Rujari’s sympathies were not concealed. Like his father, he preferred to ignore the Pope and rely, instead, on the loyalty of his Muslim subjects. They knew that left to himself, Sultan Rujari would not harm them. It was his Barons and Bishops who filled his ears with poison. They were determined to either convert all Believers or drive them off the island. The talk in the bazaars of Palermo, Siracusa and Catania suggested that the English monks, on papal urging, were advising Rujari to clear the woods and valleys of Believers and join the holy crusade against the followers of the false Prophet. According to some, the most detailed plans had been made to burn Noto to the ground and bury the survivors alive. The rumours usually emanated from inside the palace. Any child in Palermo knew that there were no secrets in the palace that had not been penetrated by the eunuchs.
But there were other voices, too, for no single faction dominated the Court. If anything, Rujari was inclined to favour his Muslim advisers. Younis al-Shami, his old tutor from Noto, the scholar and sage who had taught him Arabic, astronomy and algebra, was treated with reverence. He was still at the palace, supervising the tutors responsible for the education of the young princes. The three tutors were young men he had carefully selected, but he was never satisfied with them and often discharged them with a choice curse and took over himself. It made the boys giggle and they would report all this to their father, knowing full well that it would please him. According to palace gossip, Rujari took no major decision without consulting Younis, but gossip, as any eunuch can tell you, is only reliable if the source is pure.
The sun had become too strong for Idrisi. He descended the ladder and returned to his cabin. He sighed as he sat down on the soft cushions that had been specially put down to spare his behind the discomfort of the rough wooden bench nailed to the floor. Once again he stared at the voluminous manuscript lying on the table before him. Yes, the book was complete, except for the first sentence. For several weeks during this voyage — he felt instinctively it would be his last — he had agonised over the first few words. Indecision had numbed his brain. He was so convinced it was the beginning that was troubling him that he did not consider the possibility that it might be the end. He had, after all, been working on this manuscript for almost eleven years. It had become a substitute for everything. For his friend Ibn Hamid whose reproaches still echoed in his head; for his wife Zaynab, who had left him alone in Palermo and returned to her family home in Noto with their two daughters and, above all, for his younger and favourite son, Walid, who had boarded a merchant ship destined for China and, without a word of farewell, had disappeared from their world. If a customs guard had not seen him board the vessel they would not even have known where he had gone. That was fifteen years ago. Nothing had been heard of Walid since that day. Zaynab blamed her husband for having neglected the boy. Idrisi sent her away to his estate in the country.
‘You spend more time with the Sultan in his palace than with your own family. Perhaps he could find you some rooms in the harem.’
As a result, the book had become the repository of all his emotions. But it, too, was about to leave him and, though he did not know it, this was the true reason for his melancholy. Not the opening lines. That was simply a pretext to prolong the parting. The sound of the water gently slapping the ship’s hull was calming, but he knew he could delay no longer. They would soon sight the minarets. He took his finely sharpened pen and dipped it in the inkwell.
If he remained loyal to his intellect, he would break with the old style and suffer in silence the inevitable abuse that would follow. Many of his acquaintances, some of whom he liked, would regard such a choice as a confirmation of their suspicion that he was really a traitor, an apostate who had secretly abandoned the faith and sold himself to the Christian Sultan. He could reply by informing them that his father claimed direct descent from the family of the Prophet. But so did thousands of others, they would reply. Everyone knew the Prophet’s family had not been that large.
Perhaps he should remain faithful to the old tradition and start in the time-honoured fashion by praising the generosity of Allah, the single-minded devotion of his Prophet, the impartiality and equity of the Sultan and so on. That would please all and free him to start work on another book. But why should he and others like him be condemned to eternal repetition? The answer continued to elude him and he began to pace his cabin, concentrating on his inner turmoil. Perhaps, just this once, he would surprise them all. He would start in the name of Satan, who challenged, defied and was punished. The thought made him smile. The waves below seemed to encourage the heresy. They were whispering, ‘Do it. Do it. Do it’ but when he put his ear to the partition to hear them better they became silent and he reverted to his state of indecision. He was angry with his world and with himself.
In the past, the simple act of observing the lines of the coast, reproducing them in his notebook and making sure that the map lying pinned to the table was accurate, was enough to distract him. This was his third complete journey around the island. If only he could have mapped the whole world like this instead of relying on merchants and seafarer tales, which often contradicted each other when describing the shape of China or the lower half of India. Strange how often they picked on different kinds of fruit to describe the same region. A tiny island off China became a lychee or an apple, the bottom half of India a mango or a pear.
There were times when, more than anything else, he wanted to fly, float above the sea like a hawk. Why had Allah not created giant birds that could drag a chariot through the sky? Then he would have gazed on the lands and seas below and refined his maps. It would have been so simple. Or ride a giant hawk as it flew over the continents. Only then could he ensure that his map was a true representation of the world. He knew the contours of this island as well as his own body. Sometimes his imagination bestowed human shapes to the landscape sighted from the sea: occasionally an ancient angry god, but often a woman. Sometimes she watched him, propped on her elbows, and he would smile at her Greek eyes, marvel at her light Damascene hair sparkling with stars and changing colour as it caught the sun. With the movement of the ship came the realisation that she was not really looking at him. Her gaze lay fixed in the direction of Ifriqiya.
He, too, looked away and wondered how long it would be before he encountered another favourite. If his estimates were correct they would reach the northern tip of the island in a day and a half. Last time the sea had become rough, delaying the journey. Three days later he saw her, a beautiful warrior-woman, erect, angry and threatening, unlike the famed sirens in al-Homa’s poem. ‘I’m not an enemy,’ he would whisper as the ship passed by. ‘I’m a maker of maps. I want to preserve, not to destroy.’ She, too, disdained him and, disappointed, he would turn to the waves and complain. But on this latest journey he had not shown the slightest interest in these old friends. He did not even bother to look at the women as the winds pushed the ship beyond them. He was distracted.