Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West (24 page)

He made sure she could stand before fully
letting go of her, then lightly kissed her forehead.

“Good night, Abigail.”

Qa’lat
al-Alamut, Elburz mountains, Persia: 1162

Alamut was loftier than Kahf, both spiritually and
physically. Nestled high in the Elburz mountains, which rose to
pierce the sky while their roots seemed to drink from the Caspian
sea, the castle was both nearer to Allah and more inaccessible to
the enemies of the Nizaris. Yet being nearer to God did not seem to
bring Hakim close to Hasan.

The heir apparent of Alamut welcomed Hakim
warmly, but then kept him at arm’s length. All Hakim’s needs were
catered for,
except
for the near desperate need to expound
his theories, to obtain Hasan’s favour and backing. So once again
Hakim prayed, and learned still more about the art of patience.

Yet, as months slipped by, he learned other
things too. Alamut boasted an extensive library that he visited
almost daily, containing copies of many ancient works in
translation and the latest scientific and medical texts from across
the Islamic world. Hakim’s thirsty intellect drank at this great
pool of knowledge until he was dizzy, which somewhat soothed his
frustration at the delay. After his breakthroughs in Africa, Hakim
concentrated mostly upon references to blood and diseases involving
blood – he even stumbled across and read in its entirety
On the
Secrets of Women
, an eighth century Arab work, for it contained
lengthy discourses on menstrual blood – as well as anything he
could find about the mechanisms of disease transference.

From one Arab treatise, he noted that incense
makers were said rarely to suffer the ravages of various plagues,
since their constant exposure to powerful scents transferred good
humours into their blood via the nasal passages, which rendered
them more resistant, or even immune, to the bad humours that would
strike down others. On the same topic, a Persian writer stated:
‘
The nasal passages are porous, like an exceeding thin and
un-oiled skin. Hence either noxious or beneficial herbs may be
passed into the blood via fumes or smokes breathed through the
nose’
.

Hakim had used the aromas of heated oils on
his rich clients back in Egypt, to remove aches, or to induce sleep
in insomniacs. Did this work via blood? Was the nose a gateway to
the blood?

Between intense bouts of study, Hakim
strolled around the castle and observed its workings, or savoured
the fragrances of mountain flowers and herbs in the gardens.
Do
they enter my blood?

The advanced water engineering truly
impressed him, surpassing even the arrangements at Kahf and the
other Syrian castles of the Nizaris. Great catchment areas were
scooped out of the mountain above the castle, from which
underground pipes led to cisterns deep within the foundations. An
efficient distribution network provided for the needs of the
castle’s occupants and also irrigated the gardens. Along with huge,
cool storerooms next to the cisterns, the whole system would enable
a siege to be resisted for years.

Occasionally Hakim came across Hasan
meditating or praying alone in the garden, staring at the sky, his
features immobile, as though of fine wood, his eyes glassy and
unblinking. Hasan would acknowledge Hakim, and even talk with him
though, unlike Sinan, Hasan did not exactly invite intimacy.

The heir to Alamut was a shining enigma, a
being of divine intensity, a force at the centre of things,
surrounded by an aura of danger and demand and worship. Often
Hasan’s eyes were focussed far away, yet he could touch a heart
directly and fill it with leaping inspiration. Men would do
anything to feel that touch again. As would Hakim himself.

Hasan might speak of the path to Allah, of
the fountainhead of knowledge, in an unpredictable yet profound way
such that Hakim found his own mind racing to keep up. Yet always
Hasan steered away from plague and the application of Hakim’s
theories.

“All things must wait for their time,” was
all Hasan would say.

Indeed, all Alamut seemed to be waiting,
seemed to be holding its breath, for just as within the castle of
Kahf in Syria, and yet more so, change seemed ready to crystallise
straight out of the clear mountain air. Old men, senior da’is, came
and went on the bidding of Hasan’s father, but Hasan himself was
revered and all the community felt his time approaching.

And when finally the Master died and Hasan
automatically ascended to this position, news spread through the
community, indeed all the communities of the Ismailis around the
Caspian, like a fire through drifts of dry leaves. From
Adharbayjan, Khurasan, Quhistan and further, islands of Ismailis
both open and hidden within the sea of Sunnis sent their
acknowledgements and devotion.

Only one week after Hasan’s accession, a
message arrived from far to the west, from Syria. The spirit of Abu
Muhammad had left the physical domain, and Sinan now led all the
Ismailis in that part of the world, subject to the guidance of
Alamut.

“The miraculous start of a new spiritual
cycle,” announced Hasan at a celebratory meal, “a cycle of
change!”

Two days later, Hakim was called to a private
audience in the new Master’s rooms.

“I am aware of your impatience to serve our
cause,” Hasan began, “but have you added to your knowledge in the
meantime, and has our faith sustained you?”

Hakim acknowledged both these; and this was
true.

“You may speak in detail.”

Rejoicing, Hakim did not try to hide the
expense involved, nor the long distance both medically and
physically he would need to travel, with a sizable company too.

“A journey is a quest for true knowledge,”
concluded Hakim. Hasan nodded, his focus seemingly elsewhere. “To
travel is a spiritual as well as a physical process, such that the
traveller finally discovers the innermost secrets of existence. Is
that not so, my Lord?”

“A journey towards…
Resurrection
,”
mused Hasan. “Towards the transforming moment. You speak with
insight, Doctor. Human existence consists of several cumulative
phases. Each phase reaches its zenith, only to be replaced by
another phase of a higher order, possessing greater potency.”

Hakim cleared his throat, which was dry. This
moment was so important. Every phrase carried a hidden meaning.
Hasan was speaking both of the esoteric process of initiation
through the Nizari hierarchy, towards becoming one of the
super-elite, and of the quest of discovery for power over plague,
and therefore over mankind.

“I have completed one cycle of my journey,”
Hakim continued. “Now a new cycle would indeed bring great potency.
The inner secrets of physical existence await me in Africa, which
in the esoteric world will bring overwhelming power, and triumph,
to our faith.”

“I see this
exactly
,” replied
Hasan.

Hearing this, Hakim’s heart rose like a
nightingale. Then Hasan gazed directly at him, for the first time
ever, and Hakim trembled both with adoration and
responsibility.

“Yet for now you will still need patience,
Hakim. We await other great matters, that will confer all the…
freedoms we will need for ultimate triumph.”

Hakim bowed, out of his depth, and not
wishing to show his lack of understanding.

“Leave me now.”

Hakim proceeded to the door, joy thrumming
through his every fibre. He could accommodate more waiting, more
patience, now he knew that the Master would sanction his mission.
Then Hasan called after him.

“You may well be the sword of the time,
Doctor.”

Hakim turned. “Only,” he replied, “if I
follow the commands of the Lord of the time.”

The Master of Alamut gazed through the window
into a dusty distance, perhaps seeing a stretch of time and not of
space.

“I am not that person, exactly. Merely a
servant of the Hidden One.”

“As are we all,” agreed Hakim. “Yet certainly
you are chief among the servants of Allah. Not just master of our
brotherhood, but the very source of our light.” An inspiration
struck Hakim. “Only
the hand of power
may wield the ultimate
sword.”

Hasan smiled. “I shall raise your rank,
Doctor, as befits one with such knowledge and understanding of our
faith.”

Qazvin to
Alamut, Iran: May

Eight a.m., and the light was dull, the sun
hidden.

The house benefited from Wi-Fi, so, in
between tooth-brushing and hair-drying, Abigail fired up her
lap-top and checked on her messages via web-mail. From Paul:

Hi Abigail. Where are you now?

Something weird. I found out through a guy
who owes me at BPD that ICE grabbed all the case details for
Walid’s hit and run. But all other sources are tight shut. My
journalist’s nose smells something bad, I just don’t know what.

Still trying to dig up clues on your
medieval mystery. Pulled in some favours and have a couple of
European ex-colleagues on the case, searching records and stuff.
Impressive huh? A lordly knight like Guy must have left some echoes
behind. Any luck your end?

Paul XX.

She dashed off an answer:

Paul, the bad smell is probably Jack – he’ll
be thrashing around. Be careful of riling him. Nothing worthwhile
here on the medieval front so far. Dark hints about the Assassins,
but more legend than fact. Maybe a different slant to legends in
the West though: potions, power over death, a physician guy called
al-Hakim.

Anyhow, off to Alamut itself today. Stayed
in a heavenly house in Qazvin overnight. Kamal cooked dinner. He’s
suuuch a gentleman!

Btw, came across an alternative name
interpretation: Alamut = Al-maut = ‘the death’. Scary huh? Abi.

And to her old friend Jen, whom she’d been
keeping up to date on romantic progress with Kamal, she merely
wrote:

Hi Jen, teetering on the brink. Stay
tuned.

Love Abi.

Kamal had hugged her warmly earlier, but their
conversation in the car was light, avoiding any mention of the
previous evening’s romantic contact. The consequent void was filled
with a kind of tight confusion that made Abigail feel like a shy
girl on her first date.

With Qazvin some distance behind and heading
upwards on winding mountain roads, they met a bank of pale grey
rolling downwards and became cocooned within, tightening the
atmosphere in the car still further. Given such poor visibility, it
was almost impossible to pass elderly coaches and the overloaded
and straining light trucks. They endured two hours of this before
more of the road became visible and the grey walls surrounding them
became less substantial. Sullen hills lurked behind thinning veils
and occasional buttresses of rock leaned over the road. Higher
still, and hazy light forced its way through from above, placing
them in the midst of pearly luminescence. Then the white veils
shredded to tattered banners and blew away. A flood of sunlight
illuminated buff scarps and lush green slopes dotted with hosts of
mountain flowers. Distant peaks protruded into rich blue.

“Oh Kamal, it’s beautiful!”

Kamal reached out and patted Abigail’s knee.
“I think Lake Evan will be very pleasant after all.”

And so the lake proved to be; a rich sapphire
in an emerald setting, jealously guarded by hills all around, its
waters shining with an inner radiance that fired the
imagination.

“It’s almost as though there’s a secret
treasure beneath,” breathed Abigail excitedly. “A jewel of light
that the depth of water can’t mask!”

“A blue treasure,” murmured Kamal. “Perhaps a
key to power. There are several legends of magical objects placed
for safety in Evan’s sacred waters. Whether these things are still
there or not, maybe the water remembers them.”

Scattered groups of locals gazed out at the
hypnotic surface of the lake, or wandered around its grassy
fringes. Further back, a couple of purple tents huddled up to some
poplar trees. There were twisted fruit trees too, cherry or apple
maybe, and willows sipping the still water that was such a gift at
this altitude. Two men in black seemed a little out of place. One
had binoculars and both seemed to be scanning the nearby area
rather than the water or the hilltops, almost as though they were
checking out the people. Maybe they were bird watchers.

“There’ll be more people later, as it warms
up,” explained Kamal. “It’s a popular place for picnics. But we
should push on for Alamut.”

They drove back to the main road and then
headed east for Gazorkhan, the village below Alamut. For an hour
and a half the car climbed still more.

From a distance Gazorkhan was a cluster of
tiny rectangles, the miniscule handiwork of man sheltering inside
one hollow out of hundreds within the rugged immensity of nature’s
carvings. Nearer to, the village appeared shabby and
weather-beaten, although screens of dwarf trees protected some
aspects. They nosed their way through, pausing for frail old men in
black skull-caps, shapeless black bundles with the tanned faces of
women, darting motor-bikes and careless, colourfully dressed
children.

Outside the village, Kamal found a good place
to pull over so they could look across and upwards to Alamut
itself. The fortress was perfectly located, on a massive promontory
of rock with a single steep access. A guard of majestic peaks
marched around it, blue-grey with distance and clad in misty robes.
Kamal smiled. Abigail’s hand found his, and in silence they drank
in the view. Seeing this place, so physically close to the roof of
the world, so spiritually high for the Nizaris during their first
166 years, Abigail at last began to realise what extreme defences
the Order had needed to survive against great odds.
What a
spirit of persistence, of self-discipline and self-inspiration they
must have developed!
She wondered whether they had bequeathed
this down the ages to the modern Ismaili community, still a tiny
minority in the often hostile sea of Islam.