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someone wanted to play a trick on me and taunt old Moses? when I heard a voice whispering,
‘Don’t be afraid. It’s me, sheik Mohammed.’ A man in a gray cloak vaulted over the railing as
light as a feather, and, before I knew it, he had me in his arms. I felt as though worlds were
being born and I was seeing infinity. He didn’t ask if I wanted to go with him. He took me by
the waist and carried me as he climbed down a ladder into the garden. On the other side of
the fence I could see several horsemen. They took hold of me so he could scale the wall. Then
he pulled me up into the saddle with him. Off we galloped, out of the city and into the dark
of night.”
“And all that happened to you?” Halima gasped. “Lucky, lucky Miriam!”
“Oh, don’t say that, Halima. It breaks my heart when I think of what happened after that.
We rode all night. The moon rose from behind the hills and shone on us. I felt horrible and
wonderful all at the same time, like when you listen to a fairy tale. For a long time I didn’t
dare look in the face of the horseman who had me in his embrace. I only gradually relaxed
and turned my eyes toward him. His gaze, like an eagle’s, was fixed on the road ahead of us.
But when he turned to look at me, it became soft and warm like a deer’s. I fell in love with
him so hard that I would have died for him on the spot. He was a magnificent man, my sheik
Mohammed. He had a black mustache and a short, thick beard. And red lips. Oh, Halima!
While  we  were  on  the  road  I  became  his  wife  …  They  chased  us  for  three  days.  My

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stepbrothers, my husband’s son and a whole pack of armed townsmen. Later I found out that,
as soon as they discovered I’d escaped, they interrogated all the servants. They discovered
Mohammed’s letter, and my husband Moses had a stroke, the pain and humiliation were so
great. Both families immediately took up arms, mounted their horses, and set out in pursuit.
We had gotten quite a ways out into the desert when we caught sight of the band of riders on
the horizon. Mohammed only had seven men with him. They called out for him to drop me so
that his horse could gallop faster. But he just brushed them off. We changed horses, but even
so our pursuers kept getting closer and closer. Then Mohammed called on his friends to turn
their horses around and charge at our pursuers. He set me down on the ground and, saber in
hand, led the seven in their charge. The groups of horsemen collided, and superior numbers
prevailed.  One  of  my  half  brothers  was  killed,  but  so  was  Mohammed.  When  I  saw  that  I
howled in agony and started to run. They caught me right away and bound me to the saddle,
and they tied Mohammed’s dead body to the horse’s tail.”
“Horrible, horrible,” Halima moaned, covering her face in her hands.
“I can’t tell you what I felt then. My heart became hard as stone and stayed open to one
passion alone—the passion for revenge. I still had no inkling of the humiliation and shame
that awaited me. When we arrived back in Aleppo I found my husband dying. Still, when he
saw me, his eyes came to life. At that moment he seemed like a demon to me. His son tied me
to the deathbed and lashed me with a whip. I gritted my teeth and kept silent. When Moses
died I felt relieved. It was as though the first part of the revenge had been fulfilled.
“I’ll only briefly describe what they did with me then. When they felt they’d tortured me
enough, they took me to Basra and sold me there as a slave. That’s how I became the property
of Our Master. And he promised to take revenge for me on the Jews and the Christians.”
Halima was silent a long time. In her eyes Miriam had grown to the stature of a demigod,
and she felt that through their friendship she had also gained immeasurably.
Finally she asked, “Is it true that Christians and Jews eat little children?”
Miriam, still lost in her terrible memories, suddenly shook loose from them and laughed
aloud.
“It’s not out of the question,” she said. “They’re heartless enough.”
“How lucky that we’re among true believers! Miriam, tell me, are you still a Christian?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Maybe a Jew then?”
“No, I’m not a Jew either.”
“Then you’re a true believer, like me!”
“Whatever you say, sweet child.”
“Does Sayyiduna like you very much?”
“I told you not to ask me questions,” she frowned at her in mock displeasure. “But since
I’ve  told  you  so  much  already,  I’ll  tell  you  this.  It’s  possible  that  he  likes  me,  but  what’s
certain is that he needs me.”
“How does he need you? I don’t understand.”
“He’s alone and he doesn’t have anyone he can open up to.”
“Do you like him?”
“You wouldn’t understand. He’s not sheik Mohammed, but he’s definitely not Moses either.
He’s a great prophet and I admire him a lot.”

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“He must be very handsome.”
“Silly kitten! Are you trying to make yourself jealous by asking me these things?”
“Oh,  in  spite  of  everything,  you’re  so  lucky,  Miriam,”  Halima  said,  the  thought  coming
from the bottom of her heart.
“Be quiet, cricket. It’s late and you’ve got to sleep. Now go back to bed.”
She kissed her, and Halima quietly slipped into her own bed. But she was unable to fall
asleep  for  a  long,  long  time.  In  her  mind  she  went  over  everything  she  had  heard  from
Miriam. And she imagined the abduction and horse ride in Mohammed’s embrace so vividly
that she could feel his breath and the touch of his mustache on her cheek.
She  shuddered  from  some  strange  sweetness,  and  she  was  glad  it  was  dark  and  no  one
could see her. But when, in her imagination, she saw the dead body of Mohammed tied to the
horse’s tail and being dragged along, she buried her little face in her pillow and sobbed. And,
crying, she fell asleep.
Once, not long after that, she came upon a scene that filled her with a strange revulsion. She
was roving around the gardens and exploring the underbrush as usual, when she suddenly
heard some odd whispering coming from behind a bush. Quietly she approached the place.
Sara and the eunuch Mustafa were lying in the grass, doing things that Apama usually talked
about in her lessons. She shuddered. She wanted to flee, but some invisible power bound her
to the spot. It took her breath away, and she was unable to look away from the pair. She
stayed put until they rose to leave.
She wondered if she should tell Miriam what she had seen, to avoid having to keep another
secret from her. But hadn’t she already betrayed Sara once before? No, she couldn’t accuse
her again. Instead she’d pretend she hadn’t seen anything. It was just an accident that she’d
discovered this anyway.
And  when,  subsequently,  she  actually  managed  to  keep  quiet,  she  felt  relieved.  She  was
able to look Sara in the eye again. It was as though she were settling an old debt to her with
her silence.

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C
HAPTER
F
OUR
In the castle, meanwhile, ibn Tahir was undergoing the greatest transformation of his life. For
several  days  after  his  arrival  everything  kept  spinning  and  going  hazy  before  his  eyes,  as
though someone had struck him on the head with a heavy club. But he quickly adapted to the
new order. After a fortnight had passed, not only was he one of the best novices, but he had
also become a passionate and fervent adherent of Ismaili teachings. His face also underwent a
striking change. The softness and roundness of his cheeks disappeared. They collapsed, and
the expression of his face became harsh and determined. He appeared to be a full ten years
older than when he had arrived.
During this time he had gotten to know his companions, their superiors, and the school’s
overall curriculum thoroughly.
Captain  Manuchehr  didn’t  just  train  them  in  military  maneuvers,  he  served  as  their
geography instructor as well. Leaving the castle, he would ride so far south with them that
when  they  turned  to  face  their  point  of  departure  they  could  see  the  peak  of  Demavend
jutting  above  the  surrounding  mountains.  This  he  chose  as  the  orientation  point  for  his
explanations.  When  he  still  served  in  the  sultan’s  army,  he  had  traveled  across  this  entire
realm several times. Now, on a huge sheet of parchment, he drew all the major mountain
ranges, all the most important cities and markets, and all the military and caravan routes. He
spread the map on the ground before the novices, using Demavend to determine the compass
points, and began describing the location of individual geographic features and crossroads. To
bring the lesson to life and heighten his listeners’ zeal, he wove recollections of his life in the
military  into  his  descriptions.  And  each  novice  was  assigned  the  task  of  determining  the
location of and distance to his hometown. As a result, these lessons were among everybody’s
favorites.
A  new  subject  that  al-Hakim  taught  was  particularly  unusual.  Formerly  this  man  had
moved in court circles in the West. He was familiar with the life of the courts in Byzantium
and Cairo, as well as in Baghdad. He had been the guest of many powerful princes and had
seen  numerous  peoples,  whose  ways  and  traditions  he  had  thoroughly  studied.  Now  he
distilled all this experience into a particular subject which he imparted to his students. He
taught  them  how  the  Greeks,  Jews,  Armenians  and  Arabs  greeted  each  other,  what  their
customs were, how they ate, drank and enjoyed themselves, and what they did for a living.
He showed them how to appear before this or that prince, what various rulers’ ceremonies
required,  and  he  provided  them  with  the  basics  of  the  Greek,  Hebrew  and  Armenian
languages.  Through  all  of  this  he  performed  like  some  Greek  tragedian,  playing  first  an
exalted prince, then a meek petitioner, walking about tall and proud one minute, then falling
face first to the floor or bowing low before phantoms, while smiling half-ingratiatingly and
half-slyly. The novices had to imitate him, playing parts with him and exchanging greetings
in  foreign  languages.  Every  now  and  then  the  proceedings  were  interrupted  by  riotous
laughter, and the learned Greek would willingly join in.
Besides  dogma  and  Arabic  grammar,  dai  Ibrahim  also  explicated  the  Koran  and  taught
algebra  and  mathematical  disciplines.  Ibn  Tahir  soon  came  to  feel  genuine  admiration  for

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him.  He  felt  as  though  dai  Ibrahim  knew  everything.  When  he  interpreted  the  Koran,  he
would also make philosophical digressions, talk about other faiths, and share the basics of
Christianity, Judaism, and even the mysterious Indian teachings proclaimed by the Buddha,
alongside other pagan beliefs. He would explain in detail why all those faiths were in error,
and demonstrate how much truer were the teachings of the Prophet, which found their most
perfect expression in the doctrine of the Ismailis. In conclusion he would condense all these
reflections into concise sentences, which the novices had to write down and then memorize.
Once  dai  Abu  Soraka  came  to  class  with  a  thick  paper  package  under  his  arm.  He
unwrapped  it  carefully,  as  though  it  contained  something  mysterious  and  valuable,  then
pulled out a stack of minutely inscribed sheets of parchment. He set these down on the rug
before him and put his heavy hand over them.
“Today  I  will  begin  to  teach  you  about  the  life  of  Our  Master.  You  will  hear  about  his
suffering, his struggles, and the great sacrifices he has made for the Ismaili cause. This stack
of  writings  in  front  of  me  now  is  the  result  of  his  untiring  efforts.  All  of  this  was  written
carefully by his hand for you, so that you can learn from his life what it means to sacrifice
yourself for the just cause. That’s why I want you to take careful notes on everything you’re
going to hear, and then learn it well. Behold, here is the fruit of his labors on your behalf.”
The  novices  stood  and  approached  the  writings  that  lay  in  front  of  the  dai.  In  silent
admiration they looked at the beautifully inscribed sheets, which rustled as they slid through
their teacher’s fingers. Suleiman wanted a closer look and reached for one of the sheets. But
Abu Soraka quickly stretched his hand out, as if protecting the writings from desecration.
“Have you lost your mind?!” he exclaimed. “This is the manuscript of a living prophet.”
The  novices  gradually  returned  to  their  places.  In  a  reverent  voice,  the  dai  started  to
introduce them to the life and achievements of their supreme commander. To begin with, he
wanted to provide them with a brief outline of the external events, so it would then be easier
to  shift  to  the  details  that  were  described  in  the  sheets  before  him.  They  heard  that
Sayyiduna, their commander, had been born sixty years ago in Tus, that his name was Hasan
and that his father Ali came from the famous Arab clan of Sabbah Homairi. In his early youth
he had gotten to know several Ismaili teachers and missionaries and immediately sensed the
absolute rightness of their doctrine. His father himself had secretly been a devotee of Ali. In
order not to awaken suspicion, he had sent the young Hasan to Nishapur to study with the
Sunni refiq Muafiq Edin. It was there that Hasan become acquainted with the present grand
vizier Nizam al-Mulk and with the astronomer and mathematician Omar Khayyam. They were
fellow students who, when they fully realized the falseness of the Sunni faith and the vanity
of  its  exponents,  resolved  to  devote  their  lives  to  the  Ismaili  cause.  They  swore  that
whichever of them first attained success in public life would help the other two advance, so
that they could more effectively serve the one true cause.
The grand vizier failed to keep his promise. On the contrary! He lured Sayyiduna to the
sultan’s court, where he had set a dangerous trap for him. But Allah protected his chosen one.
He wrapped him in the cloak of night and led him to Egypt and the caliph there. But even
there, jealous individuals rose up against him. He overcame them and, after much wandering,
returned to his homeland. Allah gave him the fortress of Alamut so that he could use it to
launch  the  struggle  against  false  teachings  and  ultimately  overcome  the  false  rulers  and
despots. His entire life is strewn with miracles, mortal danger and the grace of Allah. Abu

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Soraka continued.
“Once you hear all these wondrous stories, which seem more like legends than truth, you’ll
know Our Master to be a true and powerful prophet.”
And in the following days he began recounting in detail the most improbable events and
experiences from the life of the supreme commander. The novices’ picture of a strong prophet
gradually took shape, and it became their most fervent wish to see him in person someday,
and  to  prove  themselves  to  him  through  some  feat  or  great  sacrifice,  because  meaning
something  in  his  eyes  meant  the  same  thing  for  them  as  rising  far  above  the  mass  of
humanity.
By day, ibn Tahir no longer marveled at anything. He was a keen observer and an obedient
student. He did everything the moment demanded of him, and he felt that everything had to
be precisely the way it was.
In the evening, however, when he lay with his hands clasped behind his head and stared at
the reddish flame emanating from the oil dish on its stand in the corner, he suddenly realized
that  he  was  living  in  some  strange,  mysterious  world.  He  felt  anxious  and  often  he  would
wonder, “Are you, lying here, really the same Avani who used to tend father’s herd in Sava?”
He felt that the world he was now living in and his former world were divided by the same
kind of abyss that divides the world of dreams from the waking world.
He escaped from those dreams by writing poems. During poetry lessons, dai Abu Soraka
asked  the  novices  to  celebrate  in  verse  some  personage  or  event  of  significance  to  the
Ismailis. They had to write poems about the Prophet, about Ali, about Ismail and the glorious
martyrs and their feats.
Ibn Tahir felt most drawn to Ali, the Prophet’s son-in-law, and he composed a poem about
him  that  so  impressed  Abu  Soraka  that  he  showed  it  to  Sayyiduna.  His  fellow  disciples
learned it too, and soon ibn Tahir was known throughout Alamut as a poet.
ALI
First to know the Prophet, after his bride,
At the time when he wasn’t yet ten,
In every battle he stood by his side,
And for him he selflessly bled.
The Prophet gave him his daughter to wife,
Fatima, the most beautiful girl,
He chose him to serve as caliph for life,
And then he let history unfurl.
Betrayed and defrauded of all of his rights
At the death of the Prophet he was.
And this was not the end of his plight:
He gave up his life as Allah’s.
His holy relics lie in Najaf,

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Enshrined in a gold-covered dome,
And the faithful who go there to worship Allah
Shed tears in the martyr’s name.
Encouraged by his first success, ibn Tahir continued his experiments with poetry. Suddenly
he felt that he had discovered a means both of expressing something of that eerie feeling that
frightened  him  in  the  evenings  and  getting  rid  of  it  at  the  same  time.  He  tried  to  fit
everything  that  had  seemed  alien  and  obscure  to  him  into  verse,  so  that  he  could  face  it
directly. Some of these efforts eventually became common property among the residents of
Alamut, many of whom could recite them by heart. Two poems about Alamut and Sayyiduna
were particular favorites.
ALAMUT
Where the Elburz rise up to the sky,
Where untamed waters flow,
Where mountain torrents froth and spray
Enough to thwart every foe—
A mysterious castle stands on a rock,
Going back to the kings of Daylam.
Enclosed on all sides by a powerful wall,
It stands fast against arrows and storms.
At one time eagles nested there,
And hawks perched with their prey.
All predators found it a suitable lair,
So Alamut is its name.
Four towers guard the keep on the cliff,
Holding its mystery safe
From unholy hands grasping to pry
The sacred mystery away.