by Amin Maalouf
‘I tell them that faith is nothing without a master to teach it. When we proclaim: “There is no God but God,” we immediately add “And Mohammed is his Messenger.” Why? Because it would make no sense to state that there is only one God if we do not quote the source, that is to say the name of the man who brought us this truth. But this man, this Messenger, this Prophet, has been dead a long time and how can we know that he existed and that he spoke as was reported. I, who like you have read Plato and Aristotle, need proof.’
‘What sort of proof? Can one find proof for those things?’
‘For you Sunnites there is effectively no proof. You think that Mohammed died without appointing an heir, that he just left the Muslims to their own devices to be governed by the strongest and wiliest. That is absurd. We think that the Messenger of God named a successor as a depository for his secrets: the Imam Ali, his son-in-law, his cousin and almost his brother. In his turn, Ali designated a successor. The line of legitimate Imams was thus perpetuated, and through them, the proof of the message of Mohammed and of the existence of a single God was passed down.’
‘I cannot see, in what you say, how you differ from other Shiites.’
‘The difference between my faith and that of my parents is great. They always taught me that we must submit patiently to the power of our enemies while waiting for the hidden Imam to return and establish the rule of justice on earth and reward the true believers. My own conviction is that we must act immediately to prepare by any means for the advent of our Imam in this country. I am the Precursor, he who will smooth the way in preparation for the Mahdi. You surely are aware that the Prophet spoke of me?’
‘Of you, Hassan son of Ali Sabbah, native of Qom?’
‘Did he not say: ‘A man will come from Qom. He will call upon the people to follow the straight path. Men will gather around him, like spearheads. Tempestuous winds will not be able to scatter them, nor will they tire of war or become weakened but they will rely upon God.”’
‘I do not know that quote even though I have read the certified collections of tradition.’
‘You have read the collections which you want. The Shiites have other collections.’
‘And they speak of you?’
‘Soon you will have no doubt about it.’
CHAPTER 16
The man with the bulging eyes went back to his life of wandering. A tireless missionary, he criss-crossed the Muslim East – Balkh, Merv, Kashgar and Samarkand – always preaching, arguing, converting and organizing. He never left a town or a village until he had designated a representative whom he left surrounded by a circle of followers, Shiites who were tired of waiting and submitting, Persian or Arab Sunnites exasperated by Turkish domination, young men in a state of agitation, or believers in search of rigour. Hassan’s army was growing every day. Its members were called ‘Batinites’, the people of the secret, and they were treated as heretics or atheists. The ulema pronounced anathema after anathema upon them: ‘Woe betide him who joins them, woe betide him who eats at their table, woe betide him who joins them through marriage, it is as legitimate to spill their blood as to water one’s garden.’
The pitch mounted and violence did not remain long restricted to words. In the town of Savah, the preacher of a mosque denounced certain people, who, at the time of prayer, were assembling away from the other Muslims. He invited the police to deal ruthlessly with them and eighteen heretics were arrested. A few days later, the man who had denounced them was found stabbed. Nizam al-Mulk ordered the punishment to set an example: an Ismaili carpenter was accused of murder. He was tortured and crucified. Then his body was dragged through the alleys of the bazaar.
A chronicler considered that: ‘That preacher was the Ismailis’ first victim and that carpenter was their first martyr.’ He added that their first great victory was won near the city of Kain, south of Nishapur. A caravan was arriving from Kirman, consisting of more than six hundred merchants and pilgrims as well as an important cargo of antimony. A half-day from Kain, masked and armed men barred their way. The senior man of the caravan thought that they were bandits and wanted to negotiate a ransom as he was used to doing. That, however, was not what they were after. The travellers were led toward a fortified village where they were held for several days, preached to and invited to convert. Some accepted and others were released but most of them were ultimately massacred.
However, the kidnapping of a caravan was soon going to seem a very minor affair in the huge, but underhand, test of strength which was building up. Killings and counter-killings followed each other. No town, province or route was spared and the peace of the Seljuk empire started to crumble.
That was when the memorable crisis in Samarkand broke out. A chronicler attested categorically that ‘the qadi Abu Taher was at the basis of the events’. However, things were not quite so simple.
It is true that one November afternoon Khayyam’s former protector arrived unexpectedly in Isfahan with wives and luggage, reeling off curses and oaths. Once through the gate of Tirah, he had taken himself to his friend, who lodged him, happy at last to have an occasion to show him his gratitude. Customary expressions of emotion were quickly disposed of. Abu Taher, on the edge of tears, asked:
‘I must speak to Nizam al-Mulk as soon as possible.’
Khayyam had never seen the qadi in such a state. He tried to reassure him:
‘We are going to see the Vizir tonight. Is it so serious?’
‘I have had to flee Samarkand.’
He could not go on. His voice was stifled and his tears flowed. He had aged since their last meeting. His skin was withered, his beard was white and only his bushy eyebrows retained their black hue. Omar uttered some words of consolation. The qadi pulled himself together, straightened his turban and then declared:
‘Do you remember the man who was nicknamed “Scar-Face?”’
‘How could I forget that he debated my own death in front of my eyes?’
‘You remember how he lost his temper at the slightest suspicion of a smell of heresy? Well, three years ago he joined the Ismailis and today he is proclaiming their errors with the same zeal with which he used to defend the True Faith. Hundreds and thousands of citizens are following him. He is master of the street and imposes his law on the merchants in the bazaar. On several occasions I have been to see the Khan. You knew Nasr Khan and his sudden outbursts of anger which subsided just as quickly, his fits of violence or prodigality, may God save his soul. I mention his name in every prayer. Today power is in the hands of his nephew, Ahmed, a smooth-chinned young man who is irresolute and unpredictable. I never know how to approach him. On many occasions I have complained to him about the machinations of the heretics. I have explained to him the dangers of the situation but he was distracted and bored and only half listened to me. Seeing that he had not taken any decision to act, I gathered the commanders of the militia as well as several officials whose loyalty I had acquired and requested them to place the Ismailis’ meetings under surveillance. Three trusty men took it in turn to follow Scar-Face, my aim being to present to the Khan a detailed report in order to open his eyes to their activities, until my men informed me that the chief of the heretics had arrived in Samarkand.’
‘Hassan Sabbah?’
‘In person. My men had positioned themselves at both ends of Abdack Street, in the district of Ghatfar, where an Ismaili meeting was being held. When Sabbah came out, disguised as a Sufi, they jumped him, placed a sack over his head and brought him to me.
‘Immediately I led him to the palace to announce news of his capture to the sovereign. Then, for the first time, he appeared interested and asked to see the man. Except that when Sabbah was brought before him, he ordered his cords to be untied and for them to be left alone together. In vain I tried to warn him against this dangerous heretic, recalling the misdeeds of which he was guilty, but to no avail. He wanted, he claimed, to convince the man to return to the straight path. Their conversation went on and on. From time to t
ime one of his courtiers would half-open the door, but the two men were still talking. At first dawn they were both seen suddenly prostrating themselves in prayer, murmuring the same words. The counsellors jostled with each other to try and observe them.’
After taking a mouthful of orgeat syrup, Abu Taher uttered a formula of gratitude before carrying on:
‘Going by the evidence, it was certain that the master of Samarkand, the sovereign of Transoxania and heir to the dynasty of the Black Khans had gone over to the heresy. Naturally he avoided proclaiming this fact and continued to affect attachment to the True Faith, but nothing was the same any more. The Prince’s counsellors were replaced by Ismailis. The chiefs of the militia, who had effected Sabbah’s capture, died brutally one after another. My own guard was replaced by Scar-Face’s men. What choice did I have left except to leave with the first pilgrim caravan and to come and make the situation known to those who carry the sword of Islam, Nizam al-Mulk and Malikshah.’
That evening Khayyam took Abu Taher to the Vizir. He introduced him and then left them to talk in private. As Nizam listened reverently to his visitor his face took on a worried expression. When the qadi stopped speaking, he spoke up:
‘Do you know who is really responsible for Samarkand’s misfortunes, and for all of ours too? It is the man who brought you here!’
‘Omar Khayyam?’
‘Who else? It was khawaja Omar who interceded for Hassan Sabbah on the day I could have obtained his death. He prevented us from killing him. Can he now prevent him from killing us?’
The qadi did not know what to say. Nizam sighed. A short embarrassed silence ensued.
‘What do you suggest doing?’
It was Nizam who was asking the question. Abu Taher already had his idea formulated and he spoke it in the tones of a solemn proclamation:
‘It is time for the Seljuk flag to fly over Samarkand.’
The Vizir’s face lit up and then darkened again.
‘Your words are worth their weight in gold. I have been telling the Sultan for years that the empire should extend to Transoxania and that cities as prestigious and prosperous as Samarkand and Bukhara cannot remain outside the realm of our authority, but it was wasted effort. Malikshah would not listen.’
‘The Khan’s army, mind you, is greatly weakened. Its emirs are no longer paid and its forts are falling into ruin.’
‘We are aware of that.’
‘Is Malikshah afraid of undergoing the same fate as his father Alp Arslan if, as his father did, he crosses the river?’
‘Not at all.’
The qadi asked no more questions, but awaited further elucidation.
‘The Sultan is afraid neither of the river nor of the enemy army,’ stated Nizam. ‘He is afraid of a woman!’
‘Terken Khatun?’
‘She has sworn that, if Malikshah crosses the river, she will ban him from her couch and transform her harem into Gehenna. Let us not forget that Samarkand is her city. Nasr Khan was her brother and Ahmed Khan is her nephew. It is to her family that Transoxania belongs. If the kingdom built up by her ancestors were to collapse she would lose the position she occupies amongst the palace women and the chances of her son one day succeeding Malikshah would be compromised.’
‘But her son is only two years old!’
‘Precisely. The younger he is, the more his mother must fight to keep his trump cards.’
‘If I have understood correctly,’ concluded the qadi, ‘the Sultan will never agree to take Samarkand.’
‘I have not said that, but we must make him change his mind and it will not be easy to find more persuasive arms than those of Khatun.’
The qadi blushed. He smiled politely, without letting himself be deflected from his mission.
‘Would it not suffice for me to repeat to the Sultan what I have just told you and to inform him of the plot hatched by Hassan Sabbah?’
‘No,’ Nizam replied drily.
For a moment he was too absorbed to argue. He was formulating a plan. His visitor waited for him to make up his mind.
‘Now,’ the Vizir pronounced with authority, ‘you will go tomorrow morning and present yourself at the door of the Sultan’s harem and ask to see the chief of the eunuchs. You will tell him that you have come from Samarkand and that you wish to convey news of her family to Terken Khatun. As you are the qadi of her city and an old servant of her dynasty, she will have to receive you.’
The qadi had only to nod his head for Nizam to continue:
‘Once in the tentwork room, you will tell her about the misery Samarkand is in because of the heretics, but you will omit to mention Ahmed’s conversion. On the contrary, you will make sure to tell her that Hassan Sabbah covets her throne, that her life is in danger and that only providence can still save her. You will add that you have been to see me but that I was hardly inclined to listen to you, nay I even dissuaded you from speaking about it to the Sultan.’
The next day the plan worked without the slightest hitch. While Terken Khatun took it upon herself to convince the Sultan of the need to save the Khan of Samarkand, Nizam al-Mulk, who was pretending to be against this, threw himself into making preparations for the expedition. By this make-believe war Nizam was not just trying to annexe Transoxania, and even less was he trying to save Samarkand, but above all to re-establish his prestige which had been slighted by Ismaili subversion. For that, he needed a clear and stunning victory. For years his spies had been swearing to him, every day, that Hassan had been pinned down, and that he was on the point of being apprehended, but the rebel was not up for capture and his troops vanished at the first contact. Nizam was thus seeking a chance to confront him face to face, army to army. Samarkand was just the perfect place.
In the spring of 1089 an army of two hundred thousand men was on the march, with elephants and instruments of siege. The intrigues and lies which instigated its march are insignificant for it was to accomplish what every army must. It began by taking possession of Bukhara without the least resistance and then it headed on towards Samarkand. Arriving at the gates of the city, Malikshah announced to Ahmed Khan in a pitiful message that he had come at last to deliver him from the yoke of the heretics. ‘I have asked nothing of my august brother,’ the Khan replied coldly. Malikshah was astonished whereas Nizam was not at all disturbed. ‘The Khan is no longer a free agent. We must act as if he did not exist.’ In any case, the army could not retrace its steps. The emirs wanted their share of the booty and would not return empty-handed.
In the first days, the treachery of a tower guard permitted the assailants to sweep into the city. They took up position to the west, near the Monastery Gate. The defenders fell back to the souks in the south, around the Kish Gate. According to their faith, one section of the population decided to provide for the Sultan’s troops, feeding them and giving them encouragement and another section embraced the cause of Ahmed Khan. Fighting raged for two weeks, but there was never a second’s doubt of the outcome. The Khan, who had taken refuge with a friend in the district of the domes, was quickly taken prisoner along with all the Ismaili chiefs. Only Hassan managed to escape through a subterranean canal at night.
Nizam had won, it is true, but by dint of playing the Sultan off against the Sultana he had poisoned irreparably his relations with the court. Even if Malikshah did not regret having conquered the most prestigious cities of Transoxania so easily, his self-respect suffered at having allowed himself to be abused. He went so far as to refuse to organize the traditional victory banquet for his troops. ‘It’s out of avarice,’ Nizam whispered spitefully to all and sundry.
As for Hassan Sabbah, he learnt a valuable lesson from his defeat. Rather than try and convert princes, he would forge a fearsome instrument of war which would bear no resemblance to anything which mankind had known until then: the order of the Assassins.
CHAPTER 17
Alamut. A fortress on a rock six thousand feet high in a countryside of bare mountains, forgotten lakes, sheer cliff
s and narrow passes. The greatest army could only reach it in single file and the most powerful catapults could not graze its walls.
The Shahrud River, nicknamed the ‘mad river’, dominated the mountains, swelling up in springtime with the melted snow of the Elburz mountains and snatching up trees and stones as it sped down its course. Woe to him who dared approach it! Woe to the army which dared pitch camp on its banks!
Every evening a thick, woolly mist rose from the river and the lakes, stopping half-way up the cliffs. To those who were there, the castle of Alamut was at such times an isle in an ocean of clouds. Seen from below, it was the abode of the jinns.
In the local dialect, Alamut means ‘the eagle’s lesson’. It was told that a prince who wanted to build a fortress to control these mountains released a trained bird of prey. The bird, after flying around in the sky, came to land on this rock. The master understood that no other site would be better.
Hassan Sabbah had imitated the eagle. He had searched the length and breadth of Persia for somewhere to gather, teach and organize his faithful. He had learnt from his misadventure in Samarkand that it would be unrealistic to try and seize a large city, for confrontation with the Seljuks would be immediate and would inevitably turn out to the empire’s advantage. He thus needed something else, a mountain redoubt which was inaccessible and impregnable, a sanctuary from which he could develop his activity in all directions.
Just as the flags captured in Transoxania were being unfurled in the streets of Isfahan, Hassan was in the vicinity of Alamut. The site had been a revelation for him. From the moment he first saw it from in the distance, he understood that it was here, and nowhere else, that his task would be accomplished and that his kingdom would arise. Alamut was at that time one fortified village among so many others, where a few soldiers lived with their families along with some artisans, farmers and a governor, named by Nizam al-Mulk, who was a courageous nobleman called Mahdi the Alawite, whose only concerns were his irrigation water and his harvest of nuts, raisins and pomegranates. The turmoil taking place in the empire did not disturb his slumber.
