Amin Maalouf - Leo Africanus

‘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.

‘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.

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!’