Leo Africanus (50 page)

More important was the other mission, in which I was involved. The Pope had learned that an ambassador of the Grand Turk was on his way towards the camp of the King of France. Was this not the occasion so long awaited to make contact with the Ottomans? Hence Guicciardini and I had to be beneath the walls of Pavia at the same
time as this emissary, and give him a verbal message from Clement VII.

In spite of the cold, we reached the French lines in less than a week. We were welcomed first by a high-ranking old gentleman, Maréchal de Chabannes, seigneur of La Palice, who knew Guicciardini very well. He seemed surprised at our visit, since another of the Pope's envoys, the bursar Matteo Giberti, had arrived a week earlier. Not in the least disconcerted, Guicciardini replied in a tone which was half ingratiating, half joking, that it was normal ‘to send John the Baptist ahead of Christ'.

This bragging apparently had some effect, since the Florentine was received that very day by the king. I was not myself admitted to the interview, but I was able to kiss the monarch's hand. To do this I barely needed to bow my head, since he was at least a hand's breadth taller than me. His eyes slid over me like the shadow of a reed before dispersing in a thousand unattainable shimmers while mine were fixed in fascination on a particular point in his face, where his immense nose came to protect a moustache that was too fine, plunging valiantly over his lips. It was probably because of his complexion that François' smile appeared ironical even when he wanted to appear benevolent.

Guicciardini came out well pleased from the round tent where the meeting had taken place. The king had confirmed that the Ottoman would arrive the next day, and seemed delighted at the idea of contact between Rome and Constantinople.

‘What better could he hope for than a blessing from the Holy Father when he seals an alliance with the unbelievers?' the Florentine remarked.

Before adding, apparently delighted to have caught me unawares:

‘I mentioned your presence here and your knowledge of Turkish. His Majesty asked me if you could act as interpreter.'

However, when the Ottoman envoy came in and began to speak, I was struck dumb, incapable of opening my lips, incapable even of clearing my throat. The king gave me a murderous look, and Guicciardini was red with anger and confusion. Very fortunately the visitor had his own translator, who, moreover, knew François' language.

Of all those present, one man alone understood my agitation and shared it, although his office forbade him to reveal anything, at least until he had accomplished the formal ritual attached to his functions
of representative. Only after having read out the letter from the sultan, and after exchanging a few smiling words with the king, did the ambassador come over to me, embrace me warmly, and say out loud:

‘I knew that I should meet allies and friends in this camp, but I did not expect that I should find a brother here whom I had lost for many long years.'

When the interpreter of the Ottoman delegation had translated these words, the company had eyes only for me, and Guicciardini breathed again. I myself had only one dazed and incredulous word on my lips:

‘Harun!'

I had indeed been told the previous evening that the Grand Turk's ambassador was called Harun Pasha. But I had not made the slightest connection between him and my best friend, my closest relative, my almost brother.

We had to wait until the evening to be alone in the sumptuous tent which his escort had put up for him. His Excellency the Ferret wore a high and heavy turban of white silk, embellished with a huge ruby and a peacock's feather. But he hastened to take it off, with a gesture of relief, revealing a balding greying head beneath.

Straight away he began to satisfy my evident curiosity:

‘After our voyage together to Constantinople I often entered the Sublime Porte, as the emissary of ‘Aruj Barbarossa, may God have mercy upon him! and then of his brother Khair al-Din. I learned Turkish and the language of the courtiers, I made friends at the
diwan
and I negotiated the incorporation of Algiers into the Ottoman sultanate. I shall be proud of that until the Day of Judgement.'

His hand made a sweeping gesture through the air.

‘At present from the borders of Persia to the coast of the Maghrib, from Belgrade to the Yemen, there is one single Muslim Empire, whose master honours me with his confidence and his good will.'

He continued, with a tone of reproach he did not try to hide:

‘And what have you been doing all these years? Is it true that you are now a high dignitary at the papal court?'

I deliberately repeated his own formula:

‘His Holiness honours me with his confidence and his good will.' I thought it as well to add, emphasizing every word:

‘And he has sent me here to meet you. He hopes to establish a link between Rome and Constantinople.'

If I was expecting some excitement, some show of joy, some surprise at this most official pronouncement I was deeply frustrated. Harun suddenly seemed preoccupied by a speck of dirt on the rivers of his billowing sleeve. Having rubbed and blown upon it to wipe it away entirely, he deigned to reply, in tones of pious frivolity:

‘Between Rome and Constantinople, do you say? And to what end?'

‘For peace. Wouldn't it be wonderful if Christians and Muslims all around the Mediterranean could live and trade together without war or piracy, if I could go from Alexandria to Tunis with my family without being kidnapped by some Sicilian?'

Once more that stubborn mark on his sleeve. He rubbed it even harder and dusted it off energetically before directing towards me a look without kindness.

‘Listen to me, Hasan! If you want to recall our friendship, our years at school, our family, the impending marriage of my son and your daughter, let's talk about such things in peace around a full table and, by God, I should enjoy that moment more than any other. But if you are the envoy of the Pope and I am the envoy of the sultan, then we must discuss things differently.'

I tried to defend myself:

‘Why should you reproach me? I only spoke about peace. Is it not right that the religions of the Book should cease to massacre one another?'

He interrupted me:

‘You must know that between Constantinople and Rome, between Constantinople and Paris, it is faith which divides, and interest, noble or base, which brings together. Don't talk to me about peace or the Book, because they are not in question, and it is not about them our masters think.'

Since we were children I had never been able to keep up an argument against the Ferret. My reply had the ring of capitulation:

‘All the same I see a common interest between your master and my own; neither the one nor the other wants Charles V's empire to spread throughout Europe, or Barbary!'

Harun smiled.

‘Now that we are talking the same language I can tell you what I have come to do here. I am bringing the king gifts, promises, even a hundred or so brave horsemen who will fight at his side. Our struggle is the same; do you know that the French troops have just
captured Ugo de Moneada, the man whom I myself defeated before Algiers after the death of ‘Aruj? Do you know that our fleet has been ordered to intervene if the imperial troops try to take Marseilles again? My master has decided to seal an alliance with King François, and to this end he will continue to multiply his gestures of friendship.'

‘Will you be able to promise the king that the Ottoman offensive in Europe will not continue?'

Harun seemed exasperated by my naïveté.

‘If we attacked the Magyars, whose sovereign is none other than the brother-in-law of the Emperor Charles, the King of France would not think of reproaching us for it. It would be the same if we were to besiege Vienna, which is governed by the emperor's own brother.'

‘Won't the King of France be criticized by his peers if he lets Christian territories be conquered in this way?'

‘Probably, but my master is ready to give him in exchange the right to protect the destiny of the churches of Jerusalem and the Christians of the Levant.'

We were silent for a moment, each immersed in our own thoughts. Harun leaned back on a carved chest and smiled.

‘When I told the King of France that I had brought a hundred soldiers for him, he seemed embarrassed. I thought for a moment that he would refuse to let them fight at his side, but eventually he thanked me most warmly. And he made it known in the camp that these horsemen were Christian vassals of the sultan.'

He continued abruptly:

‘When will you return to your family?'

‘One day, certainly,' I said hesitantly, ‘when Rome has lost its attractions for me.'

‘ ‘Abbad the Soussi told me when I saw him in Tunis that the Pope had imprisoned you for a year in a citadel.'

‘I had criticized him sharply.'

Harun was overcome by a fit of merriment.

‘You Hasan, son of Muhammad the Granadan, allowed yourself to criticize the Pope right in the middle of Rome! ‘Abbad even told me that you criticized this Pope for being a foreigner.'

‘It was not exactly that. But my preference was certainly for an Italian, if possible a Medici from Florence.'

My friend was dumbfounded that I should answer him in all
seriousness.

‘A Medici, you say? Well, as soon as I return to Constantinople I shall suggest that the title of caliph should be taken away from the Ottomans and restored to a descendant of ‘Abbas'

He cautiously stroked his neck and collar, repeating as if it were a refrain:

‘You prefer a Medici, you say?'

While I was conversing with Harun, Guicciardini was concocting the most elaborate plans, convinced that my relationship with the emissary of the Grand Turk presented a unique opportunity for papal diplomacy. I had to moderate his enthusiasm, to make him aware, in particular, of the complete indifference which my brother-in-law had displayed. But the Florentine dismissed my objections with a wave of his hand:

‘In his capacity as ambassador, Harun Pasha will undoubtedly report our overtures to the Grand Turk. A step has been taken, and we shall receive an Ottoman emissary at Rome before long. Perhaps you and I will also take the road to Constantinople.'

But before going further, it was time to give the Pope an account of our mission.

We were hastening towards Rome when the snowstorm which I mentioned took us by surprise a few miles south of Bologna. With the first blasts, the drama of the Atlas broke in upon my memory. I felt myself brought back to those terrifying moments when I had felt myself surrounded by death as if by a pack of hungry wolves, only linked with life by the hand of my Hiba, which I held savagely. I repeated over and over again to myself the name of my beautiful Numidian slave, as if no other woman had ever taken her place in my heart.

The wind redoubled its force, and the soldiers of our escort had to dismount to try to shelter. I did the same, and so did Guicciardini, but I quickly lost sight of him. I thought I heard shouts, calls, yells. From time to time I saw some fleeting figure which I tried to follow, but which vanished each time into fog. Soon my horse ran away. Running blindly, I collided with a tree, which I clung to, crouching and shivering. When, after the storm had died down, someone
finally found me, I was stretched out unconscious, deep in the snow, my right leg fractured by some maddened horse. Apparently I had not remained covered up for long, which saved my leg from amputation, but I could not walk and my chest was on fire.

So we returned towards Bologna, where Guicciardini put me in a little hostelry near the Spanish College. He himself left the next day, predicting that I would be on my feet within ten days and would be able to join him at the papal court. But that was only to make me feel better, because when he arrived in Rome he immediately advised Maddalena to come and join me as soon as possible with Giuseppe, and to bring my papers and my notes so that I could overcome my boredom by writing. In fact I could not get used to being unable to move, and at first I was in a perpetual temper, all day long cursing the snow, destiny and the unfortunate hotel-keeper, who nevertheless served me patiently.

I was not to leave my bedroom until the end of that year. First I was nearly carried off by pneumonia and I had hardly recovered when my leg began to bother me again; it was so numb and swollen that I feared amputation once more. Out of rage and despair I worked and worked, day and night, and in this way I was able to finish the Arabic and Hebrew translations which I had promised the Saxon printer. I also managed to write the first volumes of my
Description of Africa
that year. After a few months I eventually began to get used to the advantages attached to my condition of sedentary scribe and penitent traveller, and to experience the everyday joys of my little family. But not without keeping an anxious eye on what was happening around me.

I was still between two fevers at the beginning of March when Maddalena told me the news that was already shaking Italy: the imperial troops had crushed the army of the King of France before Pavia. At first it was rumoured that François had been killed; I soon learned that he had only been captured. But the situation was only a little less disastrous; whatever the fate of the monarch, it was clear that the French would not be able to stand in the way of the emperor's ambitions for some time.