Samarkand pdfdrive com

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.’

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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,

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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

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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.’
Everyone noticed that the Sultan had called his Vizir ‘father’ anew. Did this
mean that he was back in favour? While Hassan was still caught up in the most
pathetic state of confusion, the Vizir pushed his advantage:

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‘Let us forget this lost page. Instead of making the Sultan wait, I suggest that
our brother Hassan presents to us the figures on some important cities or
provinces.’
The Sultan was eager to agree. Nizam carried on:
‘Let us take the city of Nishapur, for example, the birthplace of Omar
Khayyam, who is here with us. Could we be informed how much that city and its
province have contributed to the Treasury?’
‘Immediately,’ responded Hassan, who had been trying to land on his feet.
He had ploughed expertly through his pile of papers, trying to extract page
thirty-four where he had written everything about Nishapur, but it was in vain.
‘The page is not there,’ he said. ‘It has disappeared, I have been robbed of it
… Someone has messed up my papers …’
Nizam stood up. He went up to Malikshah and whispered in his ear: ‘If our
master cannot have confidence in his most competent servants who are aware of
the difficulty of projects and can tell the difference between the possible and the
impossible, there will be no end to his being thus insulted, held up to ridicule,
and fair game for the ignorant, the foolish and charlatans.’
Malikshah did not doubt for a moment that Hassan had just been the victim
of some practical joke. As the chroniclers reported, Nizam al-Mulk had
succeeded in bribing Hassan’s secretary and ordered him to filch some pages and
to misfile others, reducing to nought the patient work carried out by his rival.
Hassan tried in vain to claim that he was the victim of a plot, but his voice could
not be heard over the tumult, and the Sultan, disappointed to have been duped,
but even more so to realize that his attempt to shake his Vizir’s tutelage had
failed, directed the whole blame onto Hassan. Having ordered his guards to seize
him, he there and then sentenced him to death.
For the first time, Omar spoke up: ‘May our Master be merciful. Hassan
Sabbah may have made mistakes, he may have sinned through an excess of zeal
or enthusiasm, and he should be dismissed for these misdemeanours, but he is in
no way guilty of a serious misdeed against your person.’
‘Then let him be blinded! Bring the galenite and heat up the iron.’
Hassan stayed silent and it was Omar who spoke up again. He could not
allow a man, whom he had had engaged, to be silenced or blinded.
‘Master,’ he begged, ‘do not inflict such a punishment on a young man who
could only find solace in his disgrace by reading and writing.’
Malikshah then stated:
‘It is for your sake, 
khawaja
Omar, the wisest and purest of men, that I agree

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to retract a decision of mine yet again. Hassan Sabbah is thus condemned to be
banished and will be exiled to a distant country until the end of his life. He will
never be able to tread anew upon the soil of the empire.’
But the man from Qom was to return and carry out an exceptional act of
vengeance.

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