by Ian Watson
Tatty books and papers crammed the long corridor of the shop’s dim space. The straining shelves supporting walls of literature were untreated wood polished by long use. At the far end, an old man with a flowing grey beard sat at an antique desk. He nodded to Abigail, though said nothing. The thick black rims of his glasses seemed too heavy for his emaciated face and pinched nose to support. Behind him, red and gold and green spines of the more valuable volumes gleamed.
Abigail always felt at home surrounded by words, but these were still very foreign to her; she could make little headway on the large and confusing tapestry of titles. She pulled out a few works and checked for illustrations and style, after some minutes managing to identify the poetry and history sections.
The old man’s black slippers appeared before Abigail as she gazed at the volumes nearest to the floor, and she looked up. His sharp frame jutted through a thin robe of pale blue.
“Puis-je vous aider, Madame?” His heavily accented voice was hoarse and very quiet, a rustle of desiccated stalks on an early autumn breeze.
French was a good guess, thought Abigail, or maybe he just didn’t speak any English. Headscarf notwithstanding, she must look very obviously a Westerner. Abigail explained her quest for Ismaili poetry and religious texts. She didn’t know how much he understood.
“Vous cherchez les perles, les choses ésotériques. Mais ces gens laissaient seulement des vieilles pierres et mythes indistincts. Ils partirent il y a beaucoup de siècles.”
She was looking for pearls, esoteric pearls. But those guys only left old stones and vague myths behind. They left centuries ago…
Then he hunkered awkwardly down and indicated one slim volume, before padding silently back to his desk. A collection of poetry. Not just old stones and shadowy myths; they left behind poetry too. She recalled her last ever talk with Walid and his quote from Nasir-i-Khusraw; she’d read much Khusraw since, in translation. The old cleric’s chocolate voice echoed in her thoughts… the esoteric is like pearls. What pearl was she seeking precisely?
She wasn’t sure what was in the poetry book, but decided to buy it anyway. On the next shelf she spotted a group of titles in French. She pulled one out, Les légendes des montagnes Elburz. Legends of the Elburz Mountains, by a Professor J Ruffie. Poor quality print on thin paper, a limited edition published in 1934. Perhaps the professor had funded it himself. One chapter of the rambling history covered the Ismailis, even containing the line of succession at Alamut. The whole work was strewn with small maps and drawings of ruined castles, descriptions of mountain trails and flora, local anecdotes and legends and even folk-remedies. The professor must have spent a great deal of time in the area. One paragraph spoke of a brilliant physician who’d stayed at Alamut, probably in the late twelfth century; al-Hakim, the sword of Allah, the shield of Allah, the possessed. What odd appellations for a physician! How could he be all of these things?
Kamal had shown her the medieval mosque of an allegedly mad Ismaili Caliph named al-Hakim, next to a surviving section of old city wall in Cairo. Hakim was the man who destroyed the church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, enraging Christians. Yet Kamal said he died in the early eleventh century; so there must be two strange, high-profile men by the name of Hakim in Ismaili history.
She read: In the early thirteenth century, a new legend about the origin of the name Alamut arose. For a while this challenged the earlier wisdom about ‘the teaching of the eagle’, yet the tale faded after the Mongol invasion and became almost forgotten. This legend insisted that Alamut was a corruption of ‘al maut’, meaning death. Amateur though this book might look, she must have it.
The Jebel Bahra, Syria: July 1161
A servant led Hakim along a dim corridor in the guts of the castle. A door swung open and a servant boy emerged, burdened with a tray of cups and bottles. In that moment Hakim saw within. An array of candles on a long table illuminated what perhaps were maps. Hakim was surprised to see that some of the men in this well-appointed room were pale. One had hair like flax, another’s was the colour of bright rust. They must be Franks, Christians! All but one of the infidel wore surcoats above chain-mail, white adorned with red crosses. The other was wrapped in a black cloak, a white cross stitched upon it. An open casket on the floor was piled high with gold coins. The boy hastily nudged the door shut.
Bitterness and outrage overturned Hakim’s optimistic mood, unravelling the careful phrases and spiritual calm he’d spent all day achieving for this meeting with Sinan. Unholy Christians, here in Kahf of all places! He was still struggling to get himself under control when he was ushered into a modest chamber. Sunlight slanted in from a narrow opening and brightly illuminated hands that were folded upon a table, Sinan’s hands, which it was said could manipulate anything their owner desired. The rest of him was somewhat veiled by shadow.
“Dear Hakim, welcome! I must first apologise for the deplorable number of weeks since our last meeting. Abu Muhammad grows frail and has started to rely upon me, which I welcome, yet high position is a thief of time… but Hakim, what is amiss? Your eyes smoulder and your brow is furrowed.” Sinan leant forward, plunging his face into the light, a face radiant with concern. “Has some wrong been done to you?”
Somehow, Hakim already felt comforted.
“Wrong, yes, though long ago. Yet my pain was recalled to me just now. Our brotherhood is consorting with infidel Christians, inside this very castle!”
Sinan’s concern relaxed into a kindly smile, like that of a supportive father to an erring child. He leant back again.
“Hakim, Hakim,” he chided gently, “Allah expects more wisdom from his chosen few. Don’t let old wounds impair your good judgement. Our enemies here are many and we can’t fight them all at once. These particular Christians aren’t like the mass of the infidel. They’re trained and resourceful, and lift themselves above the herd. They even practice their own dissimulation, taqiyyah, beneath which they reject much Christian practice. This makes them attractive as allies of convenience, and we’ve found that these… these orders, the Templars and Hospitallers, are very dangerous as enemies.”
Hakim’s logic and faith reasserted themselves, like a ship emerging from the waves after a near capsize. His heart still held bitterness for the Christians, but nothing was more important than the survival of the brotherhood. His anger melted away.
“Oh forgive me dear Sinan, my lord and my guide.”
Sinan reached out to touch Hakim’s hand.
“There’s nothing to forgive. Potions are your forte, not politics. The situation here is complex and fluid. The Templars are from Tortosa, the Hospitallers from the old qa’lat al-Akrad, Krak as they call it. Both are too close for comfort, much too close to ignore. But in their hearts these orders admire us. Perhaps they’ve been granted a faint glimpse of the true light that shines through our Nizari brotherhood. For decades we’ve encouraged this admiration, and of their own accord they’ve taken up some of our own ways. Did you notice their attire?”
“Most had surcoats like the robes of our initiates, although the red formed a cross.”
“Yes,” mused Sinan. “Like, but not identical. And they’re a useful thorn in the side of the Sunni enemy, whose strength in Syria has waxed these last years. Yet if your high purpose is achieved, good Hakim, there’ll be no further need for any such distasteful alliances! By grant of Allah, our power would approach that of His own hand, and none could then stand against us. To this end I have the authority to raise you to a da’i, which thus I will do this very day.”
“Oh Sinan,” breathed Hakim, genuinely overcome. “You have my eternal gratitude.”
Sinan beamed magnanimously.
“Having helped each other we will both help the brotherhood triumph within this turbulent world. And you haven’t heard the rest… In reply to my urgings, Hasan himself has asked to see you! Tomorrow you’ll leave with a small escort to the very fount of our Nizari Ismaili faith, to Alamut. I cannot guarantee you’ll receive the r
esources you need, but I think your personal dedication and skill and hard work will do this for you.”
Hakim’s jaw dropped. He was speechless. So soon! Truly Allah was great.
Qazvin, Iran: May
They were staying in a house owned by one of Kamal’s colleagues, who was away. A business colleague rather than an academic, Abigail assumed, considering how expensive the place must be. Wide verandas looked out onto trees and trailing greenery. Airy rooms featured dark wood and tiles with raised knot-work patterns: gold on blue, gold on green, blue on white. The bathroom was a watery cave of smoky grey and mirrored surfaces, adorned by gold taps and fitments. The bed in her guestroom was the softest imaginable. Of course there were exquisite Persian rugs too.
Adding to Abigail’s feeling of being bathed in luxury, Kamal had cooked their evening meal. To start there was an eggplant salad with diced tomato, onion, garlic, lemon and parsley. Then Kamal served the main course with a proud flourish; a ‘double chicken’ dish with rice. The lower layer was broiled in stock with aromatic spice, the upper roasted with pine-nuts and almonds. Abigail tried to guess the spices, but apart from confirming cinnamon Kamal wouldn’t reveal anything.
“A secret recipe,” he whispered, “known only to the culinary elite.”
“Is there no end to your skills?” Abigail felt her laughter descend into girlish giggles and tried frantically to arrest it.
“Well, I’ve cheated a little. Although we’re in Iran these dishes are actually Syrian, from my homeland. The salad is called father’s favourite.”
“Then I guess you’re forgiven the lapse of protocol, but when we’re in Syria I may want a taste of Iran!”
Their conversation danced light-heartedly around throughout the meal. Dancing around the obvious perhaps, thought Abigail. Beneath the polite smiles there was certainly something deeper, an animal tension she was still a little afraid to let loose. Maybe Kamal was wary too.
As the wine lit a fire in her belly, the tension eased. Selling and consuming alcohol was banned in Iran, but home-brewed beer and wine was readily available to those with a little local knowledge. Kamal had picked up this fruity little number from behind the counter at a petrol-station in Qazvin. Abigail realised only belatedly that it was pretty strong stuff.
They left the table and settled on a large leather sofa, glasses in hand. Abigail picked up her book of Arabic love poetry, which she’d deliberately seeded there earlier.
“Dear Kamal, please read me some poetry.”
Kamal raised his hands, his eyebrows too, Abigail noted with amusement.
“The pleasure of Arabic poetry comes largely from harmonies of sound and striking turns of phrase. It can’t easily be rendered into English, especially on the spur of the moment and by one with so little talent as I.”
“I doubt your talent is little,” grinned Abigail. Then she pouted and made eyes. “Pleeease…”
Kamal sighed and took the book.
A giddy, teasing mood had grasped Abigail. Wine-fuelled perhaps, or love-fuelled. Her cheeks flushed, but fortunately Kamal was scanning the pages and hadn’t noticed.
His face was so noble in profile! The sharp nose hooked over very slightly; a dark eye flicked across the words. A tilted black brow lent an impression of strength, even fierceness. Like an eagle, she thought. Grey in his trim beard advertised experience and authority. Yet the strength was contained by impeccable manners, allied to immense knowledge, tempered by sophistication. She realised with a shock that her father would like Kamal; since they’d both been successful in business, perhaps like him a lot. Well that would be a first for any man of hers!
“Oh. I’ve seen this one before Abigail. The fifth verse is often quoted. It’s by Hafiz.
My friend, before you wander into the street of love
Do not forget to take along a guide
It is perilous for your undirected feet
Such twists and turns once you are inside.”
The fourteenth century warning wafted impotently over Abigail.
“Hasn’t he something more optimistic, more mysterious, more… oh I don’t know, more committed to love?” Abigail drained her wineglass and slipped down into the smooth softness of the sofa.
“Well, here’s a likely candidate...”
Kamal muttered a few practice runs under his breath, trying to order the words for best effect and introduce some rhyme, so that even in English it might actually sound a little like poetry. Then he started off, his tone gentle, yet earnest.
“On this holy night, stay with me
Until the morning, do not leave
On this night so dark,
My course, how will I weave?
Oh breath of life, this night help me
So come morning, I make a start
In my love for you, I will
My pride and my ego kill
Like Hafiz, be able at love
I long to master this skill.”
Abigail clapped. “Oh, you’re so clever!”
Kamal, unflustered as always, permitted himself a small grin.
“If only Safiyya’s fragment was so easy to understand. We might have had more chance with the original Arabic.”
“You might have. That would be much worse for me!”
“So how much have you actually told this iceman, this Jack whatever his name is?”
“Jack Turner. Very little. He’s paranoid. A religious nut too, most likely. I didn’t even tell him about Sinaldin.”
“Sinaldin? That sounds like… Well it’s an intriguing name.” Kamal frowned. “But just who is this Sinaldin?”
“Sinan al-Din ibn Nasir. He’s an Ismaili, and something to do with all this I’m sure. He was Safiyya’s lover.” Abigail waved an arm vaguely; she was having trouble thinking straight. “He came by ship to Provence around the time of the Black Death, then went on to Spain.” Her arm landed on Kamal’s shoulder. He leaned over and stared at her intently.
“Then your Andalusian poetisa had an exotic Arab lover?” he said softly.
“Yes, possibly younger than her. I’ve no evidence for that, but I always imagine it so. She must have been at least in her forties by the time Sinaldin returned to her from that trip. Age doesn’t have to be a barrier to love, does it?”
She pulled him a little closer. Their gazes locked.
“No, indeed not.”
Then his firm lips were pushing against hers. Her tongue tingled at the touch of his, sending pleasant pins and needles in a swift wave all the way down her body. Her nostrils widened to pull in his scents, the musk of sandalwood, the clean smell of his skin. His strength seemed all about her. Her head spun.
Minutes of blessed relief and tight hugs and urgent kisses later, they were stumbling up the stairs. Abigail couldn’t stop giggling. She couldn’t direct her feet and clung to Kamal. The heat of excitement coursed through her, yet then spawned cold shocks of apprehension. Her stomach began to feel queasy.
They made it awkwardly to her bedroom door. The air seemed close. Abigail had trouble getting her breath.
“Hey Kamal, look I… I’m sorry… I’m not feeling too good. It’s been a lovely evening, but maybe it’s moving a bit fast, maybe I’m not ready yet. I’m sorry, I…”
A lopsided smile tugged Kamal’s manly features into a moment of boyishness.
“There’s no hurry. In my love for you I will, my pride and my ego kill.”
He made sure she could stand before fully letting go of her, then lightly kissed her forehead.
“Good night, Abigail.”
Qa’lat al-Alamut, Elburz mountains, Persia: 1162
Alamut was loftier than Kahf, both spiritually and physically. Nestled high in the Elburz mountains, which rose to pierce the sky while their roots seemed to drink from the Caspian sea, the castle was both nearer to Allah and more inaccessible to the enemies of the Nizaris. Yet being nearer to God did not seem to bring Hakim close to Hasan.
The heir apparent of Alamut welcomed Ha
kim warmly, but then kept him at arm’s length. All Hakim’s needs were catered for, except for the near desperate need to expound his theories, to obtain Hasan’s favour and backing. So once again Hakim prayed, and learned still more about the art of patience.
Yet, as months slipped by, he learned other things too. Alamut boasted an extensive library that he visited almost daily, containing copies of many ancient works in translation and the latest scientific and medical texts from across the Islamic world. Hakim’s thirsty intellect drank at this great pool of knowledge until he was dizzy, which somewhat soothed his frustration at the delay. After his breakthroughs in Africa, Hakim concentrated mostly upon references to blood and diseases involving blood – he even stumbled across and read in its entirety On the Secrets of Women, an eighth century Arab work, for it contained lengthy discourses on menstrual blood – as well as anything he could find about the mechanisms of disease transference.
From one Arab treatise, he noted that incense makers were said rarely to suffer the ravages of various plagues, since their constant exposure to powerful scents transferred good humours into their blood via the nasal passages, which rendered them more resistant, or even immune, to the bad humours that would strike down others. On the same topic, a Persian writer stated: ‘The nasal passages are porous, like an exceeding thin and un-oiled skin. Hence either noxious or beneficial herbs may be passed into the blood via fumes or smokes breathed through the nose’.
Hakim had used the aromas of heated oils on his rich clients back in Egypt, to remove aches, or to induce sleep in insomniacs. Did this work via blood? Was the nose a gateway to the blood?
Between intense bouts of study, Hakim strolled around the castle and observed its workings, or savoured the fragrances of mountain flowers and herbs in the gardens. Do they enter my blood?
The advanced water engineering truly impressed him, surpassing even the arrangements at Kahf and the other Syrian castles of the Nizaris. Great catchment areas were scooped out of the mountain above the castle, from which underground pipes led to cisterns deep within the foundations. An efficient distribution network provided for the needs of the castle’s occupants and also irrigated the gardens. Along with huge, cool storerooms next to the cisterns, the whole system would enable a siege to be resisted for years.
