Amin Maalouf - Leo Africanus

Ten days later, I received a visitor. Seeing the attentiveness with which the guards welcomed him, I understood that he was a close associate of the Pope. He was a Florentine, Master Francesco Guicciardini, governor of Modena and a diplomat in His Holiness’ service. I gave my own personal particulars, my names, titles and distinguished achievements, not leaving out any of my missions, however compromising, from Timbuktu to Constantinople. He seemed delighted. We spoke to each other in Castilian, a language which I understood well enough but in which I could only express myself with difficulty. So he made himself speak slowly, and when I apologized politely for the inconvenience which my ignorance involved, he replied with great courtesy:

‘I do not myself know Arabic, which is nevertheless spoken all round the Mediterranean. I should also present my excuses.’

Encouraged by his attitude, I uttered several words of vulgar Italian, that is to say Tuscan, as well as I could, at which we both laughed together. After that, I promised him in a tone of friendly defiance:

‘Before the end of the year, I shall speak your language. Not as well as you, but sufficiently to make myself understood.’

He acknowledged this by a motion of his head, while I continued:

‘However, there are some habits which I shall need time to acquire. Particularly the Europeans’ way of addressing the person they are speaking to as “you”, as if there were several people, or “she” as if to a woman who is not there. In Arabic we use the familiar you to everyone, prince or servant.’

The diplomat paused, not so much to think, it seemed to me, but rather to invest the words which were going to come with due solemnity. He was sitting on the only chair in the room, dressed in a red bonnet which outlined the shape of his head, giving him the air of a conspirator. I was sitting on the trunk, a pace away from him. He leaned over, pointing a predatory nose in my direction.

‘Master Hassan, your coming here is important, supremely important. I cannot say more to you about it, because the secret belongs to the Holy Father, and he alone will be able to reveal it to you when he judges it opportune. But do not think that your adventure is due to pure chance, or to the innocent caprice of a corsair.’

He pondered:

‘I am not saying that the good Bovadiglia has crossed the seas in search of you. Not at all. But he knew what sort of Moor should be presented to the Holy Father: a traveller, an educated man. More than this, he has alighted upon a diplomat. We were not hoping for so much.’

Should I have felt flattered to be such a good catch? In any case, I showed neither pleasure nor annoyance. Above all, I was greatly intrigued, and intent on knowing more about it. But Guicciardini was already getting up.

He had scarcely left when an officer of the guard came into my cell to ask me whether I needed anything. Boldly, I asked for clean clothes, a little table, a lamp, and something to write with, which I obtained in the course of the day. That very evening, the character of the meals changed: instead of beans and lentils I had meat and lasagne, with red wine from Trebbiato, which I drank in moderation.

The Florentine did not take long to convey to me the news for which I was hoping: the Pope was going to receive me, from the hands of Pietro Bovadiglia. The pirate and the diplomat arrived together in front of the door of my cell on St Valentine’s day. The Pope was waiting for us in the castle itself, in the library. Bursting with fervour, Bovadiglia threw himself at his feet; Guicciardini helped him to get up, confining himself to a deferential but brief kiss of the hand. I came towards him in my turn. Leo X was motionless on his armchair, his face clean-shaven, all round and pleasant, his chin pierced with a dimple, his lips thick, particularly his lower lip, his eyes at once reassuring and inquiring, his fingers smooth with the smoothness of one who has never worked with his hands. Behind him, standing up, was a priest who turned out to be an interpreter.

The Pope put the palms of both hands on my bowed back, whether as a sign of affection or of taking possession I do not know, before saying a few words of thanks for the pirate’s benefit. I was still kneeling, kept thus deliberately by my new master who only permitted me to get up when the Florentine had led my kidnapper outside. For them, the audience was at an end; for me, it was just beginning. In an Arabic strongly tinged with Castilian turns of phrase, the interpreter conveyed to me:

‘A man of art and learning is always welcome among Us, not as a servant but as a protégé. It is true that your arrival in this place has taken place against your will and through means which We cannot approve. But the world is so made that vice is often the arm of virtue, that the best acts are often undertaken for the worst reasons and the worst acts for the best reasons. Thus Our predecessor, Pope Julius, had recourse to a war of conquest in order to endow our Holy Church with a territory where it can feel itself safe….’

He broke off, realizing that he was going to make reference to a debate of whose basic premises I was entirely ignorant. I took advantage of this to venture a timid opinion:

‘In my view, there is nothing scandalous in that. The caliphs, the successors of the Prophet, have always commanded armies and governed states.’

He listened to the translation with unexpected interest. And hastened to question me:

‘Has it always been thus?’

‘Until the moment when the sultans supplanted them. The caliphs have since then been confined to their palaces.’

‘Was that a good thing?’

The Pope seemed to attach great importance to my opinion. I thought very hard before expressing myself.

‘I do not think that it was. As long as the caliphs were rulers, Islam was radiant with culture. Religion reigned peaceably over the affairs of this world. Since then, it is force which rules, and the faith is often nothing but a sword in the hands of the sultan.’

My interlocutor was so satisfied that he called his interpreter to witness:

‘I have always thought that my glorious predecessor was correct. Without his own army, the pope would only be the chaplain of the most powerful king. One is sometimes forced to make use of the same arms as one’s enemies, to go through the same compromises.’

He pointed his index finger towards me.

‘What you say gives Us comfort. Bovadiglia has been very lucky. Are you ready to serve Us?’

I mumbled some words of acquiescence. He acknowledged this, not without a somewhat ironic grimace:

‘Let us accept with resignation the decrees of Providence!’

Before continuing, speaking faster, with the interpreter barely keeping up with him:

‘Our adviser, Master Guicciardini, has spoken briefly about the importance of that which we expect from you. We shall speak about it to you again when the time comes. Know only that you arrive in this blessed city at the most difficult moment in all its history. Rome is threatened with destruction. Tomorrow, when you walk through this city, you will feel that it is growing and becoming more attractive, just as, on the branch of a majestic old tree which has dried up a few buds burst forth, a few green leaves, a few flowers resplendent with light. Everywhere, the best painters, the best sculptors, writers, musicians, artisans, produce the finest works under Our protection. Spring has just begun, but winter already approaches. Death already lies in wait. It lies in wait for us from all quarters. From which side will it reach us? With which sword will it strike us? God alone knows, unless He wishes to take such a bitter cup from Our lips.’