Amin Maalouf - Leo Africanus

Until, that is, Khali succeeded, after a thousand intercessions, in approaching the sovereign’s eldest son, Prince Muhammad, called the Portuguese, because he had been taken prisoner at the age of seven in the town of Arzila and led away to captivity in Portugal for many years. He was now forty, the same age as my uncle, and they stayed a long time together, discussing poetry and the misfortunes of Andalus. And when, after two hours, Khali brought up the problem of Mariam, the prince seemed very indignant and promised to bring the matter to the ears of his father.

He had no time to do so, for, by a strange coincidence, the sultan died the very next day after my uncle’s visit to the palace.

To say that my relations wept for long over the old monarch would be a pure lie, not only because the Zarwali was his friend, but also because the connections just established between his son and Khali seemed to augur well for us.

910 A.H.

14 June 1504 — 3 June 1505

That year was the occasion of my first long journey, which was to take me across the Atlas, Sijilmassa and Numidia, towards the Saharan expanse, and then towards Timbuktu, mysterious city of the land of the Blacks.

Khali had been commanded by the new Sultan of Fez to take a message to the powerful sovereign of the Soudan, Askia Muhammad Touré, announcing his accession and promising to establish the most cordial relations between their two kingdoms. As he had promised me five years earlier, at the time of his journey to the Orient, my uncle invited me to come with him; I had discussed it with my father, who, out of consideration for my beard, which was silky but already thick, no longer thought of standing in my way.

The caravan had set off in the first cool days of autumn, two hundred animals strong, carrying men, provisions and presents. We had camel guards to protect us for the whole length of the journey, as well as cavalrymen who would return when we reached the Sahara. There were also camel drivers and experienced guides, as well as enough servants to make the embassy appear important in the eyes of our hosts. To the official procession were also attached, with my uncle’s permission, several merchants with their wares, intending to take advantage both of the royal protection for the duration of the journey and of the favourable treatment which we would surely receive at Timbuktu.

The preparations had been too meticulous, too long drawn out for my liking. During the last days before departure, I could neither sleep nor read. My breathing was difficult and heavy. I needed to leave at once, to hold on tightly high up on the camel’s hump, to be engulfed in the vast wastes where men, animals, water, sand and gold all have the same colour, the same worth, the same irreplaceable futility.

I discovered very soon that one could also become immersed in the caravan. When the wayfarers know that, for weeks and months, they must proceed in the same direction, confront the same perils, live, eat, pray, enjoy themselves, grieve, and sometimes die, together, they cease to be strangers to each other; no vice remains hidden, no artifice can last. Seen from afar, a caravan looks like a procession; from close to, it is a village, with its stories, jokes, nicknames, intrigues, conflicts, reconciliations, nights of singing and poetry, a village for which all lands are far away, even the land one comes from, or the land one is crossing. I badly needed such distance to forget the crushing miseries of Fez, the relentlessness of the Zarwali, the faceless cruelty of the shaikh of the lepers.

On the same day that we left, we passed through the town of Sefrou, at the foot of the Atlas mountains, fifteen miles from Fez. The inhabitants were rich, but they were shabbily dressed, their clothes all stained with oil, because a prince of the royal house had built himself a residence there and overburdened with taxes anyone who gave the slightest sign of prosperity. Passing down the main street, my uncle brought his horse up level with me to whisper in my ear:

‘If anyone tells you that avarice is the daughter of necessity, tell him that he is mistaken. It is taxation which has begotten avarice!’

Not far from Sefrou, the caravan took the pass through which the road to Numidia runs. Two days later we were in the middle of a forest, near the ruins of an ancient city called ‘Ain al-Asnam, the Spring of the Idols. There was a temple there where men and women used to meet in the evening at a certain time of the year. Having finished the ritual sacrifices, they would put out the lights, and each man would take his pleasure with the woman whom providence had placed by his side. They passed the night together in this fashion, and in the morning they were reminded that for a year none of the women present was allowed to go to her husband. The children who were born during that period were brought up by the priests of the temple. The temple had been destroyed, and the whole city as well, after the Muslim conquest; but the name had survived as sole witness of the age of ignorance.

Two days later we passed near a mountain village which was strewn about with ancient remains. It is called ‘The Hundred Wells’, because there are wells in the vicinity of such depth that they are thought to be caves. It is said that one of them had several levels, with walled rooms on the inside, some large, others small, but all fitted out. That is why treasure seekers come specially from Fez to make the descent, with the help of ropes and lanterns. Some never come to the surface again.

A week after leaving Fez we went through a place called Umm Junaiba, where a curious custom survives: there is a water course, along which the caravans walk, and it is said that anyone who passes along there must jump and dance as he walks, otherwise he will be struck with quartan ague. Our whole company set to it cheerfully, even myself, even the guards, even the great merchants, some from a spirit of fun, others out of superstition, still others to avoid the insect bites, all except my uncle who considered that his dignity as ambassador prevented him from taking part in such pranks. He was to regret it bitterly.

We were already in the high mountains over which, even in autumn, an unpredictable icy wind blows from the north. In such high places, where the climate is so harsh, I did not expect to find people so well dressed and certainly not so well educated. In particular, in one of the coldest mountain ranges, there is a tribe called Mestasa whose principal occupation was to copy books, in the most beautiful handwriting, and sell them in the Maghrib and abroad. In one village alone, an old Genoese merchant living in Fez, Master Thomasso de Marino, who had come along with the caravan, and with whom I often conversed, bought a hundred of these volumes, each with marvellous calligraphy and bound in leather. He explained to me that the ulama and the notables in the land of the Blacks bought many such books, and that it was a very lucrative trade.

As we had stopped for the night in this area, I accompanied the Genoese to a dinner given by his supplier. The house was well built, with marble and majolica, with fine woollen hangings on the walls, the floor covered with carpets, also made of wool, but in pleasing colours. All the guests seemed extremely prosperous, and I could not forbear to ask my host, choosing my words with extreme care, a question which was burning on my lips: how did it come to pass that the people of this cold and mountainous country were so well endowed with possessions and knowledge?

The master of the house burst out laughing:

‘In short you want to know why the people of these mountains are not all boors, beggars or tramps?’