Leo Africanus (43 page)

‘What's your name?' he asked.

‘Bazid.'

‘Son of whom?'

Wretched woman, I told you so, I shouted within myself. On two occasions I had come across Nur in the process of instructing her son that he was Bayazid, son of ‘Ala al-Din the Ottoman, and I had reproved her severely, explaining that at his age he could betray himself. Without saying that I was wrong she had replied that the child must know his identity and prepare to shoulder his destiny; she feared she might one day disappear without having revealed his secret to him. But at that moment she was trembling and sweating, and I as well.

‘Son of ‘Ala al-Din,' replied Bayazid.

At the same time he pointed an uncertain finger towards the place where I was sitting. As he did so I got up and went towards the officer with a wide smile and outstretched hand:

‘I am ‘Ala al-Din Hasan ibn al-Wazzan, merchant of Fez and native of Granada, may God restore it to us by the sword of the Ottomans!'

Completely intimidated, Bayazid threw himself upon me and buried his face in my shoulder. The officer let go of him, saying to me:

‘Fine child! He has the same name as my oldest! I haven't seen him for seven months.'

His moustache rustled. His face was no longer terrifying. He turned round and stepped on to the gangway, signalling to ‘Abbad that he could leave.

After we were half a mile from the quay, Nur went back into our cabin to cry all the tears which she had repressed until then.

It was at Jerba, a month later, that Nur experienced her second fright. But this time I did not see her weep.

We had stopped for the night, and I was glad to leave the pitching planks for a while and walk with ‘Abbad on dry land. And I was also
curious to see something of this island whose gentle way of life people had often extolled to me. It had long belonged to the King of Tunis, but at the end of the last century the inhabitants decided to proclaim their independence and to destroy the bridge which linked them to the mainland. They were able to provide for their own needs by exporting oil, wool and raisins, but soon a civil war broke out between the various clans, and mass murders bathed the country in blood. Little by little all authority was lost.

This in no way discouraged ‘Abbad from putting in there as often as possible.

‘Chaos and joy in life are a good match for one another!' he remarked.

He knew a very pleasant sailors' tavern.

‘They serve the biggest fish on the coast, and the best wine.'

I had no intention of stuffing myself, even less of getting drunk on my way back from a pilgrimage. But after the long weeks at sea a little celebration was called for.

We were hardly inside the door and were still looking around for a table corner to sit at, when the end of a sentence made me jump. I listened. A sailor was relating that he had seen the severed head of ‘Aruj Barbarossa displayed in a public place in Oran. He had been killed by the Castilians who paraded their macabre trophy from port to port.

When we found ourselves a place, I began to tell ‘Abbad my recollections of the corsair, my visit to his camp, and the embassy which I had performed in his name at Constantinople. Suddenly my companion made a sign that I should lower my voice.

‘Behind you,' he whispered, ‘there are two Sicilian sailors, one young, the other old, who are listening to you with rather too much interest.'

I turned round furtively. The appearance of our neighbours was scarcely reassuring. We changed the subject, and were relieved to see them leave.

An hour later, we left in our turn, gay and satisfied, happy to walk along the beach on the wet sand, under a radiant moon.

We had just passed some fishermen's huts when some suspicious shadows lengthened in front of us. In an instant we found ourselves surrounded by about ten men, armed with swords and daggers, among whom I easily recognized our neighbours at table. One of them spat out some orders in bad Arabic, but I understood that we
should neither speak nor move if we did not want to be stabbed. A moment later we were flung to the ground.

The last image that I can remember is that of the fist which crashed down on ‘Abbad's neck before my eyes. Then I sank into a long tormented night, stifling, shipwrecked.

Could I have guessed that the most extraordinary of my travels would begin thus?

I no longer saw land, nor sea, nor sun, nor the end of the journey. My tongue was salty, my head felt sick, misty and painful. The hold in which I had been thrown smelled of dead rats, mouldy planks and the bodies of the captives who had haunted it before me.

So I was a slave, my son, and my blood felt the shame. I whose ancestors had trodden the soil of Europe as conquerors, would be sold to some prince, some rich merchant from Palermo, Naples or Ragusa, or, even worse, to some Castilian who would make me drink all the humiliation of Granada every minute.

Near me, weighed down by the same chains, the same ball, ‘Abbad the Soussi lay upon the dust, like the most wretched of servants. I looked at him, a mirror of my own decline. Yesterday he was still proudly strutting about on the bridge of his caravel, distributing kicks and laughter, and the entire sea was not broad enough for him, nor the swell sufficiently raging.

I sighed noisily. My companion in misfortune, whom I thought was asleep, replied without even opening his eyes:

‘
Al-hamdu l'illah! al-hamdu l'illah
! Let us thank God for all his blessings!'

This was hardly the moment for me to blaspheme. So I confined myself to saying:

‘Let us give thanks to Him at all times. But what would you like to thank Him for at this very moment?'

‘For having spared me from rowing like these unfortunate galley slaves whose moaning breath I can hear. I also give thanks to Him
for having left me alive, and in good company. Are these not three excellent reasons for saying
al-hamdu l'illah
!'

He sat up:

‘I never ask from God that He should preserve me from calamities; only that He should keep me from despair. Have faith; when the Most High leaves go of you with one hand, He catches hold of you with the other.'

‘Abbad spoke the truth, my son, more so than he thought. Had I not left the right hand of God at Mecca? At Rome I was going to live in the hollow of His left hand!

925 A.H.
3 January 1519 – 22 December 1519

My abductor was a man of renown and of pious fears. Pietro Bovadiglia, a venerable Sicilian pirate, already in his sixties, several times a murderer, and fearing to offer up his soul in a state of plunder, had felt the need to make reparation for his crimes through an offering to God. Or rather through a gift to His representative on that side of the Mediterranean, Leo X, sovereign and pontiff of Rome, commander of Christianity.

The gift for the Pope was myself, presented with ceremony on Sunday 14 February for the feast of St Valentine. I had been forewarned of this the previous evening, and I had stayed with my back leaning against the wall of my cell until dawn, unable to sleep, listening to the ordinary noises of the city, the laughter of a watchman, some object falling into the Tiber, the cries of a newborn baby, disproportionate in the dark silence. Since arriving in Rome I often used to suffer from insomnia, and I eventually came to guess what it was that made the hours so oppressive; far worse than the absence of freedom, or the absence of a woman was the absence of the muezzin. I had never previously lived thus, week after week, in a city where the call to prayer did not rise up, punctuating time, filling space, reassuring men and walls.

I must have been shut up in the castle for a good month. After the dreadful sea journey and countless stops, I had been landed, without ‘Abbad, on a quayside in Naples, the most populous of the cities of Italy, and then driven alone to Rome by road. I was only to see my companion three years later, in curious circumstances.

I was still in chains, but, to my great surprise, Bovadiglia thought it well to apologize:

‘We are in Spanish territory. If the soldiers were to see a Moor without chains, they would attack him.'

The respectful tone let me hope that from now on I would be less harshly treated, an impression which was confirmed after my arrival at Castel San Angelo, an imposing cylindrical fortress to which I had been brought up by a spiral ramp. I was put into a little room, furnished with a bed, a chair and a wooden trunk, as if it was a modest hostelry rather than a prison, apart from the heavy door, duly padlocked from the outside.

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.