The solemnity of the moment deeply affected the novices. Their faces were waxen and their eyes shone as in a fever. A blissful smile played on their mouths. They were filled with an unspeakably sweet feeling. They had arrived at the goal of their long and persistent efforts. They accepted the initiation they had so fervently longed for.
Abu Ali signaled to Ibrahim, who handed the flag to him. The grand dai unfurled it, revealing the words of the fifth verse of the twenty-eighth sura glinting on its white surface in gold embroidered letters: “And we wished to be gracious to those who were being depressed in the land, to make them leaders and make them heirs.”
“Ibn Tahir,” he called out. “Come forward! To you, first among the elite, I give this banner. Let this white flag become the symbol of your honor and your pride. Should you let an enemy trample it, you let him trample your honor and your pride. Therefore, guard it more zealously than the apple of your eye. As long as a single feday is living, the enemy is not to lay hands on it. The only path to it leads over your dead bodies. Select the five strongest from your ranks. Lots drawn among them will determine the flag bearer.”
As in a dream, ibn Tahir took the flag from his hands. He went back and stood holding it at the head of the fedayeen. The moment marking the highpoint of his life was receding, and the unspeakably sweet feeling that had filled it was already turning into a burning ache for some wonderful, lost thing. This he realized: the moment he had just experienced, and that was so hopelessly short, would never come again.
In the meantime, messengers had been coming to and going from the castle. Abdul Malik had been informed in time and, with Muzaffar’s detachment, changed course for the road that the Turkish cavalry would be taking. Scouts were dispatched in the direction of the enemy and formed an unbroken chain that could communicate using predetermined signals. The reconnaissance service worked impeccably.
When Abu Ali returned from the initiation, Hasan relaxed.
“At least that’s taken care of.”
Then he ordered the grand dai to assemble the units he needed and head out with them onto the plateau outside the canyon, where they were to wait for the sultan’s vanguard.
“What about the fedayeen?” Abu Ali asked.
“This battle is made to order for them,” Hasan replied. “You’ll take them with you and Abu Soraka will continue to be their commander. But the two of you make sure they don’t get killed. I’m saving them for bigger things. So don’t expose them to too great a danger. Give them the prestigious jobs instead. For instance, have them shoot the first arrows that start the battle. But the first hand-to-hand clash should be borne by the older soldiers. Send the fedayeen into battle only after victory is certain or, of course, in case of extreme peril. If the opportunity comes, have them seize the enemy’s flag. I’m counting on you. You’re the pillar on which I’m building our common future.”
After he had dismissed Abu Ali, Hasan left for the gardens behind the castle.
“Take me to Miriam’s pavilion and then bring Apama there,” he ordered Adi. “This is no time for quarrels.”
Miriam came to meet him. He told her that he had sent for Apama.
“That woman has been behaving very strangely since last night,” she said with some concern. “You must have given her some special instructions.”
“The time for playing games is over,” Hasan replied. “Now all of us who have any responsibility have to focus all our efforts, if the plan is to succeed and if the enemy is to be destroyed.”
Adi brought Apama in. She examined the arrangement of the pavilion with a jealous eye.
“What a lovely little nest the two of you have made,” she said scornfully. “Like real lovebirds.”
“Abu Ali has ridden out with an army to defend the castle, which the sultan’s forces could attack at any minute,” Hasan began, as though he hadn’t heard what Apama had said. He motioned both women toward the pillows and then lay down on them himself.
The old woman was overcome with fright. Her eyes went from Hasan to Miriam.
“What will become of us?” she asked in a stammering voice.
“Everything will be fine, if my orders are carried out to the letter. Otherwise there will be a massacre here, the likes of which the world has never seen.”
“I’ll do everything you command, my master,” Apama assured him and poured wine into his cup.
“That’s precisely what I expect from both you and Miriam. Listen closely. The first thing we need is for the gardens to take on the appearance of something otherworldly. In other words, for them to give simple and unlearned visitors the impression of paradise. Not by day, of course, because their location and the surroundings would give too much away. I mean by night. That’s why we need, first and foremost, powerful illumination. This would show off every detail of the gardens in a special light, and everything outside of them would be lost in impenetrable darkness. Apama, do you remember that evening your Indian prince arranged for you in Kabul?”
“Oh, master! How could I forget, we were so young and radiant then!”
“I’m only concerned about a few of the details. Do you recall how astonished you were by the fantastic colored lanterns from China that turned night in the gardens into the most magical day? When everything was bright and yet totally strange, new and different?”
“Yes, when our faces went from yellow to red, green, blue, then all different colors at once. It was divine. And in the midst of all that, our burning passion …”
“Most praiseworthy, indeed. But what I want to know from you is whether you remember those lanterns well enough to be able to replicate them.”
“You’re right. What’s over is over. There’s no point in talking about it. Now it’s time for others to have their turn. Do I remember the lanterns, you ask? Of course I could reproduce them, as long as I had enough parchment and dye.”
“You’ll have it. Would you also be able to decorate them with appropriate designs?”
“We have a girl who’s a master at those things.”
“She means Fatima,” added Miriam, who had been listening to their dialog and quietly smiling. “Everyone could help Apama with this.”
“You’ll need everyone, because everything has to be ready by tomorrow evening. Have the eunuchs prepare the food and drink. I hope there’s still enough wine in the cellars.”
“More than enough.”
“Good. I’ll visit the gardens tomorrow between third and fourth prayers. I want the girls to see me and have their zeal reinforced. And hear directly from me how they’re supposed to behave toward their visitors. I won’t tolerate any jokes. If any of them in any way lets on that she’s not one of the houris and that the gardens aren’t paradise, she’ll be finished, no questions asked. It shouldn’t be too hard, I don’t think.”
“Each one of them thinks she’s a princess already,” Apama added.
“The two of us will be sure to coach them into their roles,” Miriam commented anxiously.
“The threat of death will do its work,” Hasan said. “Make sure all three pavilions are fully ready for visitors tomorrow. The girls assigned to them should be made over from head to foot, dressed all in silk, gold and gemstones. Made up so that they themselves could be convinced that they’re girls from heaven. I hope the school has done its job in that respect.”
“Don’t worry about that, my master. Miriam and I will take care of everything.”
“Tell me, since you know best, what kind of appearance should I make to those monkeys in order to produce the strongest impression?”
“You need to look like a king,” Miriam replied. “That’s how the girls imagine and want you to be.”
“You’ll need to have an entourage,” Apama added, “to make your arrival more ceremonious.”
“Aside from the eunuch guards and my two deputy commanders, no one can know about the existence of these gardens. I’ll have to make do with them. But tell me, what do those little chickens imagine a king lo
oks like?”
“A proud gait and an exalted facial expression—that’s what their king needs to have,” Miriam said with a smile. “And most important of all, a scarlet cape and a gold crown on his head.”
“Amusing, really. The wise man has to disguise himself if he wants respect and confirmation from the people.”
“That’s how the world is,” Apama added.
“Well, we have plenty of rags and baubles like that in the castle. All that was taken care of ahead of time.”
Hasan laughed. He leaned toward Apama and whispered in her ear.
“Do you have that tincture ready that causes the skin to contract? The visitors should get the impression that they have perpetual virginity beside them.”
Apama burst out laughing and nodded. Miriam had only caught the last few words and blushed.
“Are the baths and everything that goes with them ready?”
“Everything is in order, my master.”
“Good. Get to work in earnest tomorrow morning and then wait for me with the girls. Good night.”
Adi rowed him noiselessly back out of the gardens.
Now that he was alone in his rooms, he thought everything through one more time. For twenty years he had prepared steadily and unflaggingly for this moment. Twenty long years. He had never wavered or been frightened by anything in his path. He had been hard and demanding toward himself. He had also been hard and demanding toward others. All just to realize his goal, to embody his dreams.
What a fairy tale life was! A youth full of dreams, an early manhood full of restless searching. And now, in his mature years, the old dreams were starting to become reality. He was the master of thirty armed fortresses. He was the commander of thousands of believers. He lacked only one tool to assume absolute power. To become feared by all the potentates and foreign despots far and wide. That tool was the plan just now on the verge of being launched. A plan built on thorough knowledge of nature and human weakness. An insane and wild plan. A plan calculated in every respect.
It suddenly occurred to him that he might have overlooked some trifling detail that could bring down the whole conceit. A strange fear gripped him. Had he perhaps miscalculated somewhere?
He tried in vain to escape into sleep. The strange uncertainty unsettled him. He had in fact never seriously thought about the possibility of his entire edifice collapsing. He had, after all, taken every possibility into account. Now that fear was haunting him.
“Just get through this night,” he told himself. “Then it will be fine.”
He became short of breath. He got up and went to the top of the tower. Up there was the immeasurable starry vault. Beneath it roared the river. Next to it were the gardens, harboring their strange life. The first embodiment of his strange dreams. Out there, in front of the castle, his army was waiting for the arrival of the sultan’s vanguard. They had all submitted to his leadership without reservations. Did any of them have a hint where he was leading them?
It occurred to him that he could escape all of this. Leap over the ramparts and disappear into Shah Rud. That would be the end of his responsibility forever. He would be spared everything. What would happen with his people then? Maybe Abu Ali would announce that the supreme commander had been lifted up into heaven. Like Empedocles. And they would venerate him as a great prophet and saint. Maybe they would find his corpse. What would they say then?
He felt the awful attraction of the depths. Convulsively he seized onto the ramparts. He was almost lured into the abyss.
He relaxed only after he returned to his room. Soon he was overcome by sleep.
He dreamt he was still at the court in Isfahan, as he had been sixteen years before. A huge throne room. All around nothing but grandees and dignitaries. In an elevated space, Sultan Malik Shah half sits, half reclines and listens to his report. He’s twirling his long, thin mustache and sipping wine. Standing next to him is the grand vizier, his former schoolmate, who winks at him roguishly. He, Hasan, is reading the report and turning its pages. Suddenly all of the sheets are blank. He is unable to proceed. His tongue gets stuck. He begins stammering incoherently. The sultan fixes two cold, hard eyes on him. “Enough!” he shouts and points to the door. His knees get weak. The hallway shakes with the hellish guffawing of the grand vizier.
He shot upright out of his sleep, drenched in sweat, his whole body shaking.
“Praise be to Allah,” he whispered, relieved. “I was just dreaming.”
Then, comforted, he fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was a clear, starry night, one of those nights when we think we can hear the heartbeat of the universe. A snowy chill blowing down from Mount Demavend did battle with the dampness evaporating out of an earth still warm from the sun.
One after the other the warriors rode through the canyon. Abu Ali was at their head. Every fifth horseman swung a torch above his head, lighting the way for those who came behind him. Moths darted around the flames, flew into them, and burned up. The clatter of hooves echoed off the rocky canyon walls. The commands of the officers and sergeants, the shouts of the camel drivers, and the neighing of the horses merged in a mighty din that drowned out the roar of the mountain stream.
The fedayeen set up camp behind a lookout ridge. They were well covered. They pitched their tents, lit their campfires, and posted guards. Some two hundred paces away from them the other warriors, horsemen, lancers and archers had settled in atop a hill overgrown with shrubs. At the bottom of a small gulley they kindled low-burning fires, warmed themselves next to them, and roasted an ox. They spoke in muffled tones and laughed excitedly. Anxiously they cast glances at the figure atop the guard tower, his outlines motionless against the horizon. Those who had drawn lookout or guard duty wrapped themselves in their jackets and lay down to get their sleep in early.
The fedayeen were overcome with fatigue from their examinations and the excitement of their initiation. Following Abu Soraka’s advice, early that morning they had wrapped themselves in horse blankets, which they had brought with them, and tried to sleep. Over the last two days they had become so used to surprises that the impending battle didn’t particularly disturb them. Some of them went right to sleep. Others extricated themselves from their blankets and began poking the fires, which had almost gone out.
“Praise be to Allah, we’re done with school,” Suleiman remarked. “Waiting for the enemy at night is a whole different thing from spending your days polishing your butt on your heels and scratching at tablets with a pencil.”
“I just wonder if the enemy’s going to come at all,” ibn Vakas worried. In school he had been one of the quietest and most unobtrusive, but with danger looming, battle fever suddenly awakened in him.
“That would be just great,” Yusuf said. “So all the preparation and all the excitement would be for nothing, and we wouldn’t even get a Turk within sword’s length.”
“It would be even more entertaining if, after all your work and effort, they got you within sword’s length,” Suleiman joked.
“Our fate is written in the book of Allah,” Jafar remarked indifferently. He had drawn the lot to become flag bearer. He tried to subdue the vanity that threatened to show through in him with his submission to fate.
“But it would be stupid if we struggled so much in school, just so the first savage who comes along can do us in,” Obeida added.
“Cowards die a thousand times, a brave man only once,” Jafar pronounced.
“Do you think I’m a coward just because I’d prefer not to die right away?” Obeida said angrily.
“Stop going at each other,” Yusuf said, trying to pacify them. “Look at ibn Tahir staring at the stars. Maybe he thinks he’s looking at them for the last time.”
“Yusuf is becoming a wise man,” Suleiman laughed.
Several paces away, ibn Tahir lay wrapped in his blanket, staring at the sky.
“How wonderful this life of mine is,” he said to himself. “Like the fulfillment of so
me distant dreams.” He remembered his childhood in his parents’ home and how he would listen to the conversations of the men who gathered around his father. They would discuss the issue of the true caliph, refer to the Koran, refute the Sunna, and talk to each other in whispers about the mysterious Mahdi from the line of Ali, who would come to save the world from lies and injustice. “Oh, if only he would come during my lifetime,” he had wished back then. He envisioned himself as his defender, just as Ali had been for the Prophet. Instinctively he kept comparing himself with Mohammed’s son-in-law. He had been the Prophet’s most ardent follower and had fought and bled for him from his early childhood, and yet, after his death he was deprived of his legacy. When the people finally elected him, he had been treacherously murdered. It was for these very reasons that ibn Tahir had come to love him most. He was his shining example, the paragon on which he most tried to model himself.
How his heart beat when his father sent him to Alamut to enter Sayyiduna’s service! He had heard that this man was a saint and that many people regarded him as a prophet. From the very beginning, something had told him: this is your al-Mahdi, this is the one you’ve been waiting for, whom you’ve been longing to serve. But why didn’t anybody see him? Why hadn’t he initiated them into the fedayeen? Why had he chosen as his intermediary that toothless old man who resembled an old woman more than a man and a warrior? Until now, until this moment, it had never occurred to him to doubt that Sayyiduna was really in the castle. In this instant of illumination he felt terrified at the thought that he may have been living a delusion, and that Hasan ibn Sabbah wasn’t at Alamut at all, or that he wasn’t even alive anymore. In that case Abu Ali would be the one leading the Ismailis, and all of the dais and commanders would have some secret agreement with him. Abu Ali, a prophet? No, someone like him couldn’t be, shouldn’t be a prophet! Maybe they invented Sayyiduna, unseen and unheard, precisely for that reason, in order not to repel the faithful. Because who would want to recognize Abu Ali as the supreme commander of the Ismailis?