Alamut

  Ibn Tahir shook his head in amazement.

  “I think I’m beginning to understand, and it’s terrible.”

  “Do you know what al-Araf is?”

  “I do, Sayyiduna. It’s the wall that separates paradise and hell.”

  “Correct. It’s said that that wall is the destination of those who have fought for a higher purpose against the will of their parents, and fallen with sword in hand. They can’t go to paradise, and they don’t deserve hell. It’s their lot to look in both directions. To know! Yes, al-Araf is a symbol for those who have their eyes open and who have the courage to act in accordance with their knowledge. Look. When you believed, you were in heaven. Now that you’ve come to see and deny, you’ve descended into hell. But on Araf there’s no place for either joy or disillusionment. Al-Araf is the balance of good and evil, and the path that leads to it is long and steep. Few have the opportunity to see it. Even fewer dare to tread it, because you’re alone on Araf. It’s what separates you from other people. To endure up here, you have to steel your heart. Do I make sense now?”

  Ibn Tahir moaned.

  “It’s horrible.”

  “What strikes you as so horrible?”

  “That the realization comes so late. This should have been the beginning of my life.”

  Hasan took him in with a rapid glance. His face brightened. But there was still a quaver of distrust in his voice when he asked him, “What would you do if your life started now?”

  “First I’d want to learn everything that the greatest minds have discovered. I’d study all the sciences, delve into all the secrets of nature and the universe. I’d attend all the most famous schools in the world, explore all the libraries …”

  Hasan smiled.

  “What about love? Have you forgotten about that?”

  Ibn Tahir’s face darkened.

  “I’d avoid that evil. Women are shameless.”

  “Come now, where did you learn that profound truth?”

  “You should know …”

  “Is that aimed at Miriam? Then you should know that she pleaded for you. For all of you! She’s gone now. She slit her wrists and bled to death.”

  Ibn Tahir fell back onto the floor. His heart ached bitterly. Yes, he was still in love with her.

  “Whoever intends to scale al-Araf has to be master over love too.”

  “I understand.”

  “What do you think of me now?”

  Ibn Tahir smiled.

  “I feel much closer to you.”

  “Now perhaps you also understand what it means to observe the world for forty years with a great plan in your heart. And to spend twenty years searching for the chance to realize a great dream. Such a plan and such a dream are like an order that you’ve received from an unknown commander. The world around you is like an enemy army besieging a fortress. You have to get out of the fortress alive if you want to get your order out through the enemy forces. You have to be brave and yet you have to keep your head on your shoulders. Bold and cautious at the same time … Is that clear?”

  “It’s becoming clear, Sayyiduna.”

  “Do you still think I’m a vicious criminal?”

  “No. From the perspective that I see you in now, you’re not a criminal.”

  “Would you have the courage to climb al-Araf?”

  “From now on it will be my only passion.”

  Hasan stepped up to him and cut his bonds.

  “Get up. You’re free.”

  Ibn Tahir looked at him, uncomprehendingly.

  “What do you mean? I don’t under—” he stammered.

  “You’re free!”

  “What? Me? Free? After I came here to murder you?”

  “Ibn Tahir is gone. Now you’re just Avani. You’ve begun your ascent of al-Araf. One crow doesn’t peck the other’s eyes out.”

  Ibn Tahir burst into tears. He threw himself at his feet.

  “Forgive me! Forgive me!”

  “Get far away from here, son. Study, get to know the world. Be afraid of nothing. Cast aside all your prejudices. Let nothing be too lofty or too base for you. Explore everything. Be brave. When nothing remains for you to draw counsel from, come back here. I may not be here anymore. But my people will be. You’ll be welcome, I’ll see to it. When that happens, you’ll be at the summit of Araf.”

  Ibn Tahir eagerly kissed his hand. Hasan lifted him up and looked deeply into his eyes for a long time. Then he embraced and kissed him.

  “My son,” he stammered, his eyes glistening. “This old heart is happy for you. I’ll give you some money and arrange for you to get anything you might need for your journey …”

  Ibn Tahir was moved.

  “May I take one more look at the gardens?”

  “Come with me to the top of the tower.”

  They went out onto the platform and looked down into the gardens. Ibn Tahir sighed. Then he was overcome with emotion. He lay his head down on the rampart and began to cry uncontrollably.

  They went back inside and Hasan issued the necessary orders. Ibn Tahir took his things with him, including his poems. They were a precious memento. That same day he rode out from the castle, well armed, supplied with money, and with a pack mule to one side. He looked around himself with wide-open eyes. The whole world seemed reborn and new. He felt as though he had just now opened his eyes. A thousand questions were waiting to be answered. Ibn Tahir the feday had died, and the philosopher Avani had been born.

  Hasan returned to his chambers with an unfamiliar, wonderful feeling in his heart. A while later the grand dais rushed in to see him, out of breath.

  “What does this mean? Do you know that ibn Tahir has just ridden out of the castle? Everyone saw him.”

  Hasan laughed lightheartedly.

  “You’re mistaken. Your eyes have deceived you. Ibn Tahir died as a martyr for the Ismaili cause. That must have been someone else you saw. By the way, something pleasant has happened to me, and I’ve been meaning to tell you: I have a son.” The grand dais looked at each other and shook their heads.

  The detachment that had escorted ibn Tahir to Alamut headed back toward Nehavend with ibn Vakas as its prisoner. Along the way they paid particular attention to the news. They were waiting for reports of the Ismaili leader’s murder to spread. But there were no such reports.

  In Nehavend, Fahr al-Mulk, the son of the dead grand vizier, ordered that his father’s murder be avenged and the escape of the true murderer be covered up by having ibn Vakas beheaded as the vizier’s murderer.

  By that time ibn Tahir had already crossed the border of Iran and arrived in India.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Express messengers flew with the news of the grand vizier’s murder from one country to the next, arousing fear throughout the great Seljuk realm. It triggered innumerable unforeseen consequences and caused widespread uncertainty and confusion.

  The fortress of Gonbadan near the city of Girdkuh, the Ismaili stronghold in Khuzestan, which had been out of food and water and on the verge of surrendering, was liberated from its besiegers overnight, just like Alamut. The grand vizier, the Ismailis’ mortal enemy, was dead. His successor, Taj al-Mulk, was reputed to be Hasan’s friend, so Kizil Sarik’s forces abandoned their siege and dispersed even before the commander received any instructions from the sultan or the new vizier. The way to the castle was free to Hasan’s messenger, who brought Husein Alkeini’s successor, sheik ibn Atash, an order to hand over the murderer of the grand dai. As early as the next day, a large, well-armed caravan transporting Hosein in irons set out for Alamut.

  News of the grand vizier’s murder finally reached the sultan’s eldest son, Barkiarok, who was leading a campaign against rebels on the border with India. He turned over command of part of the army to his brother Sanjar, then, with the remaining units, sped precipitously back to Isfahan to defend his inheritance and thwart any possible designs of his step-mother Turkan Khatun and her vizier, Taj al-Mulk.

  In the meantime, in Isf
ahan Taj al-Mulk had made all preparations to proclaim four-year-old Mohammed the heir to the throne. The chief opponent of this plan was now gone, and the wavering sultan had no one to shore up his will against the demands of his youngest and most determined wife. Just then he was in Baghdad observing some of the greatest celebrations and ceremonies ever held. Besides the caliph, more than a thousand subject kings, princes and grandees from all the corners of his empire were paying tribute to him. He was at the height of his glory and power. Not even the death of his loyal advisor of many years could spoil his sense of his own majesty. He wanted for nothing. He was thoroughly happy.

  The news of the dispersal of the sultan’s armies outside of Alamut and Gonbadan alerted the cautious Taj al-Mulk to the danger that threatened the realm from his erstwhile ally Hasan. Now that he had taken Nizam al-Mulk’s place as administrator of the great Iranian empire, he felt the full weight of his responsibility for peace and order throughout the realm. The sultan’s firm command that he deal ruthlessly with the Ismailis was practically made to order for him. He immediately relieved the emirs Arslan Tash and Kizil Sarik of their posts and appointed two young and forceful Turkish officers in their place. They were to collect and regroup the scattered units and use them to attack Alamut and Gonbadan once again.

  “We’ve had enough excitement lately,” Hasan said to his two dais. “We need a rest so we can get ready to continue the fight. Just as importantly, we need to repair the breaches in our edifice. So let’s try to reach an honorable peace with the sultan.”

  A feday named Halfa was assigned to ride to Baghdad with the written terms for the sultan, in which Hasan made the following stipulations: That he return to the Ismailis all of the castles and fortresses they had held before the grand vizier attacked them. The sultan would have to pay reparations for the castles damaged or destroyed. In return, Hasan would pledge not to acquire any new strongholds. At the same time, he would be prepared to defend the entire northern border of the realm against barbarian incursions. The sultan would have to pay him fifty thousand gold pieces per year to maintain that army.

  Hasan had to smile as he set his seal on the letter. He sensed full well that his demands were no small provocation. He wondered how the sultan would take them. After all, he was demanding nothing less than that the all-powerful emperor of Iran pay him an annual tax!

  Even though Halfa was an authorized messenger, the sultan’s henchmen seized him as early as Hamadan and sent him to Baghdad in chains. At the height of the festivities, the commander of the sultan’s bodyguard delivered Hasan’s letter to his master. The sovereign ripped the seal off of it and read it eagerly. He grew pale. His lips trembled with rage.

  “How dare you bring me a vile thing like this in the middle these celebrations?!” he roared at the commander.

  The commander of the bodyguard fell prostrate. He begged for mercy.

  “Here, read it!” the sultan shouted.

  He dismissed the entire court. Now he was free to give vent to his full rage. He tore the curtains and carpets off the doorways and windows, broke everything that was breakable, then collapsed, breathless and gasping, onto some pillows.

  “Bring me the villain!” he ordered in a hoarse voice.

  They led Halfa in, bound and terrified.

  “Who are you?!”

  Halfa answered in a stammer.

  “A feday?! So you’re a professional murderer!” the sultan wailed.

  He leaped to his feet, shoved Halfa to the ground, jumped on him, and worked himself into a fury. At last he drew his saber and used it to hack the poor messenger to death.

  His outburst ended just as suddenly as it had come. He grew sober at the sight of the dead body before him. He asked his personal scribe and the commander of his bodyguard for their advice on how to respond to Hasan’s shameless provocation.

  “Your Majesty should hasten all military campaigns against the Ismailis,” the commander of the bodyguard advised.

  “But the insult itself must also be returned,” his secretary said. “Permit me to compose a response in Your Majesty’s name.”

  They decided to send a messenger to Alamut. In his letter the secretary called Hasan a murderer, a traitor and a mercenary of the caliph of Cairo. He ordered him to vacate immediately all of the castles he had seized unlawfully. Otherwise not one stone would be left atop another, and the Ismailis would be wiped out together with their wives and children. He himself would meet with the ultimate punishment. This was how His Majesty ought to reply to him.

  A young officer, a certain Halef of Ghazna, was chosen to be the messenger. He mounted his horse and changed it at every station along the way, and in this way he reached Alamut within six days.

  Manuchehr had him detained in his tower while he carried the letter to Abu Ali, who in turn delivered it to Hasan.

  Hasan read it and then showed it coolly to Abu Ali. He also called for Buzurg Ummid. He told them, “The sultan is blinded by his own greatness and is turning his back on the danger that threatens him. He refuses to recognize us. Too bad for him.”

  He ordered the messenger put in chains and brought before him.

  Halef resisted being bound.

  “This is a crime!” he shouted. “I’m a messenger from His Highness, the sultan and shah of Iran. If you put me in chains, you insult him.”

  This was to no avail. He had to appear before the supreme commander in shackles.

  “I strongly protest this treatment,” he said indignantly when he came into the antechamber where the commanders were waiting for him.

  “Where is my messenger?” Hasan asked him coolly.

  “First …,” Halef said, trying to resume his indignant protest.

  “Where is my messenger?!”

  Hasan’s eyes bore into the officer. His voice was hard and commanding.

  Halef stubbornly lowered his eyes. He was silent.

  “Have you been struck dumb? Wait! I’ll show you a way to loosen your tongue.”

  He ordered a eunuch to show in the executioner with his assistants and their equipment. Then he turned toward the grand dais and began to chat with them casually.

  Halef suddenly spoke up.

  “I come in the name of His Majesty. I’m only carrying out his orders.”

  Hasan ignored his words. He didn’t even look at him.

  The executioner and his two assistants arrived. The three of them were real giants. They immediately began to set up a rack. They set a stone urn down on the floor and used a bellows to fan the embers in it. In a separate box there were various implements of torture which rattled unpleasantly when they were set in the corner.

  Sweat beaded on Halef’s forehead. He began swallowing so much that his mouth was soon dry.

  “How should I know what’s come of your messenger?” he said, his voice trembling. “I was just given an order and I’ve carried it out.”

  Hasan acted as though he were deaf.

  When the preparations for torture were complete, the executioner spoke.

  “Everything is ready, Sayyiduna.”

  “Start with burning.”

  The executioner took a sharpened iron poker out of the box and began heating it in the fire.

  Halef shouted, “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Hasan still didn’t move.

  The poker had become white-hot. The executioner drew it out of the fire and approached the prisoner, who howled when he saw what was coming.

  “Sir! Spare me! The sultan cut down your messenger with his saber.”

  Only now did Hasan turn to face Halef. He gave the executioner a sign to withdraw.

  “So, you’ve regained the gift of speech after all? And the sultan butchered my emissary with his own hands, you say? Bad, very bad.”

  This whole time he was thinking how he might outwit the sultan. Now, as he looked at his messenger, a plan suddenly came into focus in his mind.

  “Summon the doctor!” he told a eunuch.

  Halef
was shaking. He could tell that this new command couldn’t be good news for him.

  Hasan signaled to the grand dais to follow him into his room.

  “We mustn’t be content with half-measures,” he told them. “We have to wound the enemy to the quick if we want to keep him from outpacing us. Let’s have no illusions. From now on the sultan will commit all of his forces to destroying us.”

  But what exactly he was planning, he didn’t tell them.

  A eunuch announced the arrival of Hakim.

  “Have him come in,” Hasan said.

  The Greek walked into the room, bowing deeply.

  “Did you get a look at the prisoner?” Hasan asked him.

  “Yes, he was waiting outside.”

  “Go and take another close look at him.”

  The Greek obeyed. He came back in a short while.

  “Do you know any of the fedayeen who look like him?”

  The doctor looked at him, uncomprehending.

  “I don’t know what you mean by that, Sayyiduna,” he said. “His face is a little reminiscent of Obeida, peace be upon him.”

  Hasan’s eyes flashed impatiently.

  “Or maybe … his posture is a little bit like Halfa’s, the one you sent somewhere two weeks ago … Is that wrong too? Or he might resemble Afan? Then I give up … His legs are bowed like Jafar’s … Is that what you were thinking?”