor even the merest lamp to dispel the darkness which pervaded from the afternoon, when I had no contact any more with the outside, when my warder pretended to understand no language beyond some vague German dialect, I began to regard ‘Abbad’s letter as a precious relic, and to repeat the words about the capture of Rhodes like an incantation.

  One night I had a dream. I saw Sulaiman with a child’s face under his turban, the face of Bayazid. He tore down a mountainside to come and rescue me, but, before he could reach me I woke up, still in my cell, unable to go back to sleep to catch hold of the end of the dream.

  Darkness, cold, insomnia, despair, silence . . . In order not to succumb to madness I resumed the habit of praying, five times a day, to the God of my childhood.

  I awaited from Constantinople the hand that was going to set me free. But my deliverer was much nearer at hand, may the Most High lend him His aid in the torment which is his fate today!

  The Year of Clemency

  930 A.H.

  10 November 1523 – 28 October 1524

  A rushing of feet, a tumult of voices, then the hundred dry cold noises of a key turning in the door which shook slowly on its rusty hinges. Standing near my bed I rubbed my eyes, intently watching the silhouettes which were about to be outlined against the light from outside.

  A man came in. When I recognized Guicciardini I took a step towards him, preparing to throw myself round his neck, but I stopped short – I even stepped back, as if driven away by an invisible force. Perhaps it was his marble countenance, or else his silence a few seconds too long or the rigidity of his bearing. In the half light, I thought I saw a sort of smile on his lips, but when he spoke he did so in a voice which was distant, and, it seemed to me, exaggeratedly contrite.

  ‘His Holiness wishes to see you.’

  Ought I to lament or rejoice? Why did Adrian want to see me? Why had he sent Guicciardini in person? The Florentine’s inscrutable face forbade me to question him. I looked towards the sky. It must have been six or seven in the morning. But of what day? And of what month? I asked a guard while we were passing through the corridor in the direction of the Vatican. It was Guicciardini who replied, as curtly as possible:

  ‘It is Friday 20 November 1523.’

  He had just reached a little door. He knocked and went in, making a sign that I should follow him. The entire furniture consisted of three empty red armchairs. He sat down, without inviting me to do likewise.

  I could not explain his attitude. He who had been such a close friend, a confidant, he who, as I knew, so much enjoyed my company, with whom I had exchanged spirited words and friendly blows.

  He got up abruptly.

  ‘Holy Father, here is the prisoner!’

  The Pope had come in noiselessly through the little door behind me. I turned round to look at him.

  ‘Heavens above! Heavens above! Heavens above!’

  I could not pronounce any other words. I fell to my knees and instead of kissing the hand of the sovereign pontiff I held it against me, pressed it to my forehead, to my face which was bathed in tears, to my trembling lips.

  He freed himself gently.

  ‘I must go and say mass. I will come back here in a hour.’

  Leaving me on the ground, he went out. Guicciardini burst out laughing. I got up and went over to him with a threatening look.

  ‘Should I embrace you or rain down blows upon you?’

  His laughter redoubled. I collapsed into an armchair without being invited to do so.

  ‘Tell me, Francesco, was I dreaming? Was that really Cardinal Julius who has just been in this room, dressed all in white? Was it really
his hand that I have just kissed?’

  ‘Cardinal Julius de Medici is no more. Yesterday he was elected to the throne of Peter, and he has chosen to call himself Clement, the seventh of that name.’

  ‘Heavens above! Heavens above!’

  My tears fell without restraint. However, I was able to stammer, through my sobs:

  ‘And Adrian?’

  ‘I would not have thought that his disappearance would have affected you to such an extent!’

  I dealt him a blow on the shoulder with my fist which he did not even seek to dodge, so much did he know that he deserved it.

  ‘It has already been two months since Pope Adrian has left us. It is said that he was poisoned. When the news of his death became known, anonymous individuals hung garlands over his doctor’s door to thank him for having saved Rome.’

  He murmured some conventional formula of disapproval before continuing:

  ‘A battle then took place in the conclave between Cardinal Farnese and Cardinal Julius. The first one seemed to have the most votes, but after the trials which they had just experienced the princes of the Church wanted to encounter the generosity of a Medici again at the head of this city. After numerous ballots our friend was elected. Immediately there were celebrations in the streets. One of the first thoughts of the sovereign pontiff was for you, I can bear witness. He wanted to set you free at once, but I asked him permission to put on this charade. Will you forgive me?’

  ‘With difficulty!’

  I held him against me for a warm embrace.

  ‘Maddalena and Giuseppe have wanted for nothing. I would have told you to go and see them, but we must wait for the Pope.’

  By the time that the Florentine had informed me of everything which had taken place since my internment, Clement VII had returned. He asked not to be disturbed and came and sat down in the most simple way in the armchair which we had left for him.

  ‘I thought that the best pranks in Rome were those of the late lamented Cardinal Bibbiena. But Master Guicciardini’s inventions deserve to be remembered.’