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CHAPTER 9
It was feast-time in Samarkand and a woman dared to cry – the wife of the
triumphant Khan, but she was also above all the daughter of the assassinated
Sultan. Naturally her husband had gone to present his condolences. He had
ordered the whole harem to wear mourning and had a eunuch who had displayed
too much good humour flogged in front of her. However, when he was back in
his
diwan
he did not hesitate to tell all and sundry that ‘God has granted the
prayers of the people of Samarkand’.
It might be supposed that at that time the inhabitants of a city had no reason
for preferring one sovereign over the other. However, they said their prayers, for
what they really feared was a change of master with his string of massacres and
ordeals and the inevitable pillaging and plundering. For the population to wish to
be conquered by another, the monarch had to go beyond the limit in submitting
them to exorbitant taxes and continuous harassment. This was not the case with
Nasr. If he was not the best of princes, he certainly was not the worst. They
could live with him and they put their faith in the ability of the Almighty to keep
him in check.
Thus in Samarkand they were celebrating being spared from war. The
immense square of Ras al-Tak was overflowing with smoke and noise. Itinerant
merchants had erected stalls against every wall, and under every street lamp
there was a singing girl or a lute player improvising melodies. Myriad groups
were forming and dispersing around the story-tellers, the palm-readers and the
snake-charmers. In the centre of the square, on a hastily constructed and shaky
rostrum they were holding the traditional contest amongst popular poets who
sang praise to the incomparability and invincibility of Samarkand. The public’s
judgement was instant. New stars arose and others waned. There were wood
fires almost everywhere, as it was December and the nights had already turned
cold. In the palace, jars of wine were being emptied and smashed. The Khan was
jovial, boisterous and swaggering with drink.
The next day he had the prayer for the dead recited in the great mosque and
then received condolences over the death of his father-in-law. The same people
who had rushed over the day before to congratulate him on his victory came
back, wearing expressions of mourning to express their sorrow. The
qadi
, who
had recited some appropriate verses and invited Omar to do the same, gave
Omar an aside:
‘Do not be astonished at anything. Reality has two faces and so do people.’
That very evening, Abu Taher was summoned by Nasr Khan, who asked him
to join the delegation charged with going to pay Samarkand’s homage to the
deceased Sultan. Omar had set off too, albeit with a hundred and twenty other
people.
The site of the condolences was an old Seljuk army camp, situated just north
of the river. Thousands of tents and yurts were pitched all around, a veritable
improvised city where the solemn representatives of Transoxania rubbed
shoulders distrustingly with the nomad warriors with long plaited hair who had
come to renew their clan’s allegiance. Malikshah, at seventeen, a giant with the
face of a child, was wrapped in a flowing
karakul
coat and sat enthroned on the
very dais where his father, Alp Arslan, had fallen. Several steps in front of him
stood the Grand Vizir, at fifty-five years old the strongman of the empire, whom
Malikshah called ‘father’ as a sign of extreme deference. Nizam al-Mulk, the
Order of the Kingdom. Never had a name been more deserved. Every time a
visitor of rank approached, the young sultan gave the Vizir a questioning look.
He then gave an imperceptible signal as to whether to receive the visitor warmly
or reservedly, serenely or distrustingly, attentively or absently.
The whole delegation from Samarkand prostrated themselves at the feet of
Malikshah who acknowledged them with a condescending nod of the head. Then
a number of the notables left the group to make their way toward Nizam. The
Vizir was impassive. His colleagues were bustling around him but he looked at
them and listened to them without reacting. He should not be thought of as a
master of the palace who shouted out his orders. If his influence was ubiquitous,
it was because he worked like a puppeteer, who with a discreet touch impressed
on others the movements which he desired. His silences were proverbial. It was
not rare for a visitor to spend an hour in his presence without any words being
exchanged other than the phrases of greeting and parting. He was not visited for
his conversation, but so that allegiances could be renewed, suspicions dispelled
and oblivion avoided.
Twelve people from the Samarkand delegation had obtained the privilege of
shaking the hand which held the rudder of the empire. Omar followed close
behind the
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