Leo Africanus

by Amin Maalouf

  He sat up slightly in his chair and his face became suddenly serious. He gazed at me intently.

  ‘Last night we talked for a long time, Francesco and I. He cannot give me much advice in matters of religion, but Providence has burdened me with the additional task of running a state and of preserving the throne of Peter from the encroachments of temporal powers. In that area Francesco’s counsels are precious to me, as are yours, Leo.’

  With a look, he handed over to the diplomat.

  ‘You have often asked, Leo, the real reason why you were carried off to Rome, why we decided one day to have an educated Moor kidnapped by Pietro Bovadiglia on the Barbary coasts. There was a scheme of things behind it which the late Pope Leo never had the opportunity to reveal to you. The moment has come today.’

  Guicciardini was silent and Clement continued, as though they were both reciting the same text:

  ‘Let us look at the world in which we live. In the East, there is a formidable empire, inspired by a faith which is not our own, built upon order and blind obedience, able to cast cannons and arm fleets. Its troops are advancing towards the centre of Europe. Buda and Pest are threatened, and Vienna will also be threatened before long. In the West there is another empire, Christian but no less formidable, since it already extends from the New World to Naples and dreams of universal domination. Above all, it dreams of submitting Rome to its will. The Inquisition flourishes on its Spanish lands, while the heresy of Luther flourishes on its German territories.’

  The diplomat became more specific, encouraged by the approving nods of the Pope:

  ‘On the one hand there is Sulaiman, Sultan and Caliph of Islam, young, ambitious, with limitless power, but anxious to make the crimes of his father forgotten and to appear as a man of good will. On the other hand there is Charles, King of Spain, even younger and no less ambitious, who has managed, by spending a small fortune, to get himself elected to the throne of the Holy Roman Empire. Facing these two men, the most powerful in the world, is the Papal State, with a gigantic cross and a dwarf sword.’

  He made a short pause.

  ‘Certainly, the Holy See is not alone in fearing this conjunction. There is King François, who is struggling to prevent his kingdom being dismembered. There is also Henry of England, entirely devoted to His Holiness, but too far off to be the slightest help.’

  I still did not see how my humble self could be of use in this galaxy of crowned heads. But I did not want to interrupt the Florentine.

  ‘This delicate situation, to which the Holy Father Leo alluded in your presence, was the subject of frequent discussion with Cardinal Julius and myself. Today, as before, we feel that we must be active in several directions to reduce the dangers. We must, before everything else, reconcile ourselves with François, which will not be a simple matter. For thirty years the kings of France have sought to conquer Italy. They were held justly responsible for the evils which afflicted the peninsula, and their troops were accused of leaving epidemics and devastation in their wake. We must also persuade Venice, Milan and Florence to forget their quarrels and make a common front against the empire.’

  He adopted a quieter tone and leaned forward, as he always did when imparting a confidence:

  ‘We have also thought that we should enter into negotiations with the Ottomans. But how? We have no idea, nor do we know what we might be able to obtain from them. A slowing down of the advance of the janissaries across the Christian lands of Central Europe? Probably not. The re-establishment of peace in the Mediterranean? An end to the depredations of the pirates?’

  He replied to each of his own questions with a doubtful frown. Clement took over again:

  ‘What is certain is that it is time to build a bridge between Rome and Constantinople. But I am not a sultan. If I dared to go too quickly, a thousand criticisms from Spain and Germany would rain down upon me, from my own colleagues.’

  He smiled at his slip of the tongue.

  ‘I mean from the cardinals. We have to proceed very carefully, to wait for opportunities, to see what the French, the Venetians and the other Christian powers are doing. You two will make a team. Leo now knows Turkish, as well as Arabic. Above all he knows the Ottomans well, and their ways of thought and action. He has even been on an embassy in Constantinople; Francesco is completely familiar with Our policies and can negotiate in Our name.’

  He added, as if talking to himself:

  ‘I would only have preferred one of the emissaries to have been a priest . . .’

  And then, louder, in a slightly mocking tone:

  ‘Master Guicciardini has already refused to have himself ordained. As for you, Leo, I am amazed that Our dear cousin and glorious predecessor never suggested that you should devote your life to religion.’

  I was puzzled; why was the man who had introduced me to Maddalena asking me such a question? I glanced at Guicciardini; he seemed worried. I gathered that the Pope wanted to examine my religious convictions before sending me on a mission to the Muslims. Seeing that I hesitated to reply, he tried again:

  ‘Would not religion have been the best of all ways of life for a man of learning and education like yourself?’

  I was evasive:

  ‘To speak of religion in the Holy Father’s presence is like speaking of one’s fiancée in her father’s presence.’

  Clement smiled. Without letting go of me.

  ‘And what would you say about the fiancée if the father was not there?’

  I decided to prevaricate no longer:

  ‘If the head of the Church was not listening to me, I would say that religion teaches men humility, but that it has none itself. I would say that all religions have produced both saints and murderers, with an equally good conscience. That in the life of this city, there are the Clement years and the Adrian years, between which religion does not allow you to choose.’

  ‘Does Islam allow a better choice?’

  I almost said ‘we’ but caught myself in time:

  ‘Muslims learn that “the best of men is the most useful to mankind” but in spite of such words, they sometimes honour false zealots more than real benefactors.’

  ‘And where is the truth, in all that?’

  ‘That is a question which I no longer ask myself. I have already made my choice between truth and life.’

  ‘There must be one true faith!’

  ‘That which unites the believers is not so much a common faith as the ritual actions they perform in common.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  The Pope’s tone was unfathomable. Was he thinking of putting into question the mission with which he had just entrusted me? Guicciardini feared that he might, and hastened to intervene, with the broadest of smiles:

  ‘Leo is saying that truth belongs only to God, and that men can only disfigure it, or debase it, or subjugate it.’

  As if in approval, I murmured sufficiently loudly to be heard:

  ‘May those who are in possession of the truth release it!’

  Clement laughed awkwardly. Then he continued:

  ‘Let us sum up. Brother Leo will not take religious orders. He will only be a diplomat, like Brother Francesco.’

  Reassured, the latter clasped his hands together, made a pious frown and said teasingly:

  ‘If Brother Leo has a horror of truth, he need have no fear; he will not encounter it often in our brotherhood.’

  ‘Amen,’ I said in the same tone.

  A great number of friends had gathered at my house to celebrate my release, news of which had spread since dawn. Neighbours, pupils and friends all agreed that I had hardly changed after a year in prison. All, that is, except Giuseppe, who resolutely refused to recognize me and went into a sulk for a good three days before saying ‘father’ to me for the first time in his life.

  ‘Abbad soon came from Naples, to greet my return, but also to exhort me to leave Rome without delay. For me, there was no longer any question of doing so.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t be
shut up again in Castel San Angelo the next time you want to leave?’

  ‘God will choose whether to leave me here or make me go.’

  ‘Abbad’s voice became suddenly severe.

  ‘God has already chosen. Does He not say that one must not stay of one’s free will in the land of the unbelievers?’

  The look I gave him was heavy with reproach. He hastened to apologize.

  ‘I know that I have no right to tell you what to do, I who live in Naples, I who offer gifts twice a year to the Church of San Gennaio, and have Biscayans and Castilians for partners. But I fear for you, by the Book! I feel that you are mixed up in disputes which have nothing to do with us. You go to war with a Pope, and you are only saved by his death.’

  ‘This city is now my city, and having experienced imprisonment here has only made me feel more attached to its fate and to that of those who rule it. They consider me as a friend, and I cannot treat them as if they were simply Rumis.’

  ‘But your own family is elsewhere, and you ignore them as if thirty years of your life and theirs had never existed.’

  He paused before striking me with the news:

  ‘Your mother died this summer.’

  Obviously in the know, Maddalena came to warm my hand with a consoling kiss. ‘Abbad continued:

  ‘I was in Tunis during her last illness. She asked for you to come.’

  ‘Did you tell her I was in prison?’

  ‘Yes! I thought it better that she should save for you her last anguish rather than her last reproach.’

  In an effort to be forgiven for having been the bearer of evil tidings once again, ‘Abbad had brought a casket for me from Tunis, containing my voluminous notes from my travels, with which I was able to set about writing the work which had been so often requested since my arrival in Rome: a description of Africa and the remarkable things that may be found there.

  But I had not yet written the first line when another project came to monopolize my writing time, a senseless but fascinating project which was suggested to me by my former pupil Hans, a month after I left prison. Having decided to go back to Saxony, he came to bid me farewell, reiterating his gratitude for the instruction which I had given him, and introducing me at the same time to one of his friends, a printer, a Saxon like himself, but who had been living in Rome for fifteen years.

  Unlike Hans, this man was not a Lutheran. He was a disciple of a Dutch thinker whom Guicciardini had already mentioned to me: Erasmus. It was the latter who had suggested the mad scheme which he had adopted as his own.

  This was to prepare an enormous lexicon in which each word should appear in a multitude of languages, including Latin, Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, Saxon, German, Italian, French, Castilian, Turkish and many others. For my part I undertook to provide the Arabic and Hebrew sections on the basis of a long list of Latin words.

  The printer spoke with moving fervour:

  ‘This project will probably never see the light of day, at least not in my lifetime or in the form for which I strive. Nevertheless I am ready to devote my life and my money to it. To strive so that all men may one day be able to understand each other, is that not the noblest of ideals?’

  To this grandiose dream, this marvellous folly, the Saxon printer had given the name Anti-Babel.

  The Year of the King of France

  931 A.H.

  29 October 1524 – 17 October 1525

  Cold messenger of death and defeat, the snow fell upon my way that year for a third time. As in Granada during a certain winter of my childhood, as in the Atlas in the autumn of my fortune, it came back in a storm, this devastating blast, ill-fated whisper of destiny.

  I was returning from Pavia, in the company of Guicciardini, having carried out a most extraordinary mission, a most secret one as well, since of all the princes of Christianity the Pope alone knew its import, and only the King of France had been properly forewarned.

  Ostensibly, the Florentine had been appointed by Clement VII to perform a mission of mediation. The last months had been bloody. The emperor’s troops had tried to take Marseilles, showering hundreds of cannon-balls over the city. Without success. King François had retaliated by seizing Milan and then by besieging Pavia. The two armies threatened to confront one another in Lombardy, and it was the Pope’s duty to avert a murderous battle. It was his duty, Guicciardini explained to me, but it was not in his interests, since it was only the rivalry which existed between the two Christian powers that gave the Holy See some freedom of manoeuvre. ‘To make sure that peace is not made, we must be the mediators.’

  More important was the other mission, in which I was involved. The Pope had learned that an ambassador of the Grand Turk was on his way towards the camp of the King of France. Was this not the occasion so long awaited to make contact with the Ottomans? Hence Guicciardini and I had to be beneath the walls of Pavia at the same time as this emissary, and give him a verbal message from Clement VII.

  In spite of the cold, we reached the French lines in less than a week. We were welcomed first by a high-ranking old gentleman, Maréchal de Chabannes, seigneur of La Palice, who knew Guicciardini very well. He seemed surprised at our visit, since another of the Pope’s envoys, the bursar Matteo Giberti, had arrived a week earlier. Not in the least disconcerted, Guicciardini replied in a tone which was half ingratiating, half joking, that it was normal ‘to send John the Baptist ahead of Christ’.

  This bragging apparently had some effect, since the Florentine was received that very day by the king. I was not myself admitted to the interview, but I was able to kiss the monarch’s hand. To do this I barely needed to bow my head, since he was at least a hand’s breadth taller than me. His eyes slid over me like the shadow of a reed before dispersing in a thousand unattainable shimmers while mine were fixed in fascination on a particular point in his face, where his immense nose came to protect a moustache that was too fine, plunging valiantly over his lips. It was probably because of his complexion that François’ smile appeared ironical even when he wanted to appear benevolent.

  Guicciardini came out well pleased from the round tent where the meeting had taken place. The king had confirmed that the Ottoman would arrive the next day, and seemed delighted at the idea of contact between Rome and Constantinople.

  ‘What better could he hope for than a blessing from the Holy Father when he seals an alliance with the unbelievers?’ the Florentine remarked.

  Before adding, apparently delighted to have caught me unawares:

  ‘I mentioned your presence here and your knowledge of Turkish. His Majesty asked me if you could act as interpreter.’

  However, when the Ottoman envoy came in and began to speak, I was struck dumb, incapable of opening my lips, incapable even of clearing my throat. The king gave me a murderous look, and Guicciardini was red with anger and confusion. Very fortunately the visitor had his own translator, who, moreover, knew François’ language.

  Of all those present, one man alone understood my agitation and shared it, although his office forbade him to reveal anything, at least until he had accomplished the formal ritual attached to his functions of representative. Only after having read out the letter from the sultan, and after exchanging a few smiling words with the king, did the ambassador come over to me, embrace me warmly, and say out loud:

  ‘I knew that I should meet allies and friends in this camp, but I did not expect that I should find a brother here whom I had lost for many long years.’

  When the interpreter of the Ottoman delegation had translated these words, the company had eyes only for me, and Guicciardini breathed again. I myself had only one dazed and incredulous word on my lips:

  ‘Harun!’

  I had indeed been told the previous evening that the Grand Turk’s ambassador was called Harun Pasha. But I had not made the slightest connection between him and my best friend, my closest relative, my almost brother.

  We had to wait until the evening to be alone in the sumptuous tent which his escort had put up f
or him. His Excellency the Ferret wore a high and heavy turban of white silk, embellished with a huge ruby and a peacock’s feather. But he hastened to take it off, with a gesture of relief, revealing a balding greying head beneath.

  Straight away he began to satisfy my evident curiosity:

  ‘After our voyage together to Constantinople I often entered the Sublime Porte, as the emissary of ‘Aruj Barbarossa, may God have mercy upon him! and then of his brother Khair al-Din. I learned Turkish and the language of the courtiers, I made friends at the diwan and I negotiated the incorporation of Algiers into the Ottoman sultanate. I shall be proud of that until the Day of Judgement.’

  His hand made a sweeping gesture through the air.

  ‘At present from the borders of Persia to the coast of the Maghrib, from Belgrade to the Yemen, there is one single Muslim Empire, whose master honours me with his confidence and his good will.’

  He continued, with a tone of reproach he did not try to hide:

  ‘And what have you been doing all these years? Is it true that you are now a high dignitary at the papal court?’

  I deliberately repeated his own formula:

  ‘His Holiness honours me with his confidence and his good will.’ I thought it as well to add, emphasizing every word:

  ‘And he has sent me here to meet you. He hopes to establish a link between Rome and Constantinople.’

  If I was expecting some excitement, some show of joy, some surprise at this most official pronouncement I was deeply frustrated. Harun suddenly seemed preoccupied by a speck of dirt on the rivers of his billowing sleeve. Having rubbed and blown upon it to wipe it away entirely, he deigned to reply, in tones of pious frivolity:

  ‘Between Rome and Constantinople, do you say? And to what end?’

  ‘For peace. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Christians and Muslims all around the Mediterranean could live and trade together without war or piracy, if I could go from Alexandria to Tunis with my family without being kidnapped by some Sicilian?’