Hassan started by sending out some companions, local men, to join the garrison, preach and convert. Some months later they were ready to announce to the master that the ground was prepared and that he could come. Hassan turned up disguised as a Sufi dervish as was his practice. He strolled around, inspecting and checking everything. The governor received the holy man and asked him what would please him.
‘I need this fortress,’ said Hassan.
The governor smiled, thinking that the dervish certainly did not lack humour. His guest, however, was not smiling.
‘I have come to take possession of this place. I have won over all the men of the garrison.’
The outcome of this exchange was, admittedly, as extraordinary as it was incredible. Orientalists, who have consulted the chronicles of the time, particularly the accounts set down by the Ismailis, needed to read and re-read them in order to reassure themselves that they were not the victims of a hoax.
Indeed, let us take another look at the scene.
It was the end of the eleventh century, or to be exact 6 September, 1090. Hassan Sabbah, the brilliant founder of the Order of the Assassins, was about to take over the fortress which was to be, for 166 years, the seat of the most fearsome sect in all history. Now, there he was, seated cross-legged in front of the governor, to whom he was saying, without raising his voice:
‘I have come to take possession of Alamut.’
‘This fortress has been given to me in the Sultan’s name,’ the governor replied. ‘I have paid to obtain it.’
‘How much?’
‘Three thousand gold dinars!’
Hassan Sabbah took a piece of paper and wrote: ‘Pay the sum of three thousand gold dinars to Mahdi the Alawite for the fortress of Alamut. May God meet our needs, for He is the best of protectors.’ The governor was unsettled and did not think that the signature of a man dressed in homespun might be honoured for such a sum. However, when he arrived in the city of Damghan, he was able to cash his gold without any delay.
CHAPTER 18
When news of the taking of Alamut reached Isfahan it aroused little concern. The city was much more interested in the conflict which was currently raging between Nizam and the palace. Terkan Khatun had not pardoned the Vizir for the operation he had conducted against her family’s preserve. She urged Malikshah to rid himself of his overpowerful Vizir with no further ado. For the Sultan to have had a tutor upon his father’s death she pronounced absolutely normal as he was then only seventeen years old; today he was thirty-five, an accomplished man, and he could not leave the management of affairs indefinitely in the hands of his ata; it was time for people to know who the real master of the empire was! Had the Samarkand business not proved that Nizam was trying to impose his will, that he was tricking his master and treating him as a minor before the whole world?
Malikshah was still hesitant about taking this step when something happened to push him into it. Nizam had named his own grandson governor of the city of Merv. This conceited adolescent held too much store by his grandfather’s omnipotence, and had gone so far as to insult an old Turkish emir in public. The emir then came in tears to complain to Malikshah, who beside himself with rage had the following letter written to Nizam there and then: ‘If you are my aide, you must obey me and forbid your relatives to malign my men; if you deem yourself my equal, my associate in power, I will make the necessary decisions.’
Nizam sent back his response to the message, which had been conveyed by a delegation of the empire’s high dignitaries: Tell the Sultan, if he was not aware of it until now, that I am indeed his associate and that without me he would never have been able to build up his power! Has he forgotten that it was I who took charge of his affairs upon his father’s death, that it was I who eliminated the other aspirants and crushed all rebels? That it is thanks to me that he is obeyed and respected to the ends of the earth? Yes, go and tell him that the fate of his head is tied to that of my inkwell!’
The emissaries were dumbfounded. How could a man as wise as Nizam al-Mulk address the Sultan with words which would cause his downfall, and without doubt his death? Could his arrogance have gone over into madness?
That day, only one man knew with precision how to explain such determination and that was Khayyam. For weeks Nizam had been complaining to him of dreadful pains which had been keeping him awake at night and preventing him from concentrating on his work by day. After examining him, probing his body with his fingers and questioning him, Omar diagnosed a phlegmonic tumour which would not leave him long to live.
It was a truly unpleasant night when Khayyam had to announce to his friend his true condition.
‘How much time do I have left to live?’
‘A few months.’
‘Will I go on suffering?’
‘I could prescribe you opium to reduce the suffering, but you will feel constantly dizzy and unable to work any more.’
‘Will I not be able to write?’
‘Nor hold a long conversation.’
‘Then I prefer to suffer.’
Between one retort and the next there were long moments of silence and suffering contained with dignity.
‘Are you afraid of the hereafter, Khayyam?’
‘Why should one be afraid? After death there is either nothing or forgiveness.’
‘And the evil that I have wrought?’
‘However great your faults, God’s mercy is greater.’
Nizam seemed somewhat reassured.
‘I have also done good. I have built mosques and schools and have fought against heresy.’
As Khayyam did not contradict him, he went on:
‘Will I be remembered in a hundred years’ time, in a thousand years’?’
‘There is no knowing.’
Nizam stared at him hard with distrust, and then continued:
‘Was it not you who said one day: “Life is like a fire. Flames which the passer-by forgets. Ashes which the wind scatters. A man lived.” Do you think that will be the fate of Nizam al-Mulk?’
He gasped for breath. Omar had still not said anything.
‘Your friend Hassan Sabbah has gone throughout the country broadcasting that I am no more than a vile servant of the Turks. Do you think that is what they will say about me tomorrow, that they will make me into the scourge of the Aryans? Will they have forgotten that I was the only person to have stood up to sultans for thirty years and to have imposed my will upon them? What else could I do after their armies’ victory? But you are not saying anything.’
He had a vacant look about him.
‘Seventy-four years. Seventy-four years which have passed before my eyes. So much deceit, so many regrets and so many things I would have experienced differently!’
His eyes were half-closed, his lips contorted:
‘Woe betide you, Khayyam! You are to blame for Hassan Sabbah being able to perpetrate his misdeeds.’
Omar had wanted to reply: ‘How much you and Hassan have in common! If you are seduced by a cause such as building an empire or preparing for the reign of the Imam, you do not think twice about killing in order to make your scheme triumph. In my opinion, any cause which involves killing no longer attracts me. It becomes unattractive to me, it becomes sordid and debased, no matter how beautiful it may have been. No cause can be just when it allies itself to death.’ He wanted to shout it out, but he got the better of himself and remained silent. He had decided to allow his friend to slide peacefully toward his fate.
In spite of this trying night, Nizam ended up by resigning himself to his fate. He became used to the idea of not existing any more. However, from one day to the next he turned aside from affairs of state and determined that he ought to devote what time remained to him to completing a book, Siyasset-Nameh, the Treatise of Government. This was a remarkable work, the Muslim world’s equivalent of Machiavelli’s The Prince, which was to appear in the West four centuries later with one crucial difference. The Prince is the work of a man disappointed by politics
and thwarted from having any power while the Siyasset-Nameh is the fruit of the irreplaceable experience of an empire builder.
Thus, at the very moment when Hassan Sabbah had just conquered the unassailable sanctuary of which he had long dreamt, the empire’s strongman was concerned only with his own place in History. He preferred words of truth over pleasantries and was prepared to defy the Sultan to the very end. It could be said that he wanted a spectacular death, a death that befitted him.
He was to obtain it.
When Malikshah received the delegation which had come from meeting Nizam, he could not believe what he was told.
‘Did he really say that he was my associate, my equal?’
When the emissaries dolefully confirmed this, the Sultan let his anger come pouring out. He spoke of having his tutor impaled, dismembered alive or crucified on the battlements of the citadel. Then he rushed off to announce to Terken Khatun that he had finally decided to discharge Nizam al-Mulk from all his duties and that he wished to see his death. It only remained to work out how he could be executed without provoking any reaction from the numerous regiments who were still loyal to him. However, Terken and Jahan had their own idea: since Hassan also wanted to see Nizam’s death, why not facilitate the matter for him, while leaving Malikshah free from suspicion?’
An army corps was thus sent out to Alamut, under the command of a man loyal to the Sultan. The ostensible objective was to lay siege to the Ismailis’ fortress but in reality it was a smoke-screen so that negotiations could take place without rousing suspicions and the course of events was planned down to the very details. The Sultan would lure Nizam to Nahavand, a city equidistant from Isfahan and Alamut. Once there, the Assassins would take over.
Texts from the time report that Hassan Sabbah gathered his men together and addressed them as follows: ‘Which man amongst you will rid this country of the evil Nizam al-Mulk?’ A man named Arrani placed his hand on his chest as a sign of acceptance, the master of Alamut charged him with the mission and added: ‘The murder of this demon is the gateway to happiness.’
During this period Nizam stayed shut up in his residence. Those who had previously visited his diwan had deserted him upon learning of his disgrace, and only Khayyam and officers of the nizamiya guard frequented his residence. He spent most of his time at his desk. He scribbled away furiously and sometimes asked Omar to read it over.
As he read through the text, Omar gave off a smile or a grimace here and there. In the evening of his life, Nizam could not resist shooting off a few arrows and settling some accounts – for example, with Terken Khatun. The forty-third chapter was titled ‘On women who live behind the tent-work’. ‘In ancient times,’ Nizam wrote, ‘the spouse of a king had great influence over him and there resulted therefrom nothing but discord and troubles. I shall say no more about it, for anyone can observe such things in other epochs.’ He added: ‘For an undertaking to succeed, it must be carried out the opposite way to what women say.’
The following six chapters were devoted to the Ismailis and ended as follows: ‘I have spoken of this sect so that people can be on their guard … My words will be remembered when these infidels manage to annihilate people close to the Sultan as well as statesmen, when their drums sound everywhere and their designs are unveiled. In the midst of the resultant tumult the Prince will surely know that everything I have said is the truth. May the Almighty preserve our master and the empire from an evil fate!’
The day when a messenger arrived from the Sultan to see him and invite him to join him on a trip to Baghdad, the Vizir had not a moment’s doubt of what was in store for him. He called Khayyam to take his leave of him.
‘In your condition, you should not cover such distances,’ Khayyam told him.
‘In my condition nothing matters anymore, and it is not the journey which will kill me.’
Omar was lost for words. Nizam kissed him and dismissed him amicably, before going to bow before the man who had condemned him. With supreme elegance, recklessness and perversity, the Sultan and the Vizir were both playing with death.
When they were en route for the place of trial, Malikshah questioned his ‘father’:
‘How long do you think you will yet live?’
Nizam replied without a hint of hesitation:
‘A long time, a very long time.’
The Sultan was distraught:
‘You can still get away with being arrogant with me, but with God! How can you be so sure. You ought to call upon His will to be done for He is the arbiter of life!’
‘I replied thus because I had a dream last night. I saw our Prophet, God bless and preserve him. I asked him when I was going to die and I received a reassuring response.’
Malikshah grew impatient:
‘What reply?’
‘The Prophet told me: “You are a pillar of Islam. You behave properly toward those around you, your existence is of value to the believers and I thus am giving you the privilege of choosing when you will die.” I replied: “God forbid. What man could choose such a day! One would always want more, and even if I determined the most distant date possible, I would live on obsessed by its approach. On the eve of that day, whether it were in a month or a hundred year’s time, I would shake with fear. I do not wish to choose the date. The only favour I ask, beloved Prophet, is not to outlive my master, Sultan Malikshah. I have seen him grow up and have heard him call me “father”, and I would not wish to undergo the humiliation and the suffering of seeing him dead.” “Granted!” the Prophet said to me. “You will die forty days before the Sultan.”’
Malikshah’s face was pale and he was trembling so much that he almost gave himself away. Nizam smiled:
‘You see, I am not showing any arrogance. I am now sure that I will live a long time.’
Was the Sultan tempted, at that moment, to forgo having his Vizir killed? He would have been well advised to do so. Even if the dream was only a parable, Nizam in fact took formidable precautions. On the eve of his departure, the officers of his guard, assembled at his side, had sworn one after another with their hands placed on the Book that, should he be killed, not a single one of his enemies would live on!
CHAPTER 19
In the Seljuk empire, at a time when it was the most powerful empire in the world, a woman dared to take power with her bare hands. Seated behind her tenting, she arrayed armies from one end of Asia to the other, named kings and vizirs, governors and qadis, dictated letters to the Caliph and sent emissaries off to the master of Alamut. To emirs who grumbled upon hearing her give orders to the troops, she responded: ‘Here it is the men who make war, but it is the women who tell them against whom to fight.’
In the Sultan’s harem, she was nicknamed ‘the Chinese woman’. She had been born in Samarkand, to a family originally from Kashgar, and, like her elder brother Nasr Khan, her face showed no intermingling of blood – neither the Semitic features of the Arabs, nor the Aryan features of the Persians.
She was Malikshah’s oldest wife by far. When she married him he was only nine years old and she was eleven. She waited patiently for him to mature. She had felt the first down of his beard, surprised the first spring of desire in his body and seen his limbs grow out, and his muscles swell up as he turned into the majestic windbag whom she soon learnt to tame. She had never ceased being the favourite wife – adulated, wooed, honoured and above all listened to and obeyed. At the end of a day, or upon his return from a lion hunt, a tournament, a bloody clash, a stormy assembly of the emirs or worse – a tedious work session with Nizam, Malikshah would find peace in the arms of Terken. He would peel off her diaphanous silk covering, snuggle up to her bare skin, play about, bellow and tell her about his exploits and what was tiring him. The Chinese woman would throw her arms around the excited lion, cocoon him, give him a hero’s welcome in the folds of her body and hold on to him long and tight, only letting go so that she could pull him back again; he stretched himself out with all his weight, conquering, breathless, pant
ing, submissive and bewitched. She knew how to take him to the very limits of pleasure.
Then, gently his thin fingers would start to trace her eyebrows, her eyelashes, her lips, her earlobes and the lines of her moist neck; the lion was subdued, he was purring, growing sluggish, smiling. Terken’s words would then flow into the hollows of his soul. She would speak of him, of herself and their children. She would tell him anecdotes, recite poems for him, whisper parables laden with teachings. He was never bored for a second in her arms and he resolved to stay with her every evening. In his own rough, childish and animal way he loved her and was to love her until his last breath. She knew that he could refuse her nothing and it was she who planned his conquests of the moment, his mistresses or provinces. In the whole empire she had no rival other than Nizam, and in this year of 1092 she was on the verge of felling him.
Was the Chinese woman exultant at this? How could she be? The moment she was alone, or with Jahan her confidante, he would cry the tears of a mother and Sultana. She could curse her unjust fate and no one thought to blame her for it. Her eldest son had been chosen by Malikshah as his heir and was with him on all his trips and at all his ceremonies. His father was so proud of him that he displayed him everywhere, showing him his provinces one by one, telling him of the day when he would succeed him. ‘No Sultan ever left such a large empire to his son!’ he would tell him. At that time Terken was indeed overjoyed and no unhappiness soured her smile.
Then the heir died from a sudden, shattering and merciless fever. In vain the doctors prescribed bleedings and poultices but within two nights he passed away. It was said to be the work of the evil eye or even an undetectable poison. Terken managed to control her tears and pull herself together. When the period of mourning was over, she had her second son designated as heir to the throne. Malikshah took to him very quickly and showered him with surprising titles for a nine-year-old, but it was an era of pomp and ceremony: ‘King of kings, Pillar of the State, Protector of the Prince of the Believers’ …