Samarkand pdfdrive com

particular was making the Sultan’s life hard. He was the commander of a fortress
not far from the river. The army could have skirted around it and continued to
advance, but its rear would have been less secure, harassments would have
continued and in case of difficulty any retreat would have been turned out to be
perilous. Alp Arslan thus had given the order to put the fortress out of action ten
days earlier and they had made numerous assaults on it.
The battle was being followed very closely from Samarkand. Every three
days a pigeon would arrive, released by the defenders. The message was never
an appeal for help. It did not describe the exhaustion of supplies or men, it spoke
only of adverse losses and rumours of epidemics rife amongst the besiegers.
Overnight the commander of the site, a certain Yussif, originally from
Khwarazm, became the hero of Transoxania.
However, eventually the defenders were overwhelmed, the foundations of the
fortress were undermined and the walls scaled. Yussif fought to the last before
being wounded and captured. He was led off to the Sultan, who was curious to
see close up the cause of his troubles. It was a lean little man, hirsute and dusty,
who was marched in front of the Sultan. He held himself upright with his head
held high, between two giants who gripped him by the arms. Alp Arslan, for his
part, was stretched out on a wooden dais covered with cushions. The two men
looked at each other defiantly, then the victor ordered:
‘Place four posts in the ground, tie him to them and have him quartered.’
Yussif looked at the Sultan condescendingly and scornfully, and shouted: ‘Is
that the way to punish someone who has fought like a man?’
Alp Arslan did not reply. He turned his face away. The prisoner added: ‘You,
the Effeminate. I am talking to you!’
The Sultan jumped up, as if stung by a scorpion. He seized his bow which
was lying near him, loaded an arrow, and before firing he ordered the guards to
release the prisoner as he could not fire on the man without the risk of wounding
his own soldiers. In any case, he had nothing to worry about for he had never
missed a target.
Perhaps it was his extreme annoyance, his hurry or the awkwardness of firing
at such a short distance but Yussif was still unharmed and the Sultan did not

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have time to load a second arrow before the prisoner attacked him. Alp Arslan,
who could not defend himself while still perched on his pedestal, tried to
extricate himself, tripped on a cushion, stumbled and fell to the ground. Yussif
was upon him straight away, grasping the knife which he had kept hidden in the
folds of his clothing. He had time to stab him in the side before he himself was
dispatched by a massive blow. The soldiers set upon his lifeless, mutilated body.
His lips, however, still kept the sardonic smile which death had frozen on them.
He was avenged and the Sultan was not to outlast him for long.
Alp Arslan in fact died after four long nights of agony and bitter meditation.
His words were recorded in the chronicles of the time: ‘The other day I reviewed
my troops from high on a promontory and I felt the earth tremble under their
step. I told myself, “I am the master of the world! Who can measure up to me?”
For my arrogance and vanity God sent out the most wretched of humans, a
prisoner, a condemned man on his way to be executed; he proved himself more
powerful than I, he struck me, he knocked me off my throne, he has removed my
life.’
Was it the day after this drama that Omar Khayyam wrote in his book:
Once in a while a man arises boasting;
He shows his wealth and cries out, ‘It is I!’
A day or two his puny matters flourish;
Then Death appears and cries out, ‘It is I!’

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