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dinar
, sniffing a Delhi 
tanka
, feeling the weight of a Bukhara 
dirham
or
pulling a face at a recently devalued 
nomisma
from Constantinople.
The gateway of the 
diwan
, the seat of government and the official residence
of Nizam al-Mulk, was not far off. The musicians of the 
nowba
were stationed
there to sound their trumpets three times a day in honour of the Grand Vizir. In

---

spite of all this pomp, everyone, down to the most humble widow, was granted
permission to venture into the 
diwan
, the huge audience hall, in order to expose
their tears and grievances to the strong man of the empire. It was only there that
guards and chamberlains made a circle around Nizam, questioned the visitors
and sent away the nuisances.
Omar stopped in the doorway. He examined the room, its bare walls and its
three layers of carpet. He greeted those present with a hesitant gesture. They
were a mixed but contemplative group who surrounded the Vizir, who was in
conversation for the time being with a Turkish officer. Out of the corner of his
eye, Nizam had spotted the newcomer; he smiled at him in a friendly manner
and signalled to him to be seated. Five minutes later he came over to him, and
kissed him on both cheeks and then on the forehead.
‘I have been waiting for you. I knew that you would be here on time. I have
much to say to you.’
He then led him by the hand away from everyone into a small anti-chamber
where they sat down side by side on an enormous leather cushion.
‘Some of what I am about to say will surprise you, but I hope that when all is
said and done you will not regret having responded to my invitation.’
‘Could anyone ever regret having entered through Nizam al-Mulk’s
gateway.’
‘That has happened,’ murmured the Vizir with a savage smile. ‘I have raised
men up to the skies, and I have brought others low. Every day I dispense life and
death. God will be the judge of my intentions. He is the source of all power. He
granted the supreme authority to the Arab Caliph, who ceded it to the Turkish
Sultan, who has delivered it into the hands of the Persian Vizir, your servant. Of
others I demand that they respect this authority, but of you, 
khawajeh
Omar, I
demand that you respect my dream. Yes, I dream of making this huge country of
mine into the most powerful, prosperous, stable state, into the best policed state
in the universe. I dream of an empire where every province and city will be
administered by a just and God-fearing man who pays heed to the groans of his
weakest subjects. I dream of a state where the wolf and the lamb will drink
peacefully together, in complete peace, water from the same brook. However, it
is not enough for me merely to dream, I am building. Go and walk about in the
districts of Isfahan and you will see regiments of workers digging and building,
and artisans going about their work. Hospices, mosques, caravansaries, citadels
and seats of government are being built everywhere. Soon every important city
will have its own large school which will carry my name, a 
‘madrasa Nizamiya’
.

---

The one in Baghdad is already in operation. I drew up its plans with my own
hands, I established its curriculum, I chose the best teachers for it and I have
allotted a grant for every student. You see, this empire is one large building site.
It is rising up, expanding and prospering. Heaven has allowed us to live in a
blessed age.’
A light-haired servant came in and bowed. He was carrying two goblets of
iced rose-syrup on an engraved silver tray. Omar took one. As he raised it his
lips felt its icy steam and he decided to sip it slowly. Nizam finished his off in
one gulp and continued:
‘Your presence here gladdens and honours me!’
Khayyam wanted to reply to this rush of amiability, but Nizam stopped him
with a gesture.
‘Do not think that I am trying to flatter you. I am so powerful that I need only
sing the praises of the Creator. However, you see,