The pain struck first—a searing agony that seemed to pierce through every fiber of his being, as if his very soul was being torn asunder and rewoven. Professor Yusuf al-Maghribi gasped, his hand clutching at his chest as the lecture hall of Mohammed V University in Rabat seemed to dissolve around him like watercolors in rain.
Not now, he thought desperately, watching his students' concerned faces blur into indistinct shapes. I haven't finished the lesson on the Marinid administrative reforms...
The irony would have been amusing under different circumstances. Here he was, Morocco's foremost expert on medieval Maghrebi history, particularly the Marinid dynasty that had ruled from 1244 to 1465, collapsing while delivering a lecture on the very period that had consumed his academic life. Forty-seven years of meticulous research, of poring over Arabic manuscripts in the Qarawiyyin library in Fez, of translating Ibn Khaldun's accounts and cross-referencing them with Portuguese and Spanish chronicles—all of it seemed to be slipping away as darkness encroached upon his vision.
The last thing he remembered was the sound of his lecture notes scattering to the floor, pages of carefully researched material on Sultan Abd al-Haqq II's reign floating down like autumn leaves...
Consciousness returned slowly, like dawn breaking over the Atlas Mountains.
The first sensation was wrong—everything was wrong. The air itself felt different, heavier somehow, carrying scents that his modern Moroccan nose had never encountered: the acrid smoke of wood fires, the pungent aroma of unwashed bodies, the metallic tang of weapons being sharpened nearby. But it was more than that. The very quality of silence was different, lacking the constant urban hum of Rabat's traffic, the distant drone of aircraft, the electronic buzz of modern life.
He opened his eyes—or rather, eyes that felt like his but somehow weren't—and found himself staring at a ceiling of intricately carved cedar wood. The geometric patterns were unmistakably Marinid in style, the kind he had spent countless hours analyzing in architectural surveys and medieval manuscripts. But these weren't photographs in a dusty academic journal. These were real, three-dimensional, casting actual shadows in the flickering light of oil lamps.
This is impossible, his mind—or the mind that still remembered being Professor Yusuf al-Maghribi—protested. Yet even as rational thought rejected what his senses were telling him, another part of his consciousness was stirring, bringing with it memories that weren't his own.
He was Abd al-Malik ibn Abd al-Haqq, third son of Sultan Abd al-Haqq II of the Marinid dynasty. Born in the year 844 of the Hijra—1441 by the Christian calendar—he was nineteen years of age in this year of 864 AH, which the Christians called 1460. The knowledge came not as learned facts but as lived experience, as natural as knowing one's own name.
The young prince attempted to sit up, and immediately regretted it. His body—this body that was somehow his—ached as if he had been struck by a mule. But more disorienting than the physical discomfort was the flood of sensory information that didn't match his expectations. His hands were different—younger, callused from sword practice rather than soft from a lifetime of turning pages. His clothing was rough wool and cotton rather than the synthetic fabrics he was accustomed to. Even his own breath smelled different, tinged with the herbs and spices of medieval cuisine rather than modern toothpaste and coffee.
"My lord prince?" The voice came from his left, spoken in a dialect of Arabic that his professor's mind recognized as typical of 15th-century Morocco, but which Abd al-Malik's ears understood perfectly. "You cried out in your sleep. Another of the fever dreams?"
The speaker was a young man perhaps twenty-five years of age, dressed in the simple robes of a court attendant. His face was weathered by sun and wind, marked with the small scars that spoke of a hard life, yet his eyes held the intelligence of someone accustomed to navigating the treacherous waters of royal politics. This was Hakim ibn Rashid, Abd al-Malik's most trusted servant—a man who had served the prince's household since childhood and whose loyalty was beyond question.
"Hakim..." Abd al-Malik's voice came out as a croak, his throat parched. The name felt natural on his tongue, carrying with it years of shared experience that the professor's mind couldn't access directly but somehow knew were there. "What... what hour is it?"
"The fourth call to prayer was made some time ago, my lord. You have slept through the day and into the evening. The palace physicians were summoned, but they could find nothing wrong beyond the fever that has plagued you these past three days." Hakim moved closer, his expression genuinely concerned. "Your father the Sultan has asked for reports on your condition twice today. The court is... worried."
My father the Sultan. The words carried a weight that Professor Yusuf al-Maghribi could never have fully understood from his academic research. This wasn't just the abstract concept of medieval monarchy he had studied—this was personal, intimate, fraught with all the complex emotions of family relationships complicated by absolute power.
Abd al-Haqq II. The last Marinid sultan, though he didn't know it yet. In the original timeline—the one that Professor al-Maghribi remembered—Abd al-Haqq would be murdered in August 1465 during a popular revolt in Fez, triggered by his massacre of Wattasid nobles in 1459. This would end the Marinid dynasty and usher in decades of political chaos under the Wattasids, leaving Morocco vulnerable to Portuguese and Spanish expansion along its coasts.
But now... now there was the possibility of change. The professor's knowledge, combined with the prince's position and youth, might be enough to alter the course of history. The question was whether he could navigate the treacherous political landscape of 15th-century Morocco without getting himself killed in the process.
"Hakim," Abd al-Malik said, struggling to sit up properly. His servant immediately moved to help him, arranging cushions behind his back. "I need to understand... tell me of the court. Who has my father's ear these days? Which of the viziers hold the most influence?"
The request seemed to surprise Hakim, though he was too well-trained to let it show clearly. "My lord, such questions... perhaps when you have recovered your strength? The fever may still be affecting your thoughts."
Clever man, Abd al-Malik thought. He's noticed that something has changed about me. The professor's knowledge told him that medieval courts were hotbeds of intrigue, where a single misplaced word could mean the difference between advancement and execution. Hakim's caution was well-founded.
"The fever has passed," Abd al-Malik said firmly, drawing upon Abd al-Malik's natural authority as a prince while tempering it with the professor's understanding of human psychology. "And it has... clarified certain things for me. I have been too removed from the realities of governance, too content to let others handle the affairs of state while I pursued my studies and martial training. That was a luxury our dynasty could afford when it was strong, but these are different times."
This was true enough, and it aligned with what Hakim would know of Abd al-Malik's character. The historical prince had indeed been more interested in scholarship and military arts than in court politics—a trait that would have made him ineffectual in the struggles to come, but which also meant that a sudden interest in governance wouldn't be entirely out of character.
Hakim studied his master's face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "If my lord truly wishes to know... the situation is... complex. Since the death of Abu Zakariya Yahya al-Wattasi twelve years ago, his son Muhammad ibn Yahya has consolidated much of the administrative power that his father built. He serves now as the chief minister, though he does not claim the title of vizier that his father held."
Abu Zakariya Yahya al-Wattasi. The professor's knowledge supplied the context immediately. The founder of the Wattasid dynasty of viziers, who had served as regent and effective ruler of Morocco from 1420 until his death in 1448. His son Muhammad ibn Yahya—who would later become Sultan Muhammad al-Sheikh when the Wattasids claimed the throne—was apparently continuing his father's work of consolidating administrative control.
"And what of the other ministers? Surely my father does not rely solely on one man's counsel?"
"There are others, of course," Hakim replied carefully. "Said ibn Musa al-Mandri oversees much of the military administration, though his influence has... diminished in recent years. The treasury is managed by Ali ibn Yusuf al-Miknasi, but his decisions require approval from Muhammad ibn Yahya. The religious establishment maintains some independence under Chief Qadi Ahmad ibn Muhammad al-Lamti, but even there, the Wattasid influence grows."
The picture that emerged was troubling but not hopeless. The Wattasids—represented now primarily by Muhammad ibn Yahya—controlled the most important aspects of government, but their dominance wasn't absolute. There were still figures with independent power bases, though their influence was clearly waning.
"And my brothers?" Abd al-Malik asked. "Prince Muhammad and Prince Ali—where do they stand in all of this?"
"Prince Muhammad remains focused on his religious studies," Hakim replied carefully. "He spends most of his time with the scholars at the Qarawiyyin mosque in Fez, and shows little interest in matters of governance. Prince Ali..." Here, Hakim paused, choosing his words with obvious care. "Prince Ali has been seen frequently in the company of Muhammad ibn Yahya and his associates. Some at court whisper that he hopes to position himself as heir apparent, despite being younger than both you and Prince Muhammad."
Ambitious younger brother allies himself with the power brokers who will eventually claim the throne themselves. It was a story as old as monarchy itself, and it meant that Abd al-Malik couldn't count on family loyalty in the struggles ahead. If anything, Prince Ali might prove to be an active obstacle.
"I see." Abd al-Malik leaned back against his cushions, his mind racing. The professor's knowledge provided him with a comprehensive understanding of the political and military situation facing Morocco in 1460, but translating that knowledge into effective action would require careful planning. "And what of the Portuguese? I have heard rumors of their activities along our coast."
"More than rumors, I'm afraid, my lord." Hakim's expression grew grave. "They have held Ceuta since 1415, forty-five years now, and they have turned it into a permanent stronghold. Their ships patrol our coasts with increasing boldness, and their merchants demand ever greater privileges in our ports. There are reports that they survey the defenses of Tangier and Asilah, though no direct moves have been made."
The professor's mind supplied the context that Abd al-Malik's memories couldn't provide. In the original timeline, both Tangier and Asilah would fall to the Portuguese in 1471—just eleven years from now. The Portuguese strategy was clear: establish a chain of fortified coastal positions that would control Morocco's maritime trade and provide bases for further expansion inland.
But that was the original timeline. With foreknowledge of Portuguese plans and the political developments that would weaken Morocco's ability to resist, perhaps those losses could be prevented.
"Has my father spoken of mounting a campaign to retake Ceuta?" Abd al-Malik asked.
Hakim shook his head. "The Sultan seems disinclined toward major military ventures these days. The ministers argue that the cost would be prohibitive, and that our resources are better spent on maintaining internal stability."
Internal stability. A euphemism for keeping the current power structure intact while avoiding the risks that might come with external campaigns. The professor's knowledge made it clear that this was exactly the sort of short-sighted thinking that would doom the Marinids. By avoiding external risks, they were leaving themselves vulnerable to gradual Portuguese encroachment while simultaneously allowing domestic rivals to consolidate their grip on power.
"My lord," Hakim said quietly, "if I may speak freely... your questions suggest a new... direction in your thinking. May I ask what has prompted this change?"
It was a perceptive question, and one that deserved an honest answer—or as honest an answer as could be safely given. Abd al-Malik looked at his servant, weighing his words carefully.
"The fever dreams," he said finally. "I saw... visions. Of what might come to pass if our dynasty continues to drift as it has been. I saw foreign banners flying over Moroccan cities, I saw our people subjected to Christian rule, I saw the tombs of our ancestors desecrated by infidel hands." He paused, letting the weight of these words sink in. "Perhaps they were truly just fever dreams, sent by Allah to warn us. Or perhaps they were merely the product of a troubled mind. But either way, they have shown me that we cannot continue as we have been."
This explanation served multiple purposes. It provided a plausible reason for Abd al-Malik's sudden interest in politics without revealing the true source of his knowledge. It also established a sense of urgency that might motivate others to support necessary changes. And it grounded his arguments in religious terms that would resonate with the Islamic culture of the time.
Hakim nodded thoughtfully. "Visions or not, my lord, your concerns are not without foundation. Many of the older courtiers speak privately of their worries about the kingdom's direction. But they are cautious—perhaps too cautious—about voicing such concerns openly."
"Fear of Muhammad ibn Yahya?"
"Fear of being seen as disloyal to the Sultan," Hakim corrected gently. "Your father is still respected, my lord, even if his vigor may not be what it once was. But the ministers... they have made it clear that criticism of their policies is tantamount to treason."
A classic move by usurpers, Abd al-Malik thought. Conflate loyalty to the dynasty with submission to their own agenda, and brand any opposition as disloyalty to the crown. It was a strategy that had worked throughout history, and it was apparently working now.
"Then we must be very careful," Abd al-Malik said. "But careful does not mean inactive. I need to understand the full scope of our situation before I can determine how best to proceed. Tell me—who among the court can be trusted? Who might be sympathetic to... reform?"
Hakim was quiet for a long moment, his eyes distant as he considered the question. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "There are some. Old men, mostly, who remember when the Marinids ruled with strength rather than merely survived by the grace of their ministers. Qaid Ibrahim al-Mandri, who commanded tribal levies from the Middle Atlas before his semi-retirement. The scholar Ahmad ibn Yusuf al-Fasi, who tutored you in your youth and who grows frustrated with the decline of learning at court. A few of the tribal sheikhs who come to Fez for the seasonal councils—they grow weary of seeing their traditional privileges eroded by centralized administration."
These were names that meant nothing to the professor's academic knowledge—minor figures who wouldn't have appeared in the broad historical narratives he had studied. But to Abd al-Malik, they represented potential allies, men who might form the nucleus of a faction capable of challenging Wattasid dominance.
"I will need to speak with these men," Abd al-Malik said. "But discretely. Can that be arranged?"
"It can, my lord, but it will take time. And it will require great care. Muhammad ibn Yahya has his own network of informants throughout the court."
Of course he does. Building an intelligence network was standard procedure for any aspiring power broker. The professor's modern understanding of political science provided insights into the mechanics of such operations, but the challenge would be applying those insights in a medieval context where the wrong word overheard by the wrong person could lead to a very brief and unpleasant future.
A soft knock at the chamber door interrupted his thoughts. Hakim immediately rose and moved toward the entrance, his hand instinctively moving to the curved dagger at his belt—a gesture that spoke volumes about the level of tension in the palace these days.
"Who seeks entrance?" Hakim called.
"It is I, Fatima bint Rashid, with refreshment for the prince," came the reply in a woman's voice.
Hakim relaxed slightly and opened the door to admit a woman of perhaps thirty years, carrying a tray laden with what appeared to be broth, flatbread, and mint tea. She was modestly dressed in the manner appropriate for palace staff, her hair covered but her face unveiled in the presence of the prince she had served since childhood.
Fatima was Hakim's sister and had served as Abd al-Malik's wet nurse before becoming one of his most trusted household servants. Like her brother, her loyalty was beyond question, and her position gave her access to the gossip networks that connected the palace's female servants—a source of information that could prove invaluable.
"My lord prince," she said, setting the tray on a low table near his bed. "It gladdens my heart to see you sitting upright. The fever broke?"
"It has, praise be to Allah," Abd al-Malik replied. "And I find myself possessed of an appetite for the first time in days."
This was true, though the sensation was strange. This body's hunger felt different from what he remembered—sharper, more immediate, less complicated by the dietary concerns of modern life. The bread smelled like actual grain rather than the processed wheat products he was accustomed to, and the broth carried the rich aroma of lamb fat and exotic spices.
As he ate, Abd al-Malik found himself studying Fatima's face. The professor's mind noted the signs of a hard life written there—the lines around her eyes that spoke of long hours by insufficient light, the roughness of her hands that told of years of manual labor, the slight stoop to her shoulders that came from a lifetime of deferential postures. But her intelligence was evident in her sharp eyes and the careful way she observed his reactions to her brother's presence.
"Fatima," he said between spoonfuls of the surprisingly flavorful broth, "what news from the women's quarters? How fare the ladies of the court?"
It wasn't an idle question. In the Islamic world of the 15th century, the harem served not only as the private domain of the royal women but also as an important center of political influence. Marriages, alliances, and succession plans were often decided as much by the conversations among wives, mothers, and sisters as by the formal deliberations of male courtiers.
"The Sultan's wives pray daily for your recovery, my lord," Fatima replied diplomatically. "As does your own mother, may Allah preserve her. Though I confess, there has been some... discussion about the kingdom's future."
"What sort of discussion?"
Fatima glanced at her brother, who nodded encouragingly. "Some of the ladies wonder whether it might not be time for... new leadership. Younger leadership. There is talk that Prince Ali has been receiving visitors from important families, discussing matters of... mutual interest."
Marriage negotiations. Abd al-Malik understood immediately. In medieval Islamic politics, marriage was one of the primary tools for building political alliances. If Ali was entertaining marriage proposals or discussing potential matches for his future children, it suggested he was positioning himself as the heir apparent and building a network of family alliances to support that claim.
The professor's knowledge provided the context for understanding just how dangerous this was. Historically, Abd al-Haqq II had no clearly designated heir, which had contributed to the instability that allowed external enemies to exploit Morocco's weaknesses. If Ali was moving to establish himself as the presumptive successor with Wattasid backing, it could lead to a succession crisis that would tear the dynasty apart from within.
"I see," Abd al-Malik said carefully. "And what do the ladies think of these... discussions?"
"Opinions are divided, my lord," Fatima replied with the diplomatic evasiveness of someone who had learned to navigate dangerous political waters. "Some believe that strong leadership is needed for uncertain times. Others worry that... hasty changes might bring more uncertainty rather than less."
Translation: some of the court women were backing Ali's ambitions, while others preferred the current situation or had concerns about the wisdom of a power grab. It was a complex political landscape that would require careful mapping before any moves could be made.
"Thank you, Fatima. Your insights are always valuable." Abd al-Malik finished the last of his broth and set the bowl aside. "I think I would like to rest now. But tomorrow... tomorrow I believe I shall resume my normal activities. Perhaps a visit to the stables to check on my horses, and then some time in the gardens for reflection."
Both servants understood the subtext immediately. The prince was signaling his return to active life, and the specific locations mentioned—the stables and gardens—were places where private conversations could be held without fear of eavesdropping.
"Of course, my lord," Hakim said. "I shall make the necessary arrangements."
After they had departed, Abd al-Malik lay back against his cushions and closed his eyes, but sleep was far from his mind. Instead, he found himself grappling with the enormous implications of his situation. The professor's knowledge provided him with an almost god-like perspective on the events to come—he knew that in 1471, Tangier and Asilah would fall to the Portuguese; he knew that in August 1465, his father would be killed during a popular revolt in Fez; he knew that Morocco would spend the next century as a fragmented, weakened state struggling against European expansion and internal division.
But knowledge was not power, especially not in a medieval court where the wrong word could lead to a dagger in the dark. He would need to move carefully, building alliances and consolidating support while avoiding the appearance of ambition that might trigger a preemptive strike by his enemies.
The first priority had to be understanding the full scope of the current political situation. Who could be trusted? Who was already committed to opposing factions? What resources could he command? What were the immediate threats and opportunities?
Then would come the delicate process of building a power base. The professor's knowledge of history provided numerous examples of successful palace coups and political consolidations, but each situation was unique. What had worked for Saladin in 12th-century Egypt or for the early Abbasids in 8th-century Baghdad might not work for a Marinid prince in 15th-century Morocco.
Beyond the immediate political challenges lay the larger questions of how to use his foreknowledge to strengthen Morocco against the external threats that were coming. The Portuguese expansion along the coast was just the beginning—Spanish ambitions would follow, and eventually, the Ottoman expansion across North Africa would reach Morocco's eastern borders. The kingdom needed to be unified, militarily strong, and diplomatically astute to survive the coming century.
One step at a time, Abd al-Malik told himself. First, survive the immediate threats. Then worry about the larger ones.
As he drifted toward sleep, his last conscious thought was a prayer—part Abd al-Malik's pious upbringing, part Professor al-Maghribi's desperate hope for guidance in navigating the impossible situation he had found himself in.
Allah, if You have granted me this second life for a purpose, give me the wisdom to discern that purpose and the strength to fulfill it. And if this is merely madness born of fever and approaching death, then grant me at least the mercy of clarity before the end.
The oil lamps flickered lower, casting dancing shadows on the carved cedar ceiling, and Prince Abd al-Malik ibn Abd al-Haqq slept the deep sleep of a man preparing for a war he hoped to prevent.