Omar Khayyam - a life

by Harold Lamb

  And with a twist of the rein, a thudding of flashing hoofs, he was off down the slope with a long queue of officers and huntsmen strung out in his dust.

  "It was ill done," remarked Nizam when next they were alone, "to match words with the mullahs of the Ulema. Now, it may be, they will put obstacles in thy path."

  "But why, O Father? I have naught to do with the Ulema."

  "Then see to it, Omar, that thou keepest thy foot from the skirt of their garments. Now, give heed, for there are things to be learned that thou knowest not as yet. First, thine appointment is recorded in the Council, and a yearly sum of twelve hundred miskals shall be paid thee without deduction of any tax.

  Omar uttered an exclamation of astonishment. He had never thought of such a sum as this.

  "And it may be," Nizam resumed unconcernedly, "that Malikshah will make other gifts to thee. I think thou art firm in his favor, but forget not that he is harsh as edged steel to one whom he distrusts; his spies are like bees in the honeycomb of the palace. His favor is the very pole of thy tent—without it, thy house would fall."

  It seemed strange to Omar that even while he was buried in his work he must contend for the favor of the young monarch whom he liked heartily. Nizam guessed his thought.

  "Thou hast my support," he added calmly, "and at present, God willing, no one dares oppose me openly. Yet I also have my labor "

  Deftly he revealed to Omar how he was weaving together the fabric of a new empire.

  Until the coming of the Seljuk Turks three generations before, the lands of Islam had been divided, in war, following different princes. The Kalif himself, at Baghdad, enjoyed only a shadow of the authority once held by the great Haroun ar Raschid—until the Seljuk Turks with their victorious clans had been enlisted to aid him. Alp Arslan, that Valiant Lion, had swept like a storm wind from east to west, clearing Khorasan of its enemies and entering Baghdad in triumph, as the Sultan acknowledged by the Kalif.

  Then Aleppo had been conquered and the holy cities of Mecca and Medinah taken into the new kingdom. The Christian Byzantines had been first harassed and then overwhelmed at Malasgird—which Omar had seen with his own eyes. Now the growing empire extended from Samarkand to within sight of the walls of Constantinople, and the last descendants of the Romans paid tribute to Malikshah. In time Nizam planned to marry a daughter of Malikshah to the present Kalif—Malikshah had already taken to wife a daughter of the Byzantine Emperor of Constantinople. So, the young king would be united by blood to the lawful head of Islam, and to the Roman Caesars.

  "This winter," Nizam added thoughtfully, "the Sultan will march with his army to Aleppo, on the way to take Jerusalem, the third of the holy cities, from the Egyptian kalif—an upstart and a troublemaker."

  It appeared miraculous to Omar that any man could plan out with certainty that this city was to be taken, and that river-land added to the empire. Nizam summoned him daily to long talks—explaining the details of law enforcing and tax gathering, the mobilization of an army, and the network of spies— the eyes and ears of the Sultan throughout the region. He explained carefully Malikshah's whims—a passion for hunting, a disposition to treat women as unthinking slaves, a superstitious reliance on omens.

  "Remember always," Nizam concluded, "that his grandfather was a barbarian. If—if Malikshah had beside him an astrologer in the pay of his enemies, he could be ruined by this very superstition."

  Omar nodded. He could very well understand how a charlatan could ruin any man.

  "So is thy task a weighty one," Nizam said slowly. "I think thou hast little belief in horoscopes or omens. As for me, I know only that the regular courses of the stars reveal the power of God. When Malikshah consults thee as to a fortunate hour for an undertaking, or a sign as to whether success or failure shall follow it, make thy calculations truly, by his horoscope. See that no other influences him—and remember that many will be watching every act of thine with jealous eyes."

  Omar assented readily. He had learned what it was to have his movements watched by spies. And if Malikshah asked him to calculate the meaning of celestial signs, it would be simple enough to do just that, by the rules of astrology as ancient as the towers of the Chaldeans. What if such signs had no meaning? If Malikshah asked, they should be rendered him without adding or taking away.

  "At times," Nizam went on carelessly, "he may beseech thee for a portent as to matters of state such as I have in my hands. Then thou wilt send a message to me, to learn what is best to answer. For such matters must be planned, and I alone can arrange them."

  Omar glanced up curiously.

  "Two hands," Nizam smiled—his mind apparently far off— "rule the empire, under God's will. One the hand of the king who wears a crown, and the other the hand of the minister who wears a turban. From the hand of the king come war and conquest, punishment and reward; from the hand of the minister—order and taxation and the policy to be followed toward other peoples. I serve Malikshah truly, yet in the end my task is to build the foundation of a new state.... So I ask only that thou wilt consult me as to matters of policy. That is understood?"

  "Verily," Omar assented. He felt that he had been taken into the confidence of this austere man who was wiser than Malikshah, or himself, or the dogmatic Ulema. Nizam's integrity was as firm as the marble pillar of the new gnomon.

  "I have thy promise," Nizam responded quietly.

  He gave no sign of the exultation he felt. Ever since the sudden death of Alp Arslan two years before, he had planned to find Omar, to attach the young scientist to himself and to have Omar appointed astrologer to Malikshah.

  "Now," he confided in Tutush, "we can use his influence to sway Malikshah."

  But Nizam's satisfaction vanished at Omar's first request. For a year, the new King's astronomer explained, the day-to-day observations at the tower would be routine work which Mai'mun and the others could manage without him. Meanwhile he wished to journey with Malikshah into the west—in fact, the Sultan had requested him to come.

  Omar did not explain to Nizam that he had put the idea into the Sultan's head. Or that he would search the roads of the west for Yasmi. Now he had wealth, authority, servants, and the favor of a mighty monarch, and he intended to find the girl he sought.

  Tutush smiled when he heard the tidings. "Nizam old boy," he said to himself, "once you damned me because this same Tentmaker slipped away from me like a vagabond; but in the very first moon of your guidance he goes off to the road again with the Sultan for a cup companion."

  Aloud, he only said piously, "It was written."

  The camp of Malikshah in the ruins of Babylon by the swift waters of the Euphrates. Early spring of the year 1075 in the calendar of the Christians.

  The pavilions of the nobles—and Omar traveled with the personal following of the Sultan—had been pitched in the palm groves along the shore. Behind them stretched the huge mound of broken brick walls and heaped-up sand that had been Babylon. Omar had spent some time wandering curiously over these ruins. The Sultan, however, when he was not hunting, like to sit and watch the antics of dancers and conjurers.

  A courtyard of the ruins had been hung with tapestries, and a flight of marble steps had been covered with a rug, to furnish a stage for the King and his mountebanks, and in the cool of one evening Omar was summoned thither.

  "Eh, thou watcher of the stars," Malikshah greeted him pleasantly, "sit, and watch with me these dogs of mine."

  A place was made for Omar on the carpet. Below him the dance was in full swing. The leader of the mountebanks made his own music; bells upon his shoulders chimed in cadence, while his fingers thrummed on a saddledrum bound to his waist. His loose hair whirled about his head as he wheeled and stamped in his dance.

  Suddenly stopping, the chief performer flung himself down before Omar and crooked his hands for a reward, bright eyes peering up through the tangle of hair. Omar tossed him a coin which he spun expertly upon a ringer tip, leering the while.

  "Ai jagudar," he cried
boldly. "Ha, magician! I can summon hailstones down, or raise a sandstorm up. I can read thy thoughts."

  "Then," Omar smiled, "thou art a true magician."

  "That I am, by the stars of the She Goat line, by the lightning that strikes the star gazer! Thou art thinking that I am a foul rogue, yet thou art afraid of me."

  His eyes glared fixedly, and Malikshah, who had been amused, looked at him curiously.

  "Now read my thoughts, star gazer. Nay, tell me but one thing—if thou canst."

  His shaggy head wagging, he peered up at Omar. "Tell me," he said quickly, "by which gate I shall leave this court. See, there be four gates—east, south, west, and north. Four gates, and by which one shall I go forth, O prophet of the stars?"

  Omar would have laughed aloud. But a glance at Malikshah startled him. The Sultan was leaning forward intently, as if the luti and the astronomer had been two swordsmen matched against each other.

  "That is but a little thing," said Omar slowly, "and——"

  "Thou hast great skill, men say. Now name the gate by which I go."

  The other mountebanks gathered behind the speaker, and the Sultan's attendants edged closer to hear the better. Malikshah waited expectantly. Omar started to explain that the observation of the stars had nothing to do with such trickery: yet the words did not leave his lips. He realized that the Sultan was convinced that he could read this man's mind. No reasoning would alter Malikshah's blind superstition.

  Too late he understood that this strolling player meant to trap him, and that he must match the other's trickery with his wit, if he could.

  "Bring me a pen—paper," he said impatiently.

  A secretary came forward and knelt, to offer him a small roll of paper and a quill pen. Omar took them, while he pondered. To match trickery with trickery. So this was to be the duty of the astronomer to the King! Malikshah would not forget his failure. If only he could guess aright! . . . Four doors the fellow had said, east, south, west, and north. By which of the four—they were clearly to be seen, with spearmen lounging in all of them .. . but why had not the luti said "By which gate"?

  Omar wrote a few words on the paper, folded it, and stood up. If the player practised mummery, so could he. Asking Malikshah's consent, he went to the side of the steps and raised the edge of a marble block that had been the pedestal of some statue. Slipping the folded paper beneath it, he returned to his sitting place. "Now go," he bade the luti.

  The eyes of the luti gleamed. He cavorted a few paces, and ran toward the east gate, his bells chiming. Then he whirled with a shout of triumph and darted at the wall. Clutching the embroidered hanging, he drew it aside, revealing a small postern door in the wall.

  "By this," he shouted, "I go."

  And the curtain fell behind him. A subdued exclamation of surprise came from the spectators, and Malikshah motioned the secretary to bring him the paper Omar had placed beneath the stone.

  When he had it in his hand, the Sultan opened it slowly. He looked at the written words, and put his hand to his lips.

  " 'By the fifth door,'" he read aloud. "Y'allah! Truly didst thou read that one's thoughts, O Master of the Invisible."

  Omar had merely guessed that if the fellow were so insistent on the four doors—and a lucky choice might hit upon the one to be chosen of the four—he knew of yet another door from the court, although none was to be seen. But Malikshah leaned over to pat his astronomer on the shoulder, calling him a second Avicenna, and bidding the secretary fill his mouth with gold.

  At once that official took up the tray of gold and silver pieces always kept at the Sultan's elbow, and began to stuff the coins into Omar's mouth.

  "As for that dog of a luti," added the Sultan, "fill his mouth with sand, until he is full. By God, he was impudent to our lord of wisdom."

  Some of the attendants ran from the court, to obey. When Omar had been given leave to depart, with the gold coins carried in triumph on a tray by a slave, he found a crowd collected by one of the gates of the audience court.

  In the center of the throng two guards held the struggling luti by the arms. While another pried the vagabond's mouth open with a knife blade, a fourth Turk poured sand from a sack between his bleeding lips. The man's face grew darker, and at times he groaned terribly.

  Omar turned away, nauseated, to seek his tent among the palms. Behind him, the slave turned also, holding high the gold—although he lingered to cast an avid glance over his shoulder.

  That night Omar worked late with his books. He noticed that the black slave who had carried the tray of gold did not go to sleep at the threshold of the tent as usual. The man crouched there, muttering. A second shadow hung about the opening, and finally their whispering made the Tentmaker give up his calculation.

  "Ya Khwaja," cried the slave, seeing him rise, "this is verily a night of magic. Thy dog is afraid."

  The other man muttered assent, salaaming. "Give leave that we may sit at the feet of the Lord of Wisdom. We are afraid of the night."

  Edging toward the lighted lamp, the strange servant explained that he had been walking through the ruins after the last prayer, when he had seen a light upon one of the mounds. It was not moonlight, because there was no moon, as the Lord of Wisdom well knew, but in this circle of radiance appeared the white figure of a man. Going closer the servant had beheld two other things—the half-naked body of a man moving like a snake over the ground, and an eagle, a giant brown eagle, talking about the circle of light.

  "Wah!" cried the black slave who had seen nothing, but who was full of the tale, "it was on the highest mound, and the white devil talked to the eagle while the other one changed into a snake. There was also a knife. Ai-ai—that is a strange magic, and we fear."

  "The body that crawled," added the other importantly, "was the dead luti with sand in his belly. I heard—I heard thy name spoken, O Master of Wisdom. It is a great magic they make."

  "Where?"

  "Yonder—up—on the high mound."

  "Get a torch," Omar said impatiently; "show me the way."

  Probably the servant had seen someone burying the luti among the mounds—still, Omar had no desire to have two frightened natives at his feet all night. The servant obeyed reluctantly, and the negro followed so close to Omar that he stepped on his heels. After they left the camp, the guide turned up a path that wound among broken walls, until he came to what had once been a broad street. Here he stopped, pretending to shake the torch to make it burn brighter.

  "It is only a little way, master," he whispered, "there on the right. Thy slave—thy slave will await——"

  Omar took the torch from him and strode on. Instantly he heard behind him a pattering and a sliding of gravel. The two servants were fleeing from the ruins with all the speed of their legs. He went on alone, looking from side to side, until he became aware of a faint glow above him.

  It was on the huge ruin called The Temple—Omar had examined it by day and he knew where to search for a path leading up the sand heaps. When he came out on the height, he made his way toward the glow that seemed to come from a cleft in the brick wall. Yet it was brighter than the light of an ordinary oil lamp, and the man seated within the circle rose as if he had been waiting there for Omar's coming.

  "One departs," he said, "and another comes."

  He was shorter than the Tentmaker, with heavy eyebrows and a curling beard. He had thrown a white Arab burnous over his broad shoulders, but he did not seem to be an Arab.

  Nodding toward the ground, he drew Omar's attention to the body that lay there, the body of the luti with the handle of a dagger projecting from its ribs. "I made an end of his agony," said the stranger.

  Omar looked at the bird of prey that flapped about the ground. This he had expected to be a vulture or falcon; but he knew that it was an eagle. When he approached it, the great bird came to rest, its translucent eyes glaring at him.

  "My companion," said the stranger. "Yea, he joins me upon the high places—he comes down out of the sky."


  "Who art thou?"

  "A man of the mountains." When the stranger spoke, his long chin jutted forward, his brilliant eyes flashed. "A man of Ray."

  The ancient city of Ray lay almost within the shadow of the mountains that surrounded the snow summit of Demavend, loftiest of the peaks in Persia. Although this man might be a Persian, he had the accent of Egypt and the modulated voice of one who is at home in many languages.

  "Thou—" his eyes held Omar's—"art the Tentmaker, the astronomer of the King. And thou art not at peace—hence thou art here, in the temple of Istar, speaking with a student whom many believe to be mad. I am Hassan the son of Sabah."

  "It is a strange burial you make, Hassan ibn Sabah."

  "It is no burial. By Allah, I leave that for the slaves. My work is done."

  "You are a student—do you study the dying?"

  Hassan pondered, as if considering something new in his mind. He was little older than Omar, and the vitality of his corded throat and muscular hands was that of an animal. "I am searching for the truth," he said at last, "of many things. This dancer I found where he had been thrown outside a gate of the camp, for the dogs to worry. So I had him carried hither, to a high place where the birds of the sky will pick his bones clean. I stabbed him to loose him from his pain—yea, all the camp feared to do that, because Malikshah had given command only to fill the gibbering fool with sand. . . . But most of all, I seek friends, true friends. So I waited long, in Babylon."

  Hassan did not speak like an orthodox Moslem, or a courtier of the King. It crossed Omar's mind that he had the assurance of Malikshah himself.

  "Have you ever waited for a sign?" Hassan asked suddenly.

  "Did you find a sign, O son of Sabah"—Omar turned the question with another—"in Babylon?"

  "Yes, when this luti died. For now, in this minute, I have met a man who knows his mind, and who seeks proof of the truth. By Allah, if I could have Omar of the Tentmakers for a friend! I think it was written that this should be. . . . But the stars are setting. It is late, and I go down."