Samarkand (10 page)

‘These spies could still be bought off by the
qadis
, the governors or the emirs, or become their accomplices!’

‘Your role, the role of the
sahib-khabar
, is precisely to find incorruptible men for these assignments.’

‘If these incorruptible men exist, would it not be simpler to appoint them governors or
qadis!’

It was a naïve observation, but to Nizam’s ears it sounded mocking. He became impatient and arose:

‘I have no wish to debate the issue. I have told you what I am offering you and what I expect of you. Go and think over my
proposal. Weigh up the arguments on both sides calmly and return tomorrow with your response.’

That day Khayyam was no longer capable of reflecting, weighing up or evaluating. After leaving the
diwan
, he disappeared into the narrowest alley of the bazaar, meandered past men and beasts and made his way under the stucco vaults
between mounds of spices. At each step the alley became a little darker and the crowd seemed to be moving sluggishly and speaking
in murmurs. Merchants and customers were masked actors and sleepwalking dancers. Omar groped his way along, now to the left,
now to the right, afraid of falling down or fainting. Suddenly he came upon a small square which was flooded with light, a
clearing in the jungle. The harsh sun beat down on him. He straightened up and breathed. What was happening to him? He was
being offered a paradise which was shackled to a hell. How could he say yes, how could he say no. How could he face the Grand
Vizir or leave town with any dignity? To his right, a tavern door was half open. He pushed it and went down a few steps strewn
with sand and came out into a dimly lit room with a low ceiling. The floor was damp earth, the benches looked unsteady and
the tables unwashed. He ordered a dry wine from Qom. It was brought to him in a chipped jar. He breathed it in for a long
while with shut eyes.

The blessed time of my youth passes by
,

I pour out the wine of my oblivion
.

Bitter it is, and thus it pleases me
.

For this bitterness is the zest of my life
.

Suddenly, however, an idea occurred to him. He doubtless had had to come to this sordid den to find it; the idea had been
waiting for him there, on that table, at the third mouthful of the fourth goblet. He settled his bill, left a generous
baksheesh
and resurfaced. Night had fallen, the square was already empty, with every alley of the bazaar closed off by a heavy portal
and Omar had to make a detour to get back to his caravansary.

Hassan was already asleep, his face severe and pained, as Khayyam tiptoed into his room. Omar contemplated him for a long
while. A thousand questions ran through his mind, but he brushed them aside without trying to find answers. His decision was
taken and it was irrevocable.

There is a legend common in the books. It speaks of three friends, three Persians who marked, each in his own fashion, the
beginnings of our millenium: Omar Khayym who observed the world, Nizam al-Mulk who governed it and Hassan Sabbah who terrorized
it. They are said to have studied together at Nishapur, which cannot be correct since Nizam was thirty years older than Omar
and Hassan carried on his studies at Rayy, and perhaps a little in his native town of Qom, but certainly not at Nishapur.

Is the truth to be found in the
Samarkand Manuscript?
The chronicle which runs along the margins asserts that the three men met for the first time in Isfahan, in the
diwan
of the Grand Vizir, on the initiative of Khayyam – acting as destiny’s blind apprentice.

Nizam had secluded himself in the palace’s small hall and was surrounded by papers. As soon as he saw Omar’s face in the doorway
he understood that his response would be negative.

‘So, you are indifferent to my projects.’

Khayyam replied, contritely but firmly:

‘Your dreams are grandiose and I hope that they will be realized, but my contribution cannot be what you have proposed. When
it comes to secrets and those who reveal them, I am on the side of the secrets. The first time an agent came to me to report
a conversation, I would order him to be silent, state that it was neither my business nor his and I would ban him from my
house. My curiosity about people and things is expressed in a different way.’

‘I respect your decision and do not deem it useless for the empire that some men devote themselves completely to science.
Naturally, you will still receive everything I promised you – the annual sum of gold, the house, the observatory. I never
take back what I have given of my own accord. I would have wished to be able to associate you more closely with my work, but
I take consolation in the fact that the chronicles will write for posterity that Omar Khayyam lived in the era of Nizam al-Mulk
and that he was honoured, sheltered from bad weather and was able to say no to the Grand Vizir without risking disgrace.’

‘I do not know if I will ever be able to show the gratitude which your magnanimity deserves.’

Omar broke off. He hesitated before continuing:

‘Perhaps I may be able to make you forget my refusal by presenting to you a man I have just met. He is a man of great intelligence,
his knowledge is immense and his genius is disarming. He seems just right for the office of
sahib-khabar
and I am sure that your proposal will delight him. He conceded to me that he had come from Rayy to Isfahan with the firm
hope of being employed by you.’

‘An ambitious man,’ Nazim murmured between his teeth. ‘But that is my fate. When I find a trustworthy man, he lacks ambition
and scorns the apparatus of power; and when a man appears ready to jump at the first office I offer him, his haste unnerves
me.’

He seemed tired and resigned.

‘By what name is this man known?’

‘Hassan, son of Ali Sabbah. I must warn you, however, that he was born in Qom.’

‘A Shiite missionary? That does not worry me, even though I am hostile to all heresies and all deviations. Some of my best
collaborators are sectarians of Ali, my best soldiers are Armenians and my
treasurers are Jews, but that does not mean that I withhold my trust and protection from them. The only ones I distrust are
the Ismailis. I do not suppose that your friend belongs to that sect?’

‘I do not know. However, Hassan has come here with me. He is waiting outside. With your permission I will summon him and you
will be able to question him.’

Omar disappeared for a few seconds and came back accompanied by his friend, who did not appear in the least intimidated. However,
Khayyam could make out two muscles in Hassan’s beard which were flexing and shaking.

‘I present Hassan Sabbah. Never has such a tightly-wound turban held such knowledge.’

Nizam smiled.

‘Here I am surrounded by the learned. Is it not said that the prince who frequents and keeps the company of scholars is the
best of princes?’

It was Hassan who retorted:

‘It is also said that the scholar who keeps the company of princes is the worst of scholars.’

An unaffected but brief laugh drew them together. Nizam was already knitting his brows. He wanted the inevitable series of
proverbs which preceded any Persian conversation to be over quickly, in order to make clear to Hassan what he expected of
him. Curiously enough, from the very first words they found themselves in collusion. It now only remained for Omar to slip
away.

Thus Hassan Sabbah very quickly became the indispensable collaborator of the Grand Vizir. He had succeeded in setting up an
elaborate network of agents disguised as merchants, dervishes and pilgrims, who criss-crossed the Seljuk empire, not letting
any palace, house or bazaar out of their earshot. Plots, rumours and scandals were all reported, exposed and thwarted in either
a discreet or an exemplary manner.

At first, Nizam was overjoyed at having the fearsome machinery under his control. He elicited some satisfaction from the Sultan,
who had previously been reticent. Had not his father, Alp Arslan,
recommended that he abhor this type of politics? ‘When you have planted spies everywhere,’ he had warned, ‘your true friends
will not be on their guard since they know that they are loyal. But the felons will be on the look-out. They will want to
bribe the informers. Gradually you will start receiving reports which are unfavourable to your true friends and favourable
to your enemies. Good or bad words are like arrows, when you fire many there is always one which hits its target. Your heart
will then be hardened against your friends, the felons will take their place at your side, and what will be left of your power?’

It needed a woman from the harem to be caught in the act of poisoning someone to make the Sultan stop doubting the usefulness
of his chief of spies and overnight he made him his confidant. However, it was Nizam who took umbrage at the friendship which
sprang up between Hassan and Malikshah. The two men were young, and they would happily chat together at the expense of the
old Vizir, particularly on Fridays, the day of the
shölen
, the traditional banquet held by the Sultan for his court.

The first part of the festivities was strictly formal and restrained. Nizam was seated to the right of Malikshah. They were
encircled by men of letters and intellectuals and discussions took place on the most varied of subjects from the comparative
merits of Indian or Yemenite swords to the various works of Aristotle. The Sultan fleetingly showed a passion for this sort
of sparring, then he faded out and his eye started to wander. The Vizir understood that it was time to leave, and the noble
guests followed him. They were instantly replaced by musicians and dancers, jugs of wine were tipped and the drinking bout,
which would be restrained or wild accordingly to the humour of the prince, would continue into the morning hours. To a couple
of chords from the rebec, the lute or the
târ
, singers improvised on their favourite theme – that of Nizam al-Mulk. The Sultan, who was incapable of doing without his
Grand Vizir, avenged himself by laughing freely. One just had to see the infantile frenzy with which he clapped, to know that
one day he would manage to hit out at ‘his father’.

Hassan was adept at feeding the sovereign’s every sign of resentment toward his Vizir. Upon what did the Vizir pride himself?
His
wisdom, his learning? But Hassan could make short shrift of both these qualities. The Vizir’s capacity to defend the throne
and the empire? Hassan very quickly had shown himself equally competent. The Vizir’s constancy? There was nothing simpler
than to affect loyalty, which anyhow never rings truer than in the mouths of liars.

Above all, Hassan knew how to cultivate Malikshah’s proverbial avarice. He constantly spoke to him of the Vizir’s expenses,
and brought to his attention the new robes of the Vizir and his associates. Nizam liked power and its apparatus, but Hassan
liked only power and was rigorous in its pursuit.

When he felt that Malikshah was totally won over and ready for his
eminence grise
to be delivered the death blow, Hassan created the incident. The scene unfolded in the throne room, one Saturday. The Sultan
had woken up at mid-day with an annoying headache. He was in a foul temper, and became exasperated upon learning that sixy
thousand golden dinars had just been distributed to the soldiers of the Vizir’s Armenian guard. The information had to have
come from Hassan and his network. Nizam patiently explained that in order to avoid any hint of insubordination he had to feed
the troops and fatten them up a little, and that if the troops reached the point of rebellion the state would have to spend
that amount ten times over. Throwing gold around by the armful, retorted Malikshah, meant that they would end up not being
able to pay salaries and then the real rebellions would begin. A good government surely had to know how to keep its gold for
the difficult times?

One of Nizam’s twelve sons, who was present during the scene, thought it clever to intervene:

‘During the early days of Islam, when the Caliph Omar was accused of spending all the gold that had been amassed during the
conquests, Omar asked his detractors: “Is this gold not the bounty of the Almighty who lavished it upon us? If you believe
God is incapable of granting any more, then spend none of it. As for me, I have faith in the infinite generosity of the Creator
and will not keep in my coffer a single coin which I could spend for the welfare of the Muslims.”’

Malikshah, however, had no intention of following this example.
He was mulling over an idea of whose merits Hassan had convinced him. He ordered:

‘I demand to be presented with a detailed summary of everything which goes into my Treasury and the precise way that it is
spent. When can I have it?’

Nizam seemed overwhelmed.

‘I can provide this summary, but it will take time.’

‘How long,
khawaja
?’

He had not said
ata
but
khawaja
– a very respectful title, but in this context so distant that it sounded very much like a repudiation or a prelude to disgrace.

Distraught, Nizam explained:

‘An emissary will have to be sent to every emir to carry out long calculations. By the grace of God, the empire is immense,
and thus it would be difficult to draw up this report in less than two years.’

Hassan, however, approached solemnly:

‘I promise our master that if he provides me with the means, if he orders all the papers of the
diwan
to be put into my hands, I will present him a completed report in forty days time.’

The Vizir wanted to respond, but Malikshah had already arisen. He strode towards the door and raised his voice:

‘Very well, Hassan will be installed in the
diwan
. The whole secretariat will be under his orders. No one will enter without his permission. In forty days time I will conclude
the matter.’