by Antonio Napoli

In the shadow of Timbuktu, behind the splendor of the “queen of the sands,” lay a small kingdom under the rule of Sultan Mehemed Ali.
In his relentless effort to attract merchants from the most distant lands, the sovereign faced an invisible threat: the voice of a prophet who had crossed the borders of his domain, sowing doubt and fear about the fate of the kingdom. Merchants are not easily intimidated by risk, but they do need some certainty.

The sultan paced restlessly through the palace hall.

“How does one silence a man who is harmful to the kingdom?” he burst out, fixing his advisor with an icy gaze.

“By killing him,” the other replied in a measured tone.

“No. Such corpses continue to speak.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They speak through the mouths of the outraged, the brave, those who do not forget.”

“Then how can such a powerful man be silenced?”

“Advisor,” the sovereign rebuked him impatiently, “your task is not to ask questions.”

The advisor remained silent for a moment, then spoke cautiously. “If you truly wish to silence a man, you must make him believe that words are useless. That truth does not exist. Only then will he stop shouting—because he will lose all hope.”

The sultan gave a cold smile. “A subtle idea, but difficult to execute… Everything about him irritates me, even the fact that he intrigues me.”

“May I ask who you are speaking of?”

“The prophet Abul Assan.”

“Killing a prophet or imprisoning him, my Lord, is futile,” the advisor warned. “Every new age that a man like him foretells will come regardless. And when it arrives, it will bring justice.”

“Who knows…” murmured the sultan, staring into the distance.

“An ordinary man may despair of himself, of his means, of his words,” the advisor continued. “But a prophet cannot. His words do not belong to him, nor do his dreams. No one can extinguish the fire in his bones, not even he himself.”

The sovereign stepped out onto the terrace and fixed his gaze on a window barred with iron grating. Between the bars, he thought he glimpsed the prophet’s face. He shuddered.

“He has predicted my death on the next expedition,” he said.

“And does that trouble you, my Lord?”

“Troubled and serene, no more and no less than every time I prepare for conquest.”

Mehemed Ali dismissed the advisor and remained alone with his most tormenting thoughts.
“Why was I born in the same time as that prophet? Why do we share the same destiny? I will never be entirely proud of my conquests, for his words announce the end of my world—the one I have fought so hard for. But if he is here to hasten the end, I am here to delay it.”

At that moment, he saw a young pigeon on the ledge of a wall, driving away an old one. “I have just thought of what to do against that prophet!” he said to himself, his face lighting up like that of a strategist who has found a solution.