“We would need to burn the wound out,” the vizier’s personal physical said.
The victim shuddered. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
“Will it hurt very much?”
His voice was plaintive and timid.
“There is no other way,” the doctor replied dryly.
“Allah, have mercy on me!”
The doctors prepared their instruments. An assistant brought a dish with glowing embers. The dull ring of metal implements could be heard.
The vizier could feel the poison coursing through his whole body. It became clear to him that nothing could be done.
“No burning,” he said exhausted, but at peace. “I’m going to die.”
The physicians exchanged glances. They felt relieved. The knew that any attempt would have been useless.
“Have you informed the sultan?”
“A messenger is on his way to His Highness already.”
“Write, scribe,” he ordered in a frail voice.
Then he dictated:
“Great king and emperor! I have devoted a large part of my life to eradicating injustice from your state. Your authority has supported me in this. Now I am leaving to account for my actions in this world to the all-powerful King of All Kings. I shall submit to him the proofs of my loyalty to you for the entire time I have been in your service. A murderer’s dagger point has struck me in my seventy-third year. I implore you, do not forget who sent it. As long as the criminal remains alive and well at Alamut, neither you nor your kingdom will be safe. Forgive me if I have ever offended you, as I forgive you. Do not forget my sons, who are devoted to Your Highness body and soul.”
The speaking exhausted him. He was breathing heavily. The doctor placed a cold cloth on his forehead. Then he dictated a brief farewell to his sons.
A short while later he asked, “What have they done with the criminal?”
“They’re torturing him,” the scribe replied. “They want him to tell everything he knows.”
“Bring him to me!”
They shoved ibn Tahir, bloody and in tatters, into the vizier’s presence. He could barely stand upright.
The vizier looked into his face and shuddered.
“But he’s just a child!” he whispered to himself.
“Why did you want to kill me?”
Ibn Tahir tried to stand up straight. But his voice was weak when he spoke.
“I was carrying out Sayyiduna’s order.”
“But didn’t you know that death would await you?”
“Yes, I knew.”
“And you weren’t afraid?”
“For a feday, death in the course of fulfilling his duty means happiness.”
“What madness!” the vizier moaned.
Then he was seized with anger.
“You’ve been duped. You don’t know what you’re doing. Do you know the governing principle of the Ismailis?”
“I do. Carry out your commander’s orders.”
“Idiot! Fanatical fool! Don’t you know that even I know your master’s doctrine?”
“Of course. You’re an apostate. A traitor.”
The vizier smiled indulgently.
“Listen to me, boy. The supreme principle of the Ismailis is this: Nothing is true, everything is permitted.”
“That’s a lie!”
Ibn Tahir shook with indignation.
“You don’t know who Sayyiduna is,” he said. “Sayyiduna is the most brilliant and powerful of all people. Allah gave him the power to open the gates of paradise to his faithful.”
“O Allah, forgive him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“You think I don’t know what I’m saying? I was one of ones he sent to paradise.”
The grand vizier held his breath. With difficulty he raised himself up on one elbow. He looked ibn Tahir intently in the eye. He knew he wasn’t lying. He shook his head incredulously.
Then he recalled the legends about Alamut. About the youths who claimed they had spent a night in paradise. Things began to dawn on him.
“So you say you were in paradise?”
“I saw it with my own eyes, felt it with my own hands.”
“And you’ll go back there when you die?”
“Yes, death will take me back there.”
The vizier collapsed back onto his pillows.
“Allah! Allah!” he groaned in a frail voice. “What a sin! So that’s why he needed so many beautiful slaves! That’s why he bought so many of them at the bazaars!”
Ibn Tahir listened closely. His whole face was taut in attention.
The vizier asked him, “Has it never occurred to you that you’ve been caught in a deception? That you were in a paradise of Hasan’s making? That you never left Alamut?”
“There aren’t any gardens like that at Alamut. The gardens I was in are exactly like the ones described in the Koran.”
One of those present, a senior officer who knew practically all of the fortresses in Iran, interrupted.
“Those could be the gardens of the kings of Daylam, who built them behind the castle for their entertainment. I’ve heard tell about them.”
Ibn Tahir’s eyes widened. Childlike fear showed in them.
“You’re making that up …”
The officer flushed red with anger.
“Hold your tongue, murderer! Anyone who served in the north of the country years ago will tell you that there are beautiful gardens behind Alamut, designed by the kings of Daylam.”
Everything started dancing before ibn Tahir’s eyes. He tried to grab onto one last straw.
“I saw a leopard in the gardens that was as tame as a lamb and followed its mistress around like a dog.”
The men all laughed.
“Princes and grandees have as many of those tamed leopards as you could want. Hunters use them instead of hounds.”
“And the dark-eyed houris who served me?”
“Dark-eyed houris?” The grand vizier gave a painful laugh. “Hasan’s slaves and concubines, bought at all the markets of Iran. My offices have precise records of all of those purchases.”
It was as though a veil fell from ibn Tahir’s eyes. Suddenly everything became clear to him. Miriam—Hasan’s slave and concubine. He, ibn Tahir, the helpless victim of their intrigue, their deception. He felt like his head was about to explode.
His knees weakened. He dropped to the floor and cried.
“O Allah, forgive me!”
The grand vizier lost consciousness from the strain. His throat emitted heavy gasps. The scribe dropped to his knees beside him.
“He’s dying,” he whispered. Tears welled up in his eyes.
The physicians hurried to the victim’s aid. They brought him back to consciousness with water and incense.
“What a crime!” he whispered.
He saw ibn Tahir on his knees before him.
“Do you see through it now?” he asked him.
Ibn Tahir only nodded, unable to produce a single word. His life’s edifice had crumbled within him.
“I’m dying because of your blindness.”
“O Allah! Allah! What have I done!”
“Are you repentant?”
“I am, Excellency.”
“You’re a brave boy. Do you have the courage to make amends for your crime?”
“If only I could.”
“You can. Go back to Alamut and rescue Iran from that Ismaili Satan.”
Ibn Tahir couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He smiled through his tears childishly and looked around. He saw nothing but grim, hateful faces.
“Are you afraid?”
“No, I’m not afraid. I just don’t know what you’re going to do with me.”
“We’re going to let you go back to Alamut.”
The men present protested. The criminal had to accept his punishment! They couldn’t let him go.
The vizier gave an exhausted wave of his hand.
“I know people,” he said. “If anyone
can deal with Hasan, this boy can.”
“But it’s unheard of to give a criminal free passage. What will His Highness say?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m still alive and I take the responsibility. Scribe, write!”
He dictated an order.
The men present exchanged glances, shaking their heads.
“This youth who stabbed me is a greater victim of the henchman of Alamut than I am. He has seen the truth. Now he will avenge both himself and me. Have a detachment of men take him to the castle. Have him go in. There he will do what he feels to be his duty.”
“I’ll plant a dagger in his guts.”
Ibn Tahir got up, his eyes glinting with hatred.
“I swear I won’t rest until I’ve either gotten revenge or died.”
“Did you hear? That’s as it should be … Now wash him and bandage his wounds. Give him some new clothes … I’m tired.”
He closed his eyes. The blood in his veins scorched him as though it were embers. He began to shake.
“The end is near,” the doctor whispered.
He gave a signal and everyone left the room. Ibn Tahir’s guards led him away to a separate tent. They washed him, bound his wounds and dressed him, and then tied him to a stake.
What a nightmare life was! The man venerated by all his followers as a saint was in fact the basest of frauds. He toyed with people’s happiness and lives like a child with pebbles. He abused their trust. He calmly encouraged them to see him as a prophet and an emissary of Allah. Was this even possible? He had to go to Alamut! To make sure he wasn’t mistaken. If he wasn’t, then it would be the greatest pleasure to shove the poisoned blade into his body. His life was played out anyway. Allah’s will would be done.
The vizier spent the night with a severe fever. He remained almost continually unconscious. If he came to now and then, horrible visions tormented him. He moaned and called for Allah to help him.
Toward morning his strength had been almost completely sapped. He wasn’t aware of anything. Toward noon his heart stopped beating.
Messengers carried the news to the far corners of the world: “Nizam al-Mulk, Governor of the Empire and the world, Jelal-u-dulah-al-dinh, the honor of the Empire and the faith, the grand vizier of Sultan Alp Arslan Shah and his son Malik, the greatest ruler of Iran, has fallen victim to the master of Alamut!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The day after ibn Tahir rode out from Alamut, one of the scouts came racing into the castle and announced that units of the emir Arslan Tash were on the march and approaching quickly. The drums beat and the trumpets sounded. With tremendous speed the men assumed their positions at the battlements. The guard outside the canyon received the order to hold out until the first horsemen appeared on the horizon. Then they were to withdraw, leaving previously prepared obstacles in the canyon behind them as they went.
From then on, scouts returned one after the other almost every hour and reported on the movements of the enemy army. As dawn came on the following day, Hasan and his grand dais came out on the platform of his tower. There they waited for the enemy to appear on the horizon.
“Did you foresee all of this?” Abu Ali asked, casting a wary look at Hasan.
“Everything is taking place as I expected. For every blow I’ve prepared a counterblow.”
“Did you send ibn Tahir to Nehavend, by any chance?”
Buzurg Ummid was shocked by his own boldness.
Hasan furrowed his brow. His eyes sought something out on the horizon, as though he’d not heard the question.
“Everything I’ve done,” he said after a while, “I’ve done for the victory of our common cause.”
The grand dais exchanged brief glances. They had a good idea of the counterblow that Hasan had prepared. They shuddered. And on top of everything, success or failure was dependent on a thousand small coincidences. There had to be something wrong with him, that he relied on his calculations so stubbornly.
“Let’s suppose,” Buzurg Ummid ventured again, “that the emir’s army stays outside of Alamut until winter.”
“You can’t be thinking we’ll die of thirst?” Hasan laughed. “Our defense is sturdy and we have enough provisions to last a year.”
“This army could be replaced by another, and that one by yet another. What then?”
“I really don’t know, old boy. I’m only used to thinking in terms of longer or shorter periods of time.”
“It’s damned tricky,” Abu Ali commented, “that we don’t have a way out on any side.”
“Over the mountains, old boy. I’d herd you all up over the mountains.”
Hasan laughed softly. Then, as if to offer them some consolation, he said, “I don’t give this siege much staying power.”
Then Buzurg Ummid pointed at the flag over the guardhouse outside the canyon. It fluttered and then disappeared.
“The guard is withdrawing,” he said, holding his breath. “The enemy is approaching.”
Soon a whirlwind of horsemen appeared on the horizon, with black flags fluttering in the wind. The riders galloped up the hill where the guardhouse stood. Momentarily, an enormous black Sunni flag unfurled above it.
New units were constantly arriving. The entire plateau outside of the canyon was covered with tents, which began spreading into the surrounding hills as well.
Toward evening, military vehicles with siege equipment and assault ladders came speeding into the camp. There were about a hundred of them. The three commanders watched them from the top of the tower.
“They’re not joking about this,” Abu Ali said.
“A serious victory needs a serious opponent,” Hasan replied.
“They could be finished with their preparations in two or three days,” Buzurg Ummid observed. “Then they’ll attack.”
“They won’t approach us from the canyon,” Abu Ali said. “It’s such a confined space that we’d pick them off one by one before any of them even managed to reach our walls. They’re more likely to occupy the surrounding heights and climb down the rock faces to get at the castle. But that won’t be much of a threat either, as long as we stay on our guard.”
“Their leader would have to be an incredibly inventive strategist,” Hasan observed, “if he plans to take the fortress any other way than by starving us out. But someone like that would be famous throughout the world, not just in Iran, and so far I haven’t heard of anybody like that.”
“Time is their greatest ally,” Buzurg Ummid said.
“Ours is my paradise,” Hasan replied, smiling.
The castle was as busy as a beehive. The two forward towers and the walls around them were thick with soldiers. Winches pulled up rocks and heavy logs. Everywhere there were cauldrons for boiling lead, pitch and oil suspended over simple stone fireplaces. The equipment for pouring the white-hot liquids onto the enemy was set up in short order. Commanders in battle helmets and light chain mail ran from one installation to the next, making sure the equipment was ready. Manuchehr and two aides on horseback oversaw all this activity. An almost horrible feeling came over the men. They knew they were surrounded by a huge army, but no one in the castle could see it. Only the three commanders somewhere on the backmost tower had a view of the entire battlefield.
Their faces pale, the novices who were now in the school for fedayeen waited for further orders. Instruction had been temporarily suspended. Suleiman and Yusuf were assigned as their leaders. Over and over, they told them the story of the battle with the Turkish cavalry in all its detail. Their broad gestures encouraged them and filled them with trust. They were already sufficiently trained to offer a picture of exemplary discipline. The greater their fear, the more they longed for the laurels of battle. They were conscious of being an elite unit, and they behaved in accordance with that knowledge.
In the afternoon the order came for them to take up positions on top of the tower where the dovecotes were located. They were armed with bows and spears. A unit of six soldiers who had set up the pi
tch and oil cauldrons was assigned to them.
After the third prayer the novices brought Suleiman and Yusuf their lunch. They were sitting apart from the others on top of a battlement. Their battle helmets were unfastened at the chin, so they wouldn’t swelter in the humidity. Even so, sweat poured down their faces. Anyone who had seen them six months before would scarcely have recognized the bright youths from then. Their features were hard, almost harsh—testimony to the determination that filled their students—and others—with fear.
“We’ve let ourselves get trapped in the castle like a mouse in its hole,” Suleiman said. “It was different the first time. Hit the enemy on the head with your naked sword! That’s more to my taste.”
“Let’s wait. Maybe Sayyiduna has something really special up his sleeve. Apparently there are more than thirty thousand of the infidels.”
“The numbers don’t make any difference. If he gave me the order now, I’d run out there this minute. Are we going to have to put up with this donothing hell forever?”
“I agree with you completely. Now we could really show the infidel dogs!”
“You know what’s been going through my mind all day? Just don’t tell anyone. I’m going to suggest to Sayyiduna that I sneak into the enemy’s camp and cut down that dog Arslan Tash.”
“He won’t let you. We’ve given our oath and now we have to wait for our orders.”
“Damn this waiting! I’m telling you, it won’t take much for me to lose my mind. Sometimes my head feels strange as it is. Listen. A couple of days ago between the fourth and fifth prayers everything suddenly went bloody before my eyes. I don’t know how it happened, but in a second I was squeezing onto the handle of a dagger. I was on top of the upper wall, and three novices were walking below me. They were talking and coming closer to me. The blood boiled through my veins. I had an irresistible urge to attack them, to stab them, to feel my knife plunging into their guts. They were walking right beneath me. I leapt down right in the middle of them, and they shrieked like frightened women. I raised my dagger and came to at that very instant. I was so exhausted I could barely stay upright. I mustered all of my strength to smile at them. ‘Phew, some heroes you are,’ I said to them. ‘I meant to test your courage, but I see you’re not prepared.’ Then, like some Abdul Malik, I gave them a sermon about how an Ismaili, and especially a feday, has to be constantly on his guard, and how shameful it is for him to let anything scare him. I managed to get out of that fix. But since then I’ve been tormented by a fear of losing my mind and going on a rampage if Sayyiduna doesn’t deliver us soon.”