The Year of the Grand Turk
922 A.H.
5 February 1516 — 23 January 1517
I, who ran across the world to save Bayazid from the vindictiveness of the Ottomans, found myself, that year, with wife and child in the very heart of Constantinople and in the most extraordinary position possible: bending over the outstretched hand of Salim the Grim, who was favouring me with a protective nod of his head and the suspicion of a smile. It is said that the prey is often attracted by the fangs which are preparing to destroy it. Perhaps that was the explanation of my insane rashness. But, at the time, I did not see it thus. I was content to follow the course of events to the best of my judgement, endeavouring to start my life anew on the little piece of ground from which I did not yet feel banished. But I should explain how this happened.
Barbarossa prospered before my very eyes, and Harun in his shadow. The attack against Bougie eventually failed, but in the first days of the year the corsair had succeeded in taking power at Algiers, having killed the former master of the city by his own hand, while this unfortunate was being massaged in his hammam.
Of course Algiers was not as big a city as Oran or Bougie, and would not have covered a single quarter of Tlemcen, but it had nevertheless the appearance of a city, with its four thousand hearths, its ordered suqs, ranged by trades, its avenues flanked with fine houses, its bath houses, its hostelries and above all its splendid walls, constructed from huge stones, which extended towards the beach in a vast esplanade. Barbarossa had made it his capital, he had assumed a royal title, and he meant to have himself recognized by all the princes of Islam.
For my part, after the reunion at Jijil, I had taken to the road once more. Tired of wandering and frustrated by my experience in Cairo, which had been interrupted too abruptly, I hoped to cast my anchor at Tunis, for several years at least. I began to dress immediately in the fashion of the country, wearing a turban covered with a veil, feeding on bazin and sometimes even on bassis, even going so far as to inhale an infamous concoction called al-hashish, a mixture of drugs and sugar, which produced drunkenness, gaiety and appetite. It was also a noted aphrodisiac, greatly appreciated by Abu ‘Abdullah, the ruler of Tunis.
Thanks to Harun, who had close connections in the city, including the mizwar, the commander in chief of the army, I had easily been able to find a house in the suburb of Bab al-Bahr, and I began to make contact with several textile manufacturers with the idea of establishing a small trading business.
But I did not have time. Less than a month after my arrival, Harun came one evening and knocked on my door, accompanied by three other lieutenants of Barbarossa, one of whom was a Turk whom I had greeted at Bougie in the tent of the corsair. The Ferret was as serious as a judge.
‘We have a message for you from His Victorious Lordship al-Qa’im bi-‘Amr Allah.’
This was the title which Barbarossa had earned for strangling the Amir of Algiers. He asked me to go to Constantinople to take a message to the sultan, announcing the creation of the kingdom of Algiers, showing him obedience and allegiance and beseeching him for his assistance against the Castilians who were still occupying a marine fort at the entrance to the port of Algiers.
‘I am most honoured to receive so much confidence. But there are already four of you. What need do you have of me?’
‘Sultan Salim will not accept an ambassador who is not a poet and does not address him in verses of praise and thanksgiving.’
‘I can write a poem which you can read yourself.’
‘No. We are all warriors, while you have already carried out the missions of an ambassador. You have a better appearance, and that is important; our master must appear like a king, not like a corsair.’
I was silent, seeking some pretext to evade such a dangerous task, but Harun badgered me relentlessly. His voice seem to come straight from my own conscience.
‘You do not have the right to hesitate. A great Muslim empire is in the process of coming to life in the East, and we in the West should stretch out our hand to it. Until now, we have been subjected to the law of the unbelievers. They have taken Granada and Malaga, then Tangier, Melilla, Oran, Tripoli and Bougie, tomorrow they will seize Tlemcen, Algiers, Tunis. To confront them we need the Grand Turk. We are asking you to assist us in this task and you cannot refuse. No business that you may have here can be more important. And your family is secure. Moreover, your expenses will be paid in full and you will be generously recompensed.’
He did not forget to add, with a pirate’s smile on the corner of his lips:
‘Of course, neither I nor my companions would dare to tell Barbarossa that you have refused.’
I had as much room for manoeuvre as a fledgling being pursued by a falcon. Being unable to reveal the real reason for my hesitation without betraying Nur’s secret, I could not put up an argument.
‘When must we embark?’
‘This very night. The fleet is awaiting us at La Goulette. We have made a detour to fetch you.’
As if expressing the last wish of a condemned man I asked to speak to Nur.
Her reaction was wonderful, not that of the wife of a bourgeois which she had become by our marriage, but that of a soldier’s daughter which she had always been. And of the mother of the sultan which she hoped to become. She was standing in our bedroom, her face and hair uncovered, her head high, her expression direct.
‘You must go there?’
It was halfway between a question and a statement.
‘Yes,’ I said simply.
‘Do you think it may be a trap?’
‘Not at all. I would put my head on the block for it!’
‘That’s exactly what must be avoided. But if you have such great faith in Harun, let us all go there.’
I was not sure that I had understood. She explained to me in a determined voice:
‘Bayazid’s eyes must be able to gaze upon his city and his palace. Perhaps he will have no other opportunity while he is young. The sea voyage has its dangers, certainly, but my son should get used to them. It is up to God to preserve him or let him perish.’
She was so sure of herself that I did not dare to discuss her reasons, preferring to prevaricate:
‘Harun will never accept that I should bring my wife and child.’
‘If you comply with his request he cannot refuse you yours. Talk to him, you know how to find the words.’
At dawn we had already passed Gammarth. With the assistance of my sea-sickness I had the impression of drifting in the middle of a nightmare.
A strange city, Constantinople. So weighed down with history, but at the same time so new, both in its stones and in its people. In less than seventy years of Turkish occupation its face had completely changed. Of course Santa Sophia is still there, the cathedral turned mosque, where the sultan goes in procession each Friday. But most of the buildings have been put up by the new conquerors, and others spring up each day, palaces, mosques and madrasas, or even simple wooden huts into which thousands of Turks are coming to cram themselves, newly arrived from the steppes where they used live as nomads.
In spite of this exodus, the conquerors remain in their capital a minority among others, not in any way more affluent, except for the ruling family. In the most splendid villas, in the best-stocked shops in the bazaar are seen mostly Armenians, Greeks, Italians and Jews, some of the latter having come from Andalus after the fall of Granada. There are not less than forty thousand of them and they are united in their praise for the equity of the Grand Turk. In the suqs, the turbans of the Turks and the skull caps of the Christians and Jews mingle without hatred or resentment. With only a few exceptions, the streets of the city are narrow and muddy, so that people of rank can only move about if they are carried on men’s backs. Thousands of people follow this dreadful employment, for the most part new arrivals who have not yet found any better occupation.