Amin Maalouf - Leo Africanus

Throughout the night, Khali’s house resounded to the sound of an Andalusian orchestra, and trembled under the muffled steps of the dancers, all slavegirls, two of whom had been bought specially for the occasion. I forbade Hiba to dance, because since Timbuktu I could never bring myself to allow her to display her intoxicating charms in front of others. I made her sit close to me, on the softest of cushions, and put my arm around her; Fatima retired early to her room, as was fitting.

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.