One day mythology will say of Libya that it was a forest born from the hairs on the head of a providential figure, himself the product of a divine dream, beneath a carnival sky, bearing a green standard that flutters in the wind and a book the same colour that contains, like holy verses, both the prayers I offered and those I granted so that my homeland, which became my child, should not suffer either the thunderbolts of demons or the flames of incendiaries.
Libya is my magic trick, my own Olympus. Here in my realm, where I have been the humblest of sovereigns, the trees have grown straight since they stood to attention at the sound of my trumpets. Here, in the land of poets and of scimitars, every flower that blooms blooms because it trusts me, every stream that bubbles up between the pebbles tries to flow to me, every baby bird that cheeps in its nest praises me.
What happened, so suddenly, to turn the ayah on its head, to make my subjects drown out my words with their own?
The sorrow of it!
I am like God. The world I made has turned against me.
15
Abu-Bakr is restless in the front seat, twisting his head, staring in the rear-view mirror and then turning to look over his shoulder. For the last ten minutes we have been driving through empty suburbs. Looted shops, houses without doors and windows, railings and shutters banging in the silence and the burnt-out shells of cars bear witness to the vandals’ ferocity. They have even torn down the few trees that line the roadside.
It feels as though we are in a town that has died.
On the façade of one building a black flag flutters as a sign of mourning.
Farewell, Sirte. Nothing will ever be as it was for you. Your celebrations will feel like funerals and your banquets taste of ashes. But when you are asked what you did with your talents do not, I beg you, lower your head and point an accusatory finger at the barbarians who ravish you today. Above all, say nothing, because it is you yourself who have despoiled your talents.
We are driving at speed, yet I have the feeling we are running on the spot, so much does each part of town look the same as the last. On pavements strewn with debris and rubble, large dark stains show the places where tyres have been burnt, where people built barricades and were attacked and where men were lynched before being doused in petrol and set on fire. A horrible smell of cremation hangs in the air, which is laden with omens of apocalypse.
Since leaving the school we have not seen one living being, apart from dogs fleeing the fighting, and stray cats. The only human trace we have glimpsed is the body of a soldier hanged from a lamppost, his trousers around his ankles, his penis amputated.
‘What’s that cloud of dust way back there?’ the general asks the driver.
The driver adjusts his wing mirror.
‘It looks like the Shilkas, General. It must be Colonel Mutassim’s unit.’
The general sits back, relieved. As he turns to me to see if I am happy that my son is joining us at last, gunfire rings out. A rebel roadblock ahead. The leading cars in the column turn sharply southwards; the rest of the convoy follows in a thunder of machine-gun fire. A pickup sways under the impact of the bullets, swerves and crashes into a ditch. Its occupants leap out and return fire to cover each other; they are immediately shot.
Our driver floors the 4×4, heading south.
The general hands me a helmet and body armour.
‘The shit’s hitting the fan,’ Mansour groans.
An explosion suddenly slows us. Ahead vehicles are peeling off right and left. The second 4×4 of my personal bodyguard is in flames.
Lieutenant-Colonel Trid sounds his horn, his arm out of the window signalling the drivers to keep moving.
We drive past the burning 4×4. One of the rear doors is lying on the road next to a dismembered torso. Inside the cabin the occupants are on fire where they sit, killed instantly.
‘The road’s mined,’ the general shouts.
‘A mine would have destroyed the road,’ Mansour says, ‘but the 4×4 was stopped dead. That means an air strike. A drone probably.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Trid’s car draws level with the leading vehicle; I see him order the driver to accelerate before he lets two cars pass him and rejoins the convoy in front of my armoured 4×4.
Behind us part of the convoy has halted because of the crash or possibly mechanical problems; the other half is overtaking in any way it can in an effort to catch up with us.
Mansour puts his hand on my knee to comfort me.
‘Remove your hand,’ I order him. ‘Whatever you do, do not touch me. I have not forgotten the way you behaved yesterday.’
He does not take his hand away but presses my knee more firmly.
‘Muammar, my brother, master, guide, we’re going to die. What is the point of leaving each other still angry about things that don’t matter?’
‘We’re going to get out of this mess,’ the general shouts at him. ‘God is with us.’
‘God has changed sides, my poor Abu-Bakr,’ Mansour sighs. ‘He’s with our enemies now, leaving us only our eyes to weep with.’
I elbow him hard in the ribs to make him shut up.
‘Silence, bird of ill omen.’
Behind us there is disarray. Some vehicles are turning back, others are scattering down minor roads. Sporadic explosions can be heard, then longer salvoes.
‘Are we being attacked, General?’
‘I don’t think so, Rais.’
‘Our men are panicking,’ Mansour explains. ‘They’re firing at random because they don’t know what’s going on. They’ll kill each other without realising it.’
The lieutenant-colonel has also seen the chaos overtaking the second part of the convoy. He turns his car round to try to restore some order to the column, realises the situation is deteriorating, and returns to us. With a hand he invites our driver to follow him.
We negotiate a roundabout to go back the way we have come, doubling back as far as the 4×4 hit by the air strike, then turn down an avenue cratered with holes. The general signals to me that a third of the convoy has got lost. I turn round to check and can see only twenty or so vehicles weaving along behind us.
‘We have to restore some order here, General, otherwise we shall get bogged down.’
‘There is a barracks not far from here,’ he says.
‘Head for it.’
We overtake the lieutenant-colonel’s car to direct him to the barracks. But the complex is occupied by militiamen. They meet our arrival with 12.7 mm machine guns and anti-tank rockets. We retreat in indescribable chaos. A deafening roar comes from overhead. I just have time to see two fighters streak across the sky like meteorites, then two bombs hit the column right in the middle. Behind us vehicles start exploding in a chain reaction, like Chinese firecrackers. A human arm, on fire, bounces off the windscreen of my 4×4. The convoy is in utter confusion. Men abandon their vehicles and flee in all directions.
There are oil drums blocking the avenue. We turn onto a road that runs parallel.
‘They’re drawing us into a trap,’ Mansour warns us. ‘Let’s turn back.’
‘Where to?’ Abu-Bakr curses.
‘To the Hotel Mahari.’
‘It’s too risky.’
‘It’s less risky than driving like maniacs into the unknown.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Trid’s car brakes. Too late to avoid the spikes scattered across the road, his driver loses control; my 4×4 rams him. The driver and the general are stunned by the airbags. Mansour opens the door, jumps down, shooting as he goes two militiamen attracted by the collision. I grab my Kalashnikov and get out of the vehicle after him. The still groggy driver helps the general out. We start running in no particular direction. My soldiers fire blindly. The area is stiff with rebels. We are locked down. Skirmishing starts in the side streets. Shouts of ‘Allāhu Akbar’ are punctuated by interminable volleys. The convoy’s third section, commanded by my son, tries to break through to join us, but is stopped by mortar fire. Jets of fire and steel are tearing my troops to shreds. Mansour has disappeared. Lieutenant-Colonel Trid’s face is covered in blood. He gestures to me to put my head down and follow a low wall to where he is. My personal bodyguard regroups around me. Nearby, on the other side of the wall, a pickup mounted with a heavy machine gun is spraying fire. Its exhaust clouds choke the air. My throat is burning. Trid aims at the gunner and blows his head off. We attack the pickup from the rear and take it out with the second grenade. I see the driver writhing inside it as the flames consume him.