by Amin Maalouf
‘I respect your decision and do not deem it useless for the empire that some men devote themselves completely to science. Naturally, you will still receive everything I promised you – the annual sum of gold, the house, the observatory. I never take back what I have given of my own accord. I would have wished to be able to associate you more closely with my work, but I take consolation in the fact that the chronicles will write for posterity that Omar Khayyam lived in the era of Nizam al-Mulk and that he was honoured, sheltered from bad weather and was able to say no to the Grand Vizir without risking disgrace.’
‘I do not know if I will ever be able to show the gratitude which your magnanimity deserves.’
Omar broke off. He hesitated before continuing:
‘Perhaps I may be able to make you forget my refusal by presenting to you a man I have just met. He is a man of great intelligence, his knowledge is immense and his genius is disarming. He seems just right for the office of sahib-khabar and I am sure that your proposal will delight him. He conceded to me that he had come from Rayy to Isfahan with the firm hope of being employed by you.’
‘An ambitious man,’ Nazim murmured between his teeth. ‘But that is my fate. When I find a trustworthy man, he lacks ambition and scorns the apparatus of power; and when a man appears ready to jump at the first office I offer him, his haste unnerves me.’
He seemed tired and resigned.
‘By what name is this man known?’
‘Hassan, son of Ali Sabbah. I must warn you, however, that he was born in Qom.’
‘A Shiite missionary? That does not worry me, even though I am hostile to all heresies and all deviations. Some of my best collaborators are sectarians of Ali, my best soldiers are Armenians and my treasurers are Jews, but that does not mean that I withhold my trust and protection from them. The only ones I distrust are the Ismailis. I do not suppose that your friend belongs to that sect?’
‘I do not know. However, Hassan has come here with me. He is waiting outside. With your permission I will summon him and you will be able to question him.’
Omar disappeared for a few seconds and came back accompanied by his friend, who did not appear in the least intimidated. However, Khayyam could make out two muscles in Hassan’s beard which were flexing and shaking.
‘I present Hassan Sabbah. Never has such a tightly-wound turban held such knowledge.’
Nizam smiled.
‘Here I am surrounded by the learned. Is it not said that the prince who frequents and keeps the company of scholars is the best of princes?’
It was Hassan who retorted:
‘It is also said that the scholar who keeps the company of princes is the worst of scholars.’
An unaffected but brief laugh drew them together. Nizam was already knitting his brows. He wanted the inevitable series of proverbs which preceded any Persian conversation to be over quickly, in order to make clear to Hassan what he expected of him. Curiously enough, from the very first words they found themselves in collusion. It now only remained for Omar to slip away.
Thus Hassan Sabbah very quickly became the indispensable collaborator of the Grand Vizir. He had succeeded in setting up an elaborate network of agents disguised as merchants, dervishes and pilgrims, who criss-crossed the Seljuk empire, not letting any palace, house or bazaar out of their earshot. Plots, rumours and scandals were all reported, exposed and thwarted in either a discreet or an exemplary manner.
At first, Nizam was overjoyed at having the fearsome machinery under his control. He elicited some satisfaction from the Sultan, who had previously been reticent. Had not his father, Alp Arslan, recommended that he abhor this type of politics? ‘When you have planted spies everywhere,’ he had warned, ‘your true friends will not be on their guard since they know that they are loyal. But the felons will be on the look-out. They will want to bribe the informers. Gradually you will start receiving reports which are unfavourable to your true friends and favourable to your enemies. Good or bad words are like arrows, when you fire many there is always one which hits its target. Your heart will then be hardened against your friends, the felons will take their place at your side, and what will be left of your power?’
It needed a woman from the harem to be caught in the act of poisoning someone to make the Sultan stop doubting the usefulness of his chief of spies and overnight he made him his confidant. However, it was Nizam who took umbrage at the friendship which sprang up between Hassan and Malikshah. The two men were young, and they would happily chat together at the expense of the old Vizir, particularly on Fridays, the day of the shölen, the traditional banquet held by the Sultan for his court.
The first part of the festivities was strictly formal and restrained. Nizam was seated to the right of Malikshah. They were encircled by men of letters and intellectuals and discussions took place on the most varied of subjects from the comparative merits of Indian or Yemenite swords to the various works of Aristotle. The Sultan fleetingly showed a passion for this sort of sparring, then he faded out and his eye started to wander. The Vizir understood that it was time to leave, and the noble guests followed him. They were instantly replaced by musicians and dancers, jugs of wine were tipped and the drinking bout, which would be restrained or wild accordingly to the humour of the prince, would continue into the morning hours. To a couple of chords from the rebec, the lute or the târ, singers improvised on their favourite theme – that of Nizam al-Mulk. The Sultan, who was incapable of doing without his Grand Vizir, avenged himself by laughing freely. One just had to see the infantile frenzy with which he clapped, to know that one day he would manage to hit out at ‘his father’.
Hassan was adept at feeding the sovereign’s every sign of resentment toward his Vizir. Upon what did the Vizir pride himself? His wisdom, his learning? But Hassan could make short shrift of both these qualities. The Vizir’s capacity to defend the throne and the empire? Hassan very quickly had shown himself equally competent. The Vizir’s constancy? There was nothing simpler than to affect loyalty, which anyhow never rings truer than in the mouths of liars.
Above all, Hassan knew how to cultivate Malikshah’s proverbial avarice. He constantly spoke to him of the Vizir’s expenses, and brought to his attention the new robes of the Vizir and his associates. Nizam liked power and its apparatus, but Hassan liked only power and was rigorous in its pursuit.
When he felt that Malikshah was totally won over and ready for his eminence grise to be delivered the death blow, Hassan created the incident. The scene unfolded in the throne room, one Saturday. The Sultan had woken up at mid-day with an annoying headache. He was in a foul temper, and became exasperated upon learning that sixy thousand golden dinars had just been distributed to the soldiers of the Vizir’s Armenian guard. The information had to have come from Hassan and his network. Nizam patiently explained that in order to avoid any hint of insubordination he had to feed the troops and fatten them up a little, and that if the troops reached the point of rebellion the state would have to spend that amount ten times over. Throwing gold around by the armful, retorted Malikshah, meant that they would end up not being able to pay salaries and then the real rebellions would begin. A good government surely had to know how to keep its gold for the difficult times?
One of Nizam’s twelve sons, who was present during the scene, thought it clever to intervene:
‘During the early days of Islam, when the Caliph Omar was accused of spending all the gold that had been amassed during the conquests, Omar asked his detractors: “Is this gold not the bounty of the Almighty who lavished it upon us? If you believe God is incapable of granting any more, then spend none of it. As for me, I have faith in the infinite generosity of the Creator and will not keep in my coffer a single coin which I could spend for the welfare of the Muslims.”’
Malikshah, however, had no intention of following this example. He was mulling over an idea of whose merits Hassan had convinced him. He ordered:
‘I demand to be presented with a detailed summary of everything
which goes into my Treasury and the precise way that it is spent. When can I have it?’
Nizam seemed overwhelmed.
‘I can provide this summary, but it will take time.’
‘How long, khawaja?’
He had not said ata but khawaja – a very respectful title, but in this context so distant that it sounded very much like a repudiation or a prelude to disgrace.
Distraught, Nizam explained:
‘An emissary will have to be sent to every emir to carry out long calculations. By the grace of God, the empire is immense, and thus it would be difficult to draw up this report in less than two years.’
Hassan, however, approached solemnly:
‘I promise our master that if he provides me with the means, if he orders all the papers of the diwan to be put into my hands, I will present him a completed report in forty days time.’
The Vizir wanted to respond, but Malikshah had already arisen. He strode towards the door and raised his voice:
‘Very well, Hassan will be installed in the diwan. The whole secretariat will be under his orders. No one will enter without his permission. In forty days time I will conclude the matter.’
CHAPTER 14
Soon the whole empire was in an upheaval, the administration was paralysed, troop movements were reported and people spoke of civil war. It was said that Nizam had distributed arms in certain districts of Isfahan. In the bazaar, the merchandise had been stored away. The gates of the principal souks, notably that of the jewellers, were closed at the beginning of the afternoon. In the neighbourhood of the diwan the tension was at its greatest. The Grand Vizir had had to hand over over his offices to Hassan, but his residence adjoined them and only a small garden separated him from what had become the territory of his rival. Now the garden had been transformed into a veritable barracks, and Nizam’s personal guard patrolled it nervously, armed to the teeth.
No one was more embarrassed than Omar. He wanted to intervene to calm spirits down and to find a way for the two adversaries to compromise. Even though Nizam continued to receive him, he missed no occasion to reproach him for the ‘poisoned gift’ which he had made him. Hassan on the other hand spent his time locked up with his papers, busy preparing the report which he had to present to the Sultan. Only at night did he allow himself to stretch out on the large carpet of the diwan, surrounded by a handful of his trusty men.
Three days before the fateful day, Khayyam still wanted to attempt a final mediation. He went to Hassan’s apartments and insisted upon seeing him, but he was asked to come back one hour later as the sahib-khabar was holding a meeting with the treasurers. Omar decided that he would take a few steps outside, and had just passed through the doorway when one of the royal eunuchs, dressed all in red, addressed him:
‘If khawaja Omar would be so kind as to follow me, he is expected.’
After the man led him through a labyrinth of tunnels and staircases, Khayyam found himself in a garden of whose existence he had had no suspicion. Peacocks strutted around free, apricots trees were in blossom and a fountain murmured. Behind the fountain they came to a low door encrusted with mother-of-pearl. The eunuch opened it and invited Omar to proceed.
It was a vast room with brocade-lined walls, and at one end it had a sort of vaulted niche protected by a curtain, which fluttered indicating someone’s presence behind it. Khayyam had hardly entered before the door was shut with a muffled sound. Another minute of waiting and confusion ensued before a woman’s voice was heard. He did not recognise it, but he thought he could identify a certain Turkish dialect. However, the voice was low and the speech was rapid with only a few words emerging like rocks in a flood. The gist of the discourse escaped him and he wanted to interrupt her and ask her to speak in Persian or Arabic, or just more slowly, but it was not so easy to address a woman through a curtain. Suddenly another voice took over:
‘My mistress, Terken Khatun, the wife of the Sultan, thanks you for having come to this meeting.’
This time the language was Persian, and the voice was one that Khayyam would recognize in a bazaar on the Day of Judgement. He was going to shout, but his shout quickly turned into a happy but plaintive murmur:
‘Jahan!’
She pulled aside the edge of the curtain, raised her veil and smiled, but with a gesture prevented him from drawing close to her.
‘The Sultana,’ she said, ‘is worried about the struggle unfolding within the diwan. Disquiet is spreading and blood is going to be spilled. The Sultan himself is very concerned about this and has become irritable. The harem resounds with his bursts of anger. This situation cannot last. The Sultana knows that you are attempting to do the impossible and reconcile the two protagonists, and she desires to see you succeed, but such success seems distant.’
Khayyam concurred with a resigned nod of his head. Jahan continued:
‘Things having come so far, Terken Khatun considers that it would be preferable to dismiss the two adversaries and to confer the vizirate upon a decent man who can calm spirits down. Her spouse, our master, is surrounded, according to her, with schemers, but he just needs a wise man who is devoid of base ambition, a man of sound judgement and excellent counsel. As the Sultan holds you in high esteem, she would like to suggest to him that he name you Grand Vizir. Your nomination would relieve the whole court. Nevertheless, before putting forward such a suggestion, she would like to be assured of your agreement.’
Omar took some time to digest what was being asked of him, but he called out:
‘By God, Jahan! Are you after my downfall? Can you see me commanding the armies of the empire, decapitating people or quelling a slave revolt? Leave me to my stars!’
‘Listen to me, Omar. I know that you have no desire to conduct affairs of state, your role will be simply to be there! The decisions will be taken and carried out by others!’
‘In other words, you will be the real Vizir, and your mistress the real Sultan. Isn’t that what you are after?’
‘And how would that upset you? You would have the honours with none of the worries. What better could you wish for?’
Terken Khatun intervened to qualify her proposal. Jahan translated:
‘My mistress says it is because men like you turn away from politics that we are so badly governed. She considers you to have all the qualities of an excellent vizir.’
‘Tell her that the qualities needed to govern are not those which are needed in order to accede to power. In order to run things smoothly, one must forget oneself and only be interested in others – particularly the most unfortunate; to get into power, one must be the greediest of men, think only of oneself and be ready to crush one’s closest friends. I, however, will not crush anyone!’
For the moment, the two women’s projects were at a standstill. Omar refused to bend to their demands. Anyway, it would have served no use as the confrontation between Nizam and Hassan had become unavoidable.
That same day, the audience hall was a peaceful arena, and the fifteen people there were content to watch in silence. Malikshah himself, usually so exuberant, was conversing in hushed tones with his chamberlain while idiosyncratically twiddling with the ends of his moustache. From time to time he shot a glance at the two gladiators. Hassan was standing up, wearing a creased black robe and a black turban and wearing his beard lower than usual. His face was furrowed and his searing eyes were ready to meet those of Nizam, although they were red with fatigue and lack of sleep. Behind him a secretary carried a bundle of papers tied up with a wide band of Cordovan.
As a privilege that comes with age, the Grand Vizir was seated, or more correctly slumped, in a chair. His robe was grey, his beard flecked with white and his forehead wizened. Only his glance was young and alert, one might even say sparkling. Two of his sons accompanied him, flashing looks of hatred or defiance.
Right next to the Sultan was Omar, as dour as he was overwhelmed. He was drawing up in his mind various conciliatory words which he would doubtless not have occasion to utter
.
‘Today is the day that we were promised a detailed report on the state of our Treasury. Is it ready?’ asked Malikshah.
Hassan leaned over.
‘My promise has been kept. Here is the report.’
He turned towards his secretary who came forward to meet him and carefully untied the leather band holding together the pile of papers. Sabbah started to read them out. The first pages were, as custom would have it, expressions of thanks, pious discourses, erudite quotations and well-turned eloquent pages, but the audience was waiting for more. Then it came:
‘I have been able to calculate precisely,’ he declared,’ what the tax office of every province and known town has sent in to the royal Treasury. In the same way, I have evaluated the booty won from the enemy and I now know how this gold has been spent …’
With great ceremony, he cleared his throat, handed to his secretary the page he had just read, and fixed his eyes on the next one. His lips opened a little and then shut tight. Silence fell again. He threw aside the leaf of paper and then set that one aside with a furious gesture. There was still silence.
The Sultan was becoming a little anxious and impatient:
‘What is going on? We are listening to you.’
‘Master, I cannot find the continuation. I had arranged my papers in order. The sheet I am looking for must have fallen out. I shall find it.’
He leafed through them again, rather pathetically. Nizam made the most of the situation by intervening, in a tone which tried to sound magnanimous:
‘Anyone can lose a piece of paper. We should not hold that against our young friend. Instead of waiting around, I propose that we go on with the rest of the report.’
‘You are right, ata, let us go on with the report.’
