Amin Maalouf - Leo Africanus

‘For the second time we have unleashed forces which we have been unable to contain. First the revolt of the peasants of Saxony, inspired by Luther’s teaching, which had to be condemned and repressed. And now the destruction of Rome.’

He had spoken the first words in Arabic, and then continued in Hebrew, the language he knew better. One thing was certain: he did not want the soldiers accompanying him to be aware of his doubts and his remorse. To me he seemed so ill at ease in his role as Lutheran preacher that when we reached Naples I felt obliged to suggest to him that he should come with me to Tunis. He smiled bitterly.

‘This war is my war. I have longed for it, I dragged my brothers, my cousins, the young men of my diocese into it. I can no longer run away from it, even if it should lead me to eternal damnation. You have only been mixed up in it by a quirk of fate.’

At Naples, an urchin led us to ‘Abbad’s house, and it was only when the latter came to open his gate that Hans left us. I wanted to express my desire to see him again one day, somewhere in the wide world, but I did not want to cheapen the deep gratitude I felt for this man by meaningless formulae. So I simply embraced him warmly and then watched him go, not without a feeling of paternal affection.

Then it was ‘Abbad the Soussi’s turn to give me a warm embrace. For months he had hoped for our arrival each day. He had cancelled all his journeys that year, swearing that he would not leave without us. Now nothing held him back. After a bath, a feast and a nap, we were all at the harbour, perfumed and dressed in new clothes. The finest of ‘Abbad’s galleys awaited us, ready to make for Tunis.

A last word written on the last page, and we are already at the coast of Africa.

White minarets of Gammarth, noble remains of Carthage, it is in their shade that oblivion awaits me, and it is towards them that my life is drifting after so many shipwrecks. The sack of Rome after the chastisement of Cairo, the fire of Timbuktu after the fall of Granada. Is it misfortune which calls out to me, or do I call out to misfortune?

Once more, my son, I am borne along by that sea, the witness of all my wanderings, and which is now taking you towards your first exile. In Rome, you were ‘the son of the Rumi’. Wherever you are, some will want to ask questions about your skin or your prayers. Beware of gratifying their instincts, my son, beware of bending before the multitude! Muslim, Jew or Christian, they must take you as you are, or lose you. When men’s minds seem narrow to you, tell yourself that the land of God is broad; broad His hands and broad His heart. Never hesitate to go far away, beyond all seas, all frontiers, all countries, all beliefs.

For my part, I have reached the end of my wanderings. Forty years of adventures have made my gait heavy and my breathing burdensome. I have no longer any desire other than to live long peaceful days in the bosom of my family. And to be, of all those that I love, the first to depart. Towards the final Place where no man is a stranger before the face of the Creator.