Alamut

  The Greek was covered in sweat.

  Hasan laughed.

  “You’re a doctor and a skillful barber. How would you feel about, let’s say, turning Jafar into that man?”

  Hakim’s face brightened.

  “That’s an art I know something about. It’s practiced widely where I come from.”

  “There you go, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Ah, you deign to joke, Sayyiduna. The man waiting outside has a short, curly beard, a slightly broken nose and a large scar on his cheek. It’s a face that was made to be transferred to another. But you must allow me to have the model constantly in front of me when I set to work.”

  “Fine. But can you assure me that the similarity will be great enough?”

  “One egg couldn’t be more like another … Just give me some time to pull together everything I’m going to need.”

  “All right. Go to it.”

  The doctor left. Hasan sent for Jafar.

  When he arrived, he told him, “I have a remarkable assignment for you. Once you’ve carried it out, the Ismailis will write your name in the stars. Paradise will be wide open to you.”

  Jafar remembered ibn Tahir. He was still being celebrated as a martyr, although he had seen him with his own eyes when he returned to Alamut, and then again when he left, his eyes shining with happiness, as he took back the package he had entrusted to him before his departure for Nehavend. One marvelous and impenetrable mystery after the other.

  “At your service, Sayyiduna!”

  His face shone with pride.

  All this time, Halef was enduring fiendish torments of fear and uncertainty in the antechamber. The executioner stood barely a few steps away from him, his brawny arms crossed on his naked chest. From time to time he cast a mocking glance at the emissary. Now and then his assistants fanned the fire. Otherwise, they played with the rack and provocatively inspected the implements of torture.

  The doctor returned with the equipment he needed.

  Hasan spoke to Jafar.

  “First of all, get a good look at the prisoner in the antechamber. You have to remember exactly his every gesture, the way he speaks and expresses himself, and everything he says about himself while I’m interrogating him. Be careful not to miss a thing! Because you’re going to have to imitate him so well that everyone who comes in contact with you thinks you’re him. In other words, you’re going to become him.”

  They followed him into the antechamber. He signaled the executioner to be ready. Then he began questioning the prisoner.

  “What is your name and where are you from?”

  Halef tried to collect himself again.

  “I am a messenger of His Majesty …”

  Hasan flew into a rage.

  “Executioner, ready your equipment!… I’ll warn you one last time to answer all my questions precisely. I’ll tell you now that I’m going to keep you at Alamut. If any one bit of information you give us turns out to be wrong, I’ll have you drawn and quartered in the courtyard below. Now you know where you stand. Speak!”

  “My name is Halef, son of Omar. My family is from Ghazna. That’s where I was born and spent my youth.”

  “Remember this, Jafar!… How old are you and how long have you been in the sultan’s army?”

  “I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve served in the army since I was sixteen.”

  “How did you join the army?”

  “My uncle Othman, son of Husein, who’s a captain in the bodyguard, recommended me to His Majesty.”

  “The names of the places you’ve been stationed?”

  “I went directly to the court at Isfahan. Then I accompanied His Majesty as his messenger throughout the realm.”

  He named the cities he had traveled through or had spent any length of time in, then the caravan and military roads they had traveled. As the interrogation continued, he revealed that he had two wives, each of whom had borne him one son. Hasan demanded more and more details. Next came his superior officers, their habits and personal affairs; and then his colleagues, his service and how he spent his time. He described how he got along with one or the other of them, how many times he had spoken to the sultan, and what his relationship to him was like. He told him where his quarters were in Isfahan and Baghdad, and what he had to do if he wanted to be admitted to see His Majesty. He described the precise layout of the sultan’s palace in Baghdad and the approaches to it, and he provided a detailed rundown of court ritual.

  In this brief time Jafar discovered an entirely new life and tried to imagine himself leading it.

  Finally, Hasan ordered the prisoner to describe his journey to Alamut in detail. He had to list all the stations where he had changed horses or stayed overnight. Then he ordered the executioner to remove the prisoner’s fetters so he could undress.

  Halef shuddered.

  “What does this mean, sir?”

  “Quickly! No dawdling! Don’t force me to use other means. Take off the turban too.”

  Halef moaned.

  “Anything but that, sir! Don’t shame me like this!”

  At a nod from Hasan, the executioner seized him by the neck with one firm hand. One assistant handed over the white-hot poker, which his master slowly brought close to the prisoner’s bare chest. Even before it touched him, the skin sizzled and was scorched.

  Halef howled uncontrollably.

  “Do whatever you want. Just don’t burn me!”

  They took all his clothes off and bound his hands behind his back.

  Jafar watched all of this without batting an eye. He was in full command of himself. This fact secretly made him very proud.

  “Now it’s time for your skill, doctor,” Hasan said. “Prisoner, how did you get the wounds on your body?”

  Still trembling from his recent fright, Halef told about a fight he had had with one of the sultan’s eunuchs. In the meantime the Greek set out a number of thin, sharp blades, a long needle, and various liquids and ointments. Then he told Jafar to bare himself to the waist. He rolled up his sleeves like a true artist. He ordered one of the executioner’s assistants to hold a box that was full of all kinds of remedies. Then he set to work.

  First he applied an ointment to the corresponding area of Jafar’s body, onto which he then drew an outline of the scar and a birthmark. He ordered the other assistant to hold the blades and needle in the fire. Then he used these to etch and pierce the skin.

  Jafar pressed his lips tight. His face paled slightly from the pain, but when Hasan looked at him, he smiled back, as though it were nothing.

  Now Halef slowly began to realize what Hasan’s plan was, and he was horrified. If the transformation was successful, this Ismaili youth would gain unhampered access to the sultan himself! And the murder of the grand vizier was eloquent testimony to what would happen then. I’ll be cursed for having been an accessory to such a crime, he thought. Subdue your fear! something inside him commanded. Think of your duty to the sultan!

  His feet were unbound. He waited for the instant when the doctor began to make an incision on Jafar’s face, then he leapt at him and gave him a powerful kick to the gut.

  Under the impact of this blow, the Greek dragged the blade halfway across Jafar’s face, which was instantly covered in blood. He himself was thrown to the floor. Halef lost his balance and toppled onto him. His mouth collided with the doctor’s elbow, which he instinctively bit into with all his might. The doctor howled with pain.

  Instantly Abu Ali, Jafar and the executioner began to pummel and kick Halef mercilessly to get him to release his victim. But it wasn’t until one of the assistants set a white-hot poker to the prisoner’s back that the latter relented. He howled, writhing on the floor and trying to grab at his injury.

  Now Hasan ordered, “Put him on the rack!”

  Halef resisted with all his strength, but iron fists soon subdued him. Within a few moments he was bound, spread-eagled, to the rack.

  With much groaning, the Greek managed to colle
ct himself in the meantime. He had the wound on his arm washed, treated, and bandaged. Jafar, covered in blood, waited patiently for his transformation to resume.

  “The scoundrel has ruined everything,” the Greek moaned when he examined him more closely. “What can I do with this huge wound on his face?”

  “Just clean it for now,” Hasan said. “We’ll see what can be done.”

  Then he commanded the executioner, “Begin the torture. He’ll be useful again when he’s unconscious.”

  The machine started stretching the prisoner’s limbs. His joints popped and his bones creaked. Halef howled in agony.

  Hakim was shaken. He himself was a surgeon, but he had never before heard such bestial wailing.

  He quickly cleaned Jafar’s wound. Hasan inspected it, then spoke.

  “Jafar! You’ll say that the commander of the Ismailis inflicted this wound on you at Alamut as His Majesty’s messenger. That the sultan’s letter enraged him so much that he slashed at you with his saber. Do you understand me?”

  “I do, Sayyiduna.”

  “Doctor, finish your work.”

  All this time Halef had been howling at regular intervals. These became progressively shorter, until the howls merged into a continuous mad roar.

  The executioner suddenly stopped the rack. The prisoner had lost consciousness.

  “Good,” Hasan said. “Finish your work without us.”

  He and the grand dais climbed to the top of the tower.

  With a skillful hand the doctor transformed Jafar into Halef, His Majesty’s messenger.

  A few hours later, transformed and dressed from head to toe in the prisoner’s clothes, Jafar stepped before the supreme commander. Hasan flinched, the similarity was so great. The same beard, same mustache, the same old scar on his cheek, the same broken nose and even the same birthmark next to his ear. Only the long, fresh wound across his face was different.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Halef, son of Omar. My family comes from Ghazna …”

  “Good. Have you memorized everything else too?”

  “I have, Sayyiduna.”

  “Now listen well. You’re going to saddle your horse and ride toward Baghdad along the same road that the sultan’s messenger used to come to Alamut. You’ll be taking His Majesty a verbal reply from the master of Alamut. You know the stations and the inns along the way. Keep your eyes and ears open. Find out if the sultan has already set out against us. Demand at all costs to be admitted to see him. Do not relent in this! Keep insisting that you can only relay the response to the sultan personally. Tell them how poorly treated you were at Alamut. Do you understand me? Here are a few pellets. Do you recognize them? Take them with you on your journey. Swallow one each night and save the last one for the moment before you’re admitted to see the sultan. Here’s an awl. Hide it on your person carefully, because the slightest scratch could mean death. When you’re standing before the sultan, you know what you have to do to earn paradise for yourself and immortality among the Ismailis in this world. Is everything clear?”

  “It is, Sayyiduna.”

  Jafar’s cheeks burned feverishly.

  “Is your faith strong?”

  “It is, Sayyiduna.”

  “And your determination?”

  “Steadfast.”

  “I have faith that you won’t fail me. Take this coin purse. I give you my blessing for your journey. Bring glory to yourself and the Ismailis.”

  He dismissed him. Alamut had launched yet another living dagger. Hasan left for the gardens.

  Ever since Miriam and Halima had so sadly departed this life, the mood of the garden’s inhabitants had been unrelentingly low. Not just the girls, but the eunuchs and even Apama were affected.

  Miriam had been buried in a small clearing amid a grove of cypresses. The girls planted tulips, daffodils, violets and primroses on her grave. Out of a piece of rock, Fatima had carved a handsome monument depicting a woman in mourning. But she couldn’t bring herself to inscribe it with anything. Next to her grave they had marked off another parcel of land, onto which they set the stone image of a gazelle, also the work of Fatima. All around they planted flowering shrubs. This they did in memory of Halima. Every morning they visited this spot and mourned for their lost friends.

  Now Fatima assumed Miriam’s position, except that she was in contact with Hasan only through Apama. There were no feuds between the two of them. Apama had become quite solitary. She was often seen hurrying eagerly down the paths, gesticulating excitedly and talking aloud to some invisible person. Maybe one or two of the girls smiled at her on these occasions. But when they were standing before her, they still felt the same old fear. Her skill at eliminating the consequences of their nighttime visits had only limited success. Zuleika, Leila and Sara could feel the new life growing inside them, and were eagerly impatient. Jada and Safiya were the most excited of all. They couldn’t wait for the appearance of a new generation in the gardens.

  Hasan sent two new companions to replace the two they had lost. They were both quiet and modest, but at least they brought some change to the eternal monotony.

  “It’s autumn already and soon winter will be pressing down upon us,” Hasan said to Apama. They were strolling through one of the uninhabited gardens. “We have to make the most of the warm evenings left to us. I’ll need to send some new youths to the gardens. Because the rains will come, and then the snow and cold after that, and at that point there won’t be any time left for heavenly delights.”

  “What are the girls going to do then?”

  “You have plenty of camel and lambs’ wool. And silk. Have them weave, knit and sew. Have them practice all their arts. Because Alamut requires everything.”

  “What about the school?”

  “Do you have anything left to teach them?”

  “No, except for the art of love, which they’re incapable of learning anyway.”

  Hasan laughed again for the first time in a long while.

  “Well, they know plenty for our purposes. You see, I’ve got the same problem as you. I don’t have anyone I can leave my legacy to.”

  “You have a son.”

  “Yes. I’m waiting for him to be brought to the castle any day now. I’m planning to shorten him by a head.”

  Apama looked at him carefully.

  “Are you joking?”

  “Why should I joke? Does the scoundrel who murdered my brightest right-hand man deserve any better?”

  “But he’s your son!”

  “My son?! What does that mean? Maybe—maybe, I say, because you know how cautious I am—maybe he’s my physical offspring, but he’s never been my spiritual son. Before I was exaggerating just a bit. Maybe there is somebody after all who will be able to assume my legacy. Except that he’s far away somewhere wandering the world. His name should be familiar to you. It’s ibn Tahir.”

  “What did you say? Ibn Tahir? Isn’t he dead? Wasn’t he the one who killed the vizier?”

  “Yes, he killed him. But he came back alive and well.”

  He told her about his last meeting with him. The story strained her credulity.

  “And it was you, Hasan, who released him?”

  “Yes, it was me.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “If you really knew my heart, you’d understand. He had become one of us. My son, my younger brother. Every night I track his progress in my thoughts. And I relive my youth in the process. I worry for him. In my mind I see his eyes being opened, I see him making discoveries, I see his view of the world and his character being formed. Oh, how powerfully I feel with him!”

  Apama shook her head. This was a thoroughly new Hasan for her. When he left, she said to herself, “He must be very lonely to have seized onto someone so tightly. Yes, he’s a terrible and a good father.”

  The next day the caravan from Gonbadan delivered Hasan’s son Hosein, bound, to Alamut. The whole garrison turned out to see the murderer of the grand dai of Kh
uzestan with their own eyes.

  Shackled in heavy irons, Hosein stared grimly at the ground before him. He was slightly taller than his father, but bore a striking resemblance to him otherwise, except that there was something wild and almost beastly in his eyes. Now and then he cast sidelong glances at the men surrounding him. Each man caught in that glance felt his flesh crawl. It was as though he would have liked to leap at them and tear them into little pieces. Having the chains prevent him from doing that clearly tormented him.

  Manuchehr received him as a prisoner.

  “Take me to my father now!”

  Manuchehr acted as though he didn’t hear him.

  “Abuna! Take six men and throw this prisoner in the dungeon!”

  Hosein frothed at the mouth.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  Manuchehr turned his back on him.

  Hosein gritted his teeth. Even though a chain bound his legs together, he managed to kick Manuchehr from behind.

  Manuchehr turned around instantly, his face flushed with rage. He swung his arm and landed a blow to Hosein’s face.

  Hosein howled with rage.

  “Oh, if I were free! I’d rip the guts out of your belly, you dog and son of a dog!”

  Abuna and his men seized the prisoner and dragged him off to the dungeon beneath the guard tower, the most notorious one in Alamut. They shoved him roughly into a cell. He staggered and fell on his face.

  “You wait! When I get free, I’ll slaughter you like mangy dogs!” he shouted as they locked the door on him.

  For two full months he had been in chains. He felt like a wild cat that’s been caught and put in a cage. He came to hate the whole world. He felt that if he were let free, he would strangle the first person he laid hands on. He felt no remorse for having killed Husein Alkeini, nor did he fret for his fate or his life. Even as a child he had terrorized everyone around him. He had an unbridled and violent temper. His father had left him when he was still a small child. Like Khadija and Fatima, he had been born to Hasan’s second wife. He lived with his mother at her parents’ home in Firuz Kuh. His grandfather tried to tame him with the rod and strict fasts. But Hosein was relentless. He defied his grandfather and anyone who got in the way of the pursuit of his passions. His grandfather was also the first person to earn Hosein’s fatal enmity. Once he waited in ambush for him and killed him with a heavy stone. From that day forward his relatives and the whole neighborhood really came to fear him. He refused to work in the fields or even tend the livestock, preferring to spend his time with soldiers and ride their horses.