by Jane Johnson
For the next two years Ismail set about his building project once more with the fervour of a driven man. He had palaces throughout the kingdom stripped of their finery: the gold that powdered their walls and ceilings; their exquisitely carved friezes and cedarwood doors. He sent out orders for shiploads of the best Carrara marble to be brought from Genoa to Sale. Then a team of surveyors was dispatched to the ruins to the west of the city, and commanded to make note of those parts that were of ornament or use for his palace at Meknes.
I am sent out to catalogue the site for Ismail, no doubt to ensure that others do not steal anything of value before he can himself take it.
‘Bring me back a stone of your choosing,’ he tells me, and gives me a fine piece of silk in which to wrap it. I go reluctantly, I will admit, for the sun beats down like a hammer on the head, and without great expectation. But the place is astonishing. It sits upon a prominence on the plain, a commanding position that can be seen from miles away, and the size of it becomes more astounding with every step we take towards it. In the shadow beneath its triumphal arch, I gaze up. This place must have been raised by a race of giants, for it towers higher even than the minaret of the Great Mosque, and its stones are so massive it is impossible to think of them moved by mortal men. For hours I wander amidst its roofless pillars, their capitals carved in fanciful flourishes that seem so sharp-edged they might have been completed only yesterday, hardly knowing whether to stare skywards to marvel at their height or at the ground beneath my feet, which is decorated with millions of tiny coloured shards of tile as intricate as the work of our very best zellij-masters, yet depicting not mere abstract patterns but entire living tableaux. I come across a mosaic of monstrous creatures swimming in the sea; then a man sitting backwards on a horse, performing some acrobatic gesture; long walkways bearing cartouches of dancing, drinking figures; a robustly naked woman climbing into or out of a great deep bath, attended upon by two other equally curvaceous servants. I think: this Volubilis must have been a lively place, and its king a great voluptuary, and I sketch them for my own interest as I go around cataloguing the number and quality of the pillars and pavements for Ismail.
So taken up with my studies am I that I almost forget to select a stone to take back to the sultan, and when the call goes out that the expedition is returning to Meknes, I have to scramble to find something uncommon and eventually have one of the men help me to take up a piece of fallen pillar, a fragment of carved capital showing something of the ancient stonemason’s art. We wrap it carefully in a length of silk and place it in a pannier on one of the mules. The poor beast walks lopsidedly all the long way home.
Ismail is very pleased by my choice. He marvels over it, moving the tips of his fingers admiringly across the carving. The pattern suggests, rather than depicts, a tracery of leaves and flowers. ‘This comes from the heart of the first African empire, Mauretania Tingitana, established by the Romans. Already my own domain here exceeds its extent.’ He turns lambent eyes upon me. ‘Imagine that, Nus-Nus: my power is already greater than that of the Romans with all their mighty armies. Now all I have to do is to expel the wretched English from Tangier and the infidel Spanish from Larache and Marmora and I shall restore the purity of the true faith through the length and breadth of our lands. It is my destiny to do this. It is my duty. Do you know why I sent you to Volubilis?’
I shake my head. Sometimes it is wiser not to speak.
‘It was there that Moulay Idriss, great-grandson of the Prophet, first brought Islam to Morocco when he fled the assassins of the Abbasid caliph. And it was there that his son, the second Idriss, was born, who unified Morocco and established its firm allegiance to the words of the Prophet, bringing together in one faith and under one banner this great kingdom. There is magic in these stones, Nus-Nus – for they are imbued not only with the might of the ancient Romans, but also with the word of God. And that is why I must incorporate them into my city, for their power will aid me in my sacred task.’
*
All this time, punctuated by more uprisings in the Rif and reports from the siege of the English colony at Tangier, Ismail threw himself with fervour into the re-creation of his palace, often working stripped to the waist beside the slaves like a common labourer, his face and arms streaked with earth and lime. He worked like a man compelled, a man who simply could not rest because his dreams were eating him from the inside.
That second summer was fearsome, the heat unyielding. The wells ran dry and the few surviving crops were ravaged by a vast flight of locusts blowing in from the desert. By the end of the year the drought still had us in its grip. The fountains were turned off, and mosquitoes bred in the stagnant water and terrorized us at night with their whining flights and blood-sucking.
News that the English garrison defending their colony at Tangier had managed, after a long and bloody fight, to repulse the sultan’s forces could hardly have arrived at a worse time. Ismail’s general, Kaid Omar, rides in from the north one third day in Muharram 1091 to discuss a possible truce with the infidel, who will also, he reports, be sending a representative to the Meknes court.
The sultan commands the attendance of his judges and scholars to rule on the lawfulness of such an action. The conflict with the English is costly and sapping, especially when the country lies in the grip of this drought. He wants the enemy out of Morocco, but war with them has become more than an inconvenience, and the prospect of defeat is unacceptable. If force of arms has failed to drive them from our shores, perhaps there are other ways to persuade them to leave. Can some sort of truce be made without infringing the laws of the Qur’an? The atmosphere is fraught: many of the gathered chieftains argue that to make any kind of agreement with the Christians would be shameful; but ben Hadou counters that political expedience in our current circumstances would be sensible. This seems to inflame the most intransigent further still: they cry that Allah is on their side, that he will provide; that the infidel must be cut down and trodden into the ground they have defiled. The Tinker addresses himself through the din to the sultan. ‘My lord, if you are seen to be patient and merciful with the English, the crowned heads of Europe will surely seek your friendship.’
Ismail cocks his head, interested. He lifts a hand and the din falls away. ‘Do you remember what happened after the conquest of Mecca?’ He looks around the room, a light in his eyes. I scribble the transcription, knowing where this is heading. ‘As the huge army approached Mecca in triumph, Said ibn Ubada, to whom the Prophet had given his standard, called out to Abu Sufyan, leader of the Quraysh of Mecca, who had for so long violently resisted Islam, but knew that there was no chance of resisting this army: “Oh Abu Sufyan, this is the day of slaughter!” “Oh Messenger of God!” cried Abu Sufyan, “have you commanded the slaying of your people? By God I beg your mercy, on behalf of your people, for you are of all men the greatest in piety, the most merciful, the most beneficent.” “This is the day of mercy,” said the Prophet. “On this day God has exalted Quraysh.” And so he granted amnesty to his enemies.’
Raid Omar laughs. ‘I hope we shall not be granting amnesty to all our enemies, or it will be seen as an invitation to the Christian hordes to trample over us.’
‘Was Saladin weak, when he showed mercy after the conquest of Jerusalem? His beneficence surely increased his greatness.’
The tide is turning: you can feel it in the room.
‘My lord, peace with the English would be most advantageous to us.’ The well-modulated voice of ben Hadou rises again. ‘In a time of peace, we can import arms and munitions more cheaply, the better to deal with those rebels within our own borders; and, in time, with the Spanish, and if necessary the English too.’
There is some discussion at this; some agreement too. I watch Ismail casting his eyes from one face to the next, judging his moment. Then he holds up his hand again. ‘We shall show the infidel mercy; but we shall also be astute in our dealings with them: always we have the long view in our mind, and that is to see the
m expelled from our soil.’
The messenger from England comes riding proudly on his horse, dressed in the height of English court fashion – all ribbons, lace ruffs and slashed shoulder pads, with a retinue of equally foppish guardsmen and servants, half of whom are refused entry and told to go kick their heels. Water is so short, we cannot be wasting it on our enemies. The Englishman is brought in to the newly refurbished Ambassadors’ Hall, its walls gleaming with the powdered gold stripped from the grand vizier’s quarters, its ceiling painted azure blue with bright gold embellishments. Incense burns all around, giving off fragrant clouds of smoke; candles flicker in sconces. The sultan awaits in state, seated upon a low couch amidst a crowd of richly dressed kaids and pashas, his slave-boys fanning him with huge ostrich feather fans. The Englishman does not know where to look first: his eyes dart everywhere, evidently in awe of all this finery and opulence, which is exactly the impression Ismail wishes to convey: one of infinite wealth and resources. Show no weakness to the enemy and their bargaining will be made all the harder.
The man sweeps off his hat with a flourish and declares himself to be Colonel Percy Kirke, with a message from the English ambassador, Sir James Leslie, who is unavoidably detained (ben Hadou translates, and I record). The sultan smiles, a narrow, glittering smile: all this he knows from his spies. The ambassador himself is in Tangier: what is delayed is the ship of gifts sent to appease the sultan by the English king, for it is unthinkable for a foreign ambassador to appear at Ismail’s court empty-handed. And the reason for the delay? The French are blockading Sale and the sea to the west of Tangier in protest at the large number of their compatriots taken captive by Sidi Qasem’s corsairs. Ismail’s drive to complete Meknes has required ever more slave-labour: the old corsair chief and his fleet have been kept very busy supplying the sultan’s demands.
Ismail’s gaze sweeps over the visitor assessingly, sums him up and dismisses him. His smile becomes capricious, his focus sharpens. He is charm personified, accepting the man’s apologies with grace and indulgence. When the subject of redeeming English captives is nervously introduced, the sultan clicks his fingers and sends two of the bukhari to fetch out four or five of the feeblest and least useful as a gesture of goodwill. These poor wretches come blinking out of the matamores and are gifted to Kirke, who exclaims his gratitude and thanks the sultan fulsomely, calling him emperor and great one, as if he is born to fawn in true oriental fashion. He appears so taken aback at the ease with which he has gained the freedom of these men that he seems to forget his purpose is to attempt to redeem two hundred more. I catch ben Hadou’s eye during this nauseating display and he twitches an eyebrow at me as if to say, Is this the best that England can offer?
For the next two days Ismail plays the gracious host. He takes the Englishman and some of his companions hunting in the hills outside Meknes for wild boar and antelope: the kills are roasted in spectacular feasts. While the infidels defile themselves with the consumption of wild pig, the sultan eats alone, his favoured couscous with chickpeas and just a little meat. The English sate themselves with meat and hippocras and kif-rich tobaccos in the chicha pipes that we assiduously pass amongst them. Even the following morning they remain befuddled and heavy-headed; and it is in this state that talks resume.
As they walk in the orange groves, Kirke raises the subject of a truce at Tangier, and I translate. Ismail smiles widely and promises that no shot shall be fired against Tangier while Kirke remains in it. It is the emptiest of promises: Ismail does not keep his word with unbelievers. But the Englishman does not know this: he puffs out his chest like a peacock, thinking his skill as a great diplomat has won over this most fearsome of enemies.
More refreshments are taken in the gardens: mint tea for the sultan; plenty of hippocras for the Englishman, the fruit and spices in the concoction masking the powerful brandy beneath. He knocks it back smilingly, no doubt to be polite to his host, though I have heard the English have a great appetite for alcohol. As they partake, my lord Ismail gestures widely. ‘So, my dear Kirke, look around you. As an English aristocrat, used to the finest things in life, what do you think of this palace I am making here?’
Kirke, flattered to be taken as a noble and to have his opinion sought, is effusive in his praise. It is, apparently, finer than anything he has seen in London, although he hears that the French king’s new palace at Versailles may rival it.
Ismail’s face darkens and swiftly Kirke adds, ‘But of course the French have no taste. Gadsbodikins, lud, no taste at all. ’Tis all frippery and furbelow, I have no doubt. Not like this.’ He spreads his arms wide, indicates the huge vista of ongoing building works, the masons and artisans, gardeners and foreign labourers sweating their guts out on the walls. ‘This is… the work of giants, indeed, sir. Mightily, massively… ambitious.’
Ismail inclines his head. His eyes are sharp and bright, like those of a hawk that has sighted prey and is preparing to stoop. ‘Of course, such an undertaking attracts great jealousy and bitterness – I am sure you have noticed how others dislike to see your light shine more brightly than their own. I am forced to protect my works from enemies even in my own land, savages who do not enjoy your degree of discernment, who do not appreciate the art that goes on here, who look with envy upon my creation. I must arm myself against such barbarians if I am not to see my legacy destroyed.’
He beckons to me to take a note of the conversation from this point. It is barely the lift of a finger, this signal, but I am well attuned to such things. I mix my ink with a quick hand, dip the reed and hold it poised.
‘I would beg your indulgence, my lord.’ Ismail promotes the man shamelessly. ‘What I need – what I cannot come by elsewhere in this splendid country of mine is something only you can help me with. We have the finest artisans in so many disciplines, but no one can match the English when it comes to one thing.’
‘And what is that, sire?’
‘Why, guns, man. Cannon. What I really need in order to defend myself from these wicked Berbers who would see all I have created reduced to rubble is ten of the best English guns. I need a steadfast man, a trustworthy man, to take this commission from me and place an order with the best manufacturers England can boast. You, Percy Kirke, you strike me as a trustworthy, steadfast fellow – as my good friend, can you aid me in this?’ The colonel sweeps an elaborate bow. ‘I would be most honoured to, sire.’ He signs my notes at Ismail’s prompting, even though they are in Arabic and could say anything at all, and probably will before too long.
Having got what he wanted, and in writing to boot, the sultan cheerfully packs the man and his retinue off back to Tangier with goodwill gifts and many empty promises. I cannot imagine the true ambassador will be very pleased with the way in which his witless emissary has overstepped himself. I feel almost sorry for the man.
And still the drought continues. Prayers are redoubled: Ismail has become convinced that such severe weather must be a sign of Allah’s wrath, though in response to what he does not say. The children of the city are sent out into the fields to dance and pray for rain, but not a drop falls. The sultan decides the responsibility must now lie with the marabouts and talebs, who tailor their prayers to suit the situation and make a barefoot pilgrimage of saints’ shrines. Still no rain.
Ismail falls into a fury. His vast granaries, constructed at great expense, stretching for miles beneath the city like catacombs, are barely one tenth full. If, God forbid, any enemy (his errant brothers, the Berber tribes, the infidels) were to lay siege to Meknes now, we would starve like rats in a bucket. His ire turns to the Jews of the city: he banishes them out of the city to pray for rain, saying that if they really are God’s chosen ones, as they claim, surely he will listen to their pleas. They are not to return, he decrees, until it rains.
The skies cloud over and for a while it looks as if God indeed favours the Meknassi Jewry; but then the sun breaks through once more and beats down as mercilessly as ever. There is a glut of meat in the market:
in the villages outside Meknes the people are slaughtering their animals since there is no fodder with which to feed them. Some have left their homes and gone up into the mountains with what livestock remains to them, but many old folk have died of heatstroke.
Ismail has auguries cast, but the signs are hard to read. At last he declares that designated members of his court shall go out into the fields unshod, and in the oldest and grimiest garments we can lay hands on. Abid and I are sent into the poorest part of the city to buy dirty cast-offs, teeming with lice and ragged at hem and sleeve, the filthier the better. Old women selling off their husbands’ clothing grab the proffered coins with fingers like talons and shut the door quickly before I can change my mind. Word soon goes round and soon I am surrounded by men gleefully stripping off their old robes in alleyways.
The next day we stand there in the morning sun, which is already burning hot even though it is just risen, having washed before first prayer, so at least our bodies are clean; but the clothes on our backs are rank and verminous, and the sultan’s are the worst of all. He leads us out of the Bab al-Raïs, where the wolf’s head gazes down upon us out of its empty white eye-sockets. I would swear those bony jaws are smiling to see its tormentor, Emir Zidan, reduced to scratching himself like a flea-ridden dog and crying to be allowed to stay home with his mama. But Ismail is determined: all the royal emirs have been made to come, even little Momo, just gone two, whom I have had to wrest from the arms of his wailing mother. Alys cannot bear to be parted from the child even for a short while; I think it must have been nearly losing him to Zidana’s wicked plotting that has made her this way.
We cross the Sahat al-Hedim and people come out of their houses to stare at us – a ragged band, led by a ragged man. Do they even know he is their emperor? It seems unlikely: they have never seen Ismail without his gold-caparisoned horses, his ostrich-fan-wielding slave-boys, his bukhari armed to the teeth. But no one says a word. Something of the solemn nature of our pilgrimage seems to touch the onlookers. Some of them must have joined the procession: by the time we are outside the citadel walls and into the hills beyond, our numbers have swelled. We go from shrine to shrine offering prayers, and all the time the skies remain cloudless and the sun beats down mercilessly. We eat and drink nothing: it is hard upon the children, but of them all Momo is the most stoic.