by Amin Maalouf
My decision was taken. Promising myself to leave within three days, I was making a last trip to the city to settle various matters when a rumour reached me: Tumanbay had been captured, betrayed by the chief of a bedouin tribe.
Around midday cries rang out, mingling with the calls to prayer. A word was uttered near me, Bab Zuwaila. It was towards that gate that thousands of citizens were hurrying, men and women, old and young. I did likewise. There was a crowd there, continually increasing in size, and the more impressive because it was almost silent. Suddenly it parted to allow an Ottoman column to pass through, of a hundred or so cavalrymen and twice as many infantrymen. With backs to the crowd, they formed three concentric circles, with a man on horseback in the middle. It was not easy to recognize Tumanbay from this silhouette. His head bare and his beard shaggy, he was dressed only in scraps of red cloth ill concealed by a white cloak. On his feet he had only a bulky wrapping of blue material.
At the command of an Ottoman officer, the deposed emperor dismounted. Someone untied his hands, but twelve soldiers surrounded him immediately, sabres at the ready. However, he was clearly not considering flight. He waved with his free hands to the crowd, which cheered him bravely. All eyes, including his own, then turned towards the famous gate where a hangman was in the process of fixing a rope.
Tumanbay appeared surprised, but the smile did not leave his lips. Only his gaze lost its sharpness. His only cry to the crowd was:
‘Recite the Fatiha three times for me!’
Thousands of murmurs could be heard, a rumbling which became more vibrant each moment.
‘Praise be to God, Lord of the Universe, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Master of the Day of Judgement . . .’
The last Amin was a long drawn out cry, furious, rebellious. Then nothing more, silence. The Ottomans themselves seemed taken aback, and it was Tumanbay who shook them:
‘Hangman, do your job!’
The rope was tied round the condemned man’s neck. Someone pulled at the other end. The sultan rose a foot, then fell back to the ground. The rope had broken. The rope was tied once more, pulled again by the hangman and his assistants, and broke once more. The tension became unbearable. Only Tumanbay maintained his amused manner, as if he felt himself elsewhere already, in a world where courage receives quite a different reward. The hangman tied the rope for the third time. It did not break. A clamour broke out, sobbing, moaning and prayers. The last Emperor of Egypt had expired, the bravest man ever to have governed the valley of the Nile, hung at the Zuwaila gate like a vulgar horse thief.
All night, the vision of the condemned man remained fixed before my eyes. But in the morning, emboldened by bitterness and insomnia and insensitive to danger, I took the road to the pyramids.
Without being aware of it, I had chosen the best moment to escape; the Ottomans, put at ease by the execution of their enemy, had relaxed their vigilance, while the associates of Tumanbay, stunned by their defeat, had taken flight. Of course, we had to stop five or six times to answer various suspicious questions. But we were neither molested nor robbed, and night found us lying peacefully once more at Khadra’s house, in the cottage of our first loves.
There, several months of simple and unexpected happiness passed by. Too small and too poor to attract covetous eyes, the nurse’s village existed cut off from wars and disturbances. But this quiet existence could only serve for me as a shady oasis between two long stages. Noises from afar were calling me, and it was written that I should not remain deaf to their temptations.
The Year of the Abduction
924 A.H.
13 January 1518 – 2 January 1519
I emerged with no certainties from my long rural retreat, studded with contemplations and silent walks. All cities were perishable; all empires devouring, Providence unfathomable. The only things which comforted me were the Nile flood, the movement of the stars, and the seasonal births of the buffaloes.
When the hour to leave arrived, it was towards Mecca that I turned my face. A pilgrimage was a necessity for my life. As Nur was apprehensive about the journey with two children, one aged one year and the other four, I asked Khadra to come with us, which gave her great joy, swearing that she awaited no other reward than the privilege of expiring in the Holy Places. A sailing ship took us from the African shore of the river, half a day from Giza, towards the south. It belonged to a rich manufacturer of sesame oil, who was taking his merchandise to Upper Egypt, stopping a day or two in every town of any importance. Thus we visited Bani Su waif, al-Minya, then Manfalut, where an old man joined us. That same night, taking advantage of the silence and the fact that the children were asleep, I was beginning to write, by the light of a candle, when this new passenger called out to me:
‘Hey, you! Go and wake one of the sailors! I can see a big piece of wood in the water which will be very useful for cooking tomorrow!’
I did not like his janissary tone, nor his hoarse voice, nor his suggestion in the middle of the night. However, out of consideration for his age I replied to him without any disrespect:
‘It’s midnight, it would be better not wake anyone. But I can probably help you myself.’
I put my pen down reluctantly, and went a few steps towards him. But he called out touchily:
‘I don’t need anyone. I’ll manage fine on my own!’
He was leaning overboard, holding a rope in his hand with which he was trying to catch the floating plank, when suddenly a long tail shot up from the water, coiled around him and threw him into the Nile. I began to shout, rousing passengers and crewmen savagely from their sleep. The sail was struck in order to stop the craft, which was moored for a whole hour on the bank, while the brave sailors threw themselves into the water. But to no avail. Everyone agreed that the unfortunate man had been eaten by a crocodile.
Throughout the rest of the voyage I heard the most extraordinary tales about these enormous lizards which terrorize Upper Egypt. It seems that at the time of the pharaohs, then of the Romans, and even at the beginning of the Muslim conquest, the crocodiles did relatively little damage. But in the third century of the hijra a most strange event occurred. In a cave near Manfalut a life-size statue cast in lead representing one of these animals was found, covered with pharaonic inscriptions. Thinking that it was some sort of ungodly idol, the governor of Egypt at the time, a certain Ibn Tulun, ordered that it should be destroyed. From one day to the next the crocodiles unleashed their fury, attacking men with hatred and sowing terror and death. It was then understood that the statue had been put up under certain astrological conjunctions in order to tame these animals. Most fortunately, the curse was confined to Upper Egypt; below Cairo, the crocodiles never eat human flesh, probably because the statue which inhibits them has never been found again.
After Manfalut we passed by Assyut, but did not stop there, because of a further epidemic of plague that had been reported there. Our next port of call was al-Munshiya, where I visited the Berber ruler who governed it. Next was al-Khiam, a little town whose population was entirely Christian, with the exception of the chief of police. Two days later we were at Qina, a large market town surrounded by a wall of mud brick from which the heads of three hundred crocodiles were hanging triumphantly. It was there that we took the land route to go to the port of al-Qusayr, on the Red Sea, equipped with full goatskins for the journey, because there is not a single watering place between the Nile and the Red Sea. We did not take more than a week to reach Yanbu‘, the port of Arabia Deserta, where we berthed at the appearance of the crescent moon of Rabi‘ al-Thani, when the annual pilgrimage season was almost reaching its end. Six days later, we were in Jidda.
In this harbour, which prosperity has passed by, there are few things worth visiting. Most of the houses are wooden huts, apart from two old mosques and a few hostelries. A modest dome should also be mentioned, where it is claimed that Our Lady Eve, mother of mankind, had spent some nights. That year, the town was administered for the time being by an Ottoman admiral, who
had got rid of the former governor, who had remained faithful to the Mamelukes, by throwing him out of a ship in an area infested with sharks. The population, who were mostly poor, were expecting the new government to deal ruthlessly with the unbelievers who were interfering with trade in the Red Sea.
We stayed only two days at Jidda, time to make contact with a caravan leaving for Mecca. Halfway between the two cities I took off my clothes to put on the ihram of the penitents, two long seamless strips of white material, one worn round the waist, the other round the shoulders. My lips repeated tirelessly the cry of the pilgrims: ‘Labbaika, Allahuma! Labbaika, Allahuma!, Here am I, Lord!’ My eyes searched for Mecca on the horizon, but it was not until the end of another day’s journey that I saw the holy city, and then only when I arrived before its walls. The town where the Prophet was born, peace and blessing be upon him! is situated at the bottom of a valley surrounded by mountains which protect it from prying eyes.
I entered the city through Bab al-‘Umrah, the busiest of its three gates. The streets seemed very narrow, and the houses clinging to one another, but better constructed and richer than those of Jidda. The suqs were full of fresh fruit, in spite of the aridity of the environment.
With every step I took I felt myself transported into a world of dreams; this city, built on this sterile soil, seemed never to have had any destiny other than contemplation; at the centre, the Noble Mosque, the House of Abraham; and at the heart of the mosque, the Ka‘ba, an imposing building which I longed to walk round until I became exhausted, each of whose corners bears a name: the Corner of Iraq, the Corner of Syria, the Corner of Yemen, the Black Corner, the most venerated, facing eastwards. It is there that the Black Stone is embedded. I had been told that in touching it I was touching the right hand of the Creator. Usually, so many people were pressing themselves against it that it was impossible to contemplate it for any length of time. But as the great waves of pilgrims had passed I could approach the Stone at leisure, covering it with tears and kisses.
When it was time for me to let Nur, who was following me at a distance, take my place, I went off to drink the blessed water of Zamzam under a vault near the Ka‘ba. Then, noticing that the door of the Ka‘ba had just been opened for some distinguished visitor, I hastened to go inside, long enough for a prayer. It was paved in white marble streaked with red and blue, with black silk hangings covering the whole length of the walls.
The next day I went back to the same places, and repeated the same rituals with fervour, and then sat down for hours, leaning against the wall of the mosque, oblivious to what was going on around me. I was not trying to think about anything in particular. My spirit was simply open to the spirit of God as a flower to the morning dew, and I felt such well-being that all words, all gestures, all looks became futile. I rose to go with regret at the close of each day and returned with joy each morning.
Often, in the course of my meditation, verses of the Qur’an came back into my memory, particularly those of the sura of the Cow, which evoke the Ka‘ba at length: ‘We have established the Holy House to be a retreat and a place of security for mankind, and we have said: “Take the station of Abraham for a place of prayer.” ’ My lips were murmuring the words of the Most High, as at the time of the Great Recitation, without stammering or distortion. ‘Say: We believe in God and in that which has been sent down to us from Heaven, to Abraham and Ismail, to Isaac, to Jacob, to the twelve tribes, to the Books which have been given to Moses and to Jesus, to the Books delivered to the prophets from their Lord; we make no distinction between them, and we are Muslims, resigned to the will of God.’
We left Mecca after a month, which passed by more quickly than a night of love. My eyes were still full of silence, and Nur kept the noise of the children from me. We were travelling towards the north, to visit the tomb of the Messenger of God at Medina, before reaching Tabuk, Aqaba and then Gaza, where a merchant from the Sous offered to take us on board his ship, a caravel moored in a creek to the west of the town. I had met this man during the last part of the journey, and we often rode side by side. He was called ‘Abbad. He was my age and my height, shared my liking for business and travel, but where I had anxiety he had only frankness. It is true that he had read few books, so he maintained intact a certain ignorance which I had lost too early.
We were already at sea when Nur asked me for the first time:
‘Where are we going?’
The answer should have been obvious, as much for her as for me. Did I not have a house in Tunis, where my mother and my eldest daughter were waiting for me? Nevertheless, I remained silent, wearing an enigmatic smile. My Circassian insisted:
‘What have you said to your friend?’
‘His boat will go right across the Mediterranean before going on down the Atlantic coast after Tangier. We will get off where we please.’
Instead of showing her anxiety, Nur put on a singsong voice:
‘Neither in Egypt, nor in Syria, nor in Candia . . .’
I continued, amused by the game:
‘Nor in the Kingdom of Fez, nor in Sus . . .’
‘Nor at Bursa, nor at Constantinople . . .’
‘Nor at Algiers . . .’
‘Nor in Circassia . . .’
‘Nor in Andalus . . .’
Both of us let out long peals of affected laughter, watching closely out of the corner of our eyes to see which one would be the first to give in to the shameful nostalgia of the exiled. I had to wait ten days before seeing the tears, black with dust and lead ore, which betrayed Nur’s deepest fears.
We had put in at Alexandria in order to provision ourselves, and just as we were getting ready to depart an officer of the Ottoman garrison came on board for a last inspection, something which was nothing out of the ordinary in itself. The man probably only nurtured the suspicions which his position required, but he had a way of examining faces which gave each one the sense that he had done wrong, of being on the run, and of having been recognized.
All of a sudden Nur’s son struggled free of Khadra, who was holding him, and ran straight towards the soldier.
‘Bayazid!’ called the nurse.
Hearing this name, the Ottoman leaned towards the child, brought him up to his own height at arm’s length and began to turn him round, insistently examining his hair, his hands and his neck.
‘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 g
lad 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.