Alamut (51 page)

“Calm down, my boy,” a deep male voice said. “So you come to me from al-Ghazali?”

Now he saw the grand vizier before him again, smiling at him kindly to put him at ease, since he took his strange behavior to be mere awkwardness.

Ibn Tahir instantly became clear about everything.
The effect of the pellet
, he thought.

“Yes, I come from al-Ghazali, Your Excellency, with this letter.”

He held the letter out toward the old man, while calmly drawing the sharpened writing instrument out of it. He did this so naturally that none of those present was aware of the action.

The vizier unsealed the envelope and unfolded the letter.

“What is my learned friend up to in Baghdad?” he asked.

Ibn Tahir suddenly leaned forward and shoved the dagger into his throat beneath the chin. The vizier was so startled that for the first few moments he didn’t feel any pain. He just opened his eyes up wide. Then he scanned the only line of the letter one more time and grasped everything. He called for help.

Ibn Tahir remained standing there, as though body and soul had been paralyzed. The objects in the room merged with mirages. He remembered Miriam and wanted to be with her. His limbs felt heavy with fatigue. More
than anything, he would have liked to lie down and let the drug do its work. But the men had already wrestled him to the ground. Others rushed into the room and attacked him. Instinctively he began to defend himself. He thrashed around and bit whatever he could reach. They beat him with their fists and their weapons, kicked him, and tore the clothes off of him.

Suddenly he recalled that it had actually been his intention to die after completing his assignment. He became quite still and waited for the fatal blow. He glimpsed Miriam’s beautiful face through the blood that was streaming over his eyes.

The vizier’s weakened voice reached him.

“Don’t kill him! Take him alive!”

The kicking and slugging stopped. Now he could feel them cinching up knots around his hands and feet. The blood poured down his face so he could see nothing.

Gigantic arms lifted him up off the floor. A fearsome voice asked him, “Who are you, murderer?”

“Kill me. I’m the sacrificial animal of Our Master.”

In the meanwhile attendants had cleaned and bound the vizier’s wound. Others ran for a doctor.

When the vizier heard ibn Tahir’s answer, he moaned, “Oh, the idiot! He listened to the scoundrel!”

The commander of the vizier’s bodyguard bent over to pick the letter up. He read it and silently handed it to the master of ceremonies, who shuddered. It read, “Till we meet in hell. Ibn Sabbah.”

The vizier’s personal physician arrived and inspected the wound.

“Is it bad?” the vizier said in a trembling, questioning voice. “I can tell it’s bad.”

The doctor whispered to the commander of the bodyguard, “I’m afraid the implement was poisoned.”

“The master of Alamut sent the murderer,” the commander replied in a subdued voice.

Word traveled from mouth to mouth throughout the tent that the master of the Ismailis had sent a killer against the vizier.

“What, the old man of the mountain?”

“The same Hasan that the vizier made look ridiculous years ago at the court in Isfahan?”

“Yes. This is his revenge.”

Ibn Tahir’s boldness filled them with an even greater terror and seemed even more incomprehensible.

“He just walks into the camp and out of the blue, right in the middle of it, stabs the commander. He isn’t at all afraid of the death that has to await him.”

“It’s the height of religious delusion!”

“No, it’s madness.”

The oldest men couldn’t recall an action of such boldness. Some of them found themselves quietly admiring despite themselves.

“He truly wasn’t afraid of death.”

“He despised it.”

“Or he even wanted it.”

The drums rolled and the trumpets sounded. The men fell in at assembly, weapons in hand. The announcement came: The grand vizier has been critically wounded. The master of the Ismailis, the old man of the mountain, had sent a murderer to kill him.

Noisy anger and waving wildly were the response. If an order had come now to attack the Ismailis, they all would have enthusiastically raced into battle.

Despite the fact that the doctor had managed to stanch the flow of blood, the victim was weakening visibly. His veins had swollen. Something was clawing horribly at his brain.

“The dagger must have been poisoned,” he said in a trembling voice. He looked at the doctor like a helpless child. “Can nothing be done?”

The doctor was evasive.

“I’ll consult with my colleagues.”

A council of all the doctors they had so far been able to summon was assembled in an antechamber. Most of them favored burning the wound out.

Then they approached the patient. He appeared to be very weak.

“We would need to burn the wound out,” the vizier’s personal physical said.

The victim shuddered. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Will it hurt very much?”

His voice was plaintive and timid.

“There is no other way,” the doctor replied dryly.

“Allah, have mercy on me!”

The doctors prepared their instruments. An assistant brought a dish with glowing embers. The dull ring of metal implements could be heard.

The vizier could feel the poison coursing through his whole body. It became clear to him that nothing could be done.

“No burning,” he said exhausted, but at peace. “I’m going to die.”

The physicians exchanged glances. They felt relieved. The knew that any attempt would have been useless.

“Have you informed the sultan?”

“A messenger is on his way to His Highness already.”

“Write, scribe,” he ordered in a frail voice.

Then he dictated:

“Great king and emperor! I have devoted a large part of my life to eradicating injustice from your state. Your authority has supported me in this. Now I am leaving to account for my actions in this world to the all-powerful King of All Kings. I shall submit to him the proofs of my loyalty to you for the entire time I have been in your service. A murderer’s dagger point has struck me in my seventy-third year. I implore you, do not forget who sent it. As long as the criminal remains alive and well at Alamut, neither you nor your kingdom will be safe. Forgive me if I have ever offended you, as I forgive you. Do not forget my sons, who are devoted to Your Highness body and soul.”

The speaking exhausted him. He was breathing heavily. The doctor placed a cold cloth on his forehead. Then he dictated a brief farewell to his sons.

A short while later he asked, “What have they done with the criminal?”

“They’re torturing him,” the scribe replied. “They want him to tell everything he knows.”

“Bring him to me!”

They shoved ibn Tahir, bloody and in tatters, into the vizier’s presence. He could barely stand upright.

The vizier looked into his face and shuddered.

“But he’s just a child!” he whispered to himself.

“Why did you want to kill me?”

Ibn Tahir tried to stand up straight. But his voice was weak when he spoke.

“I was carrying out Sayyiduna’s order.”

“But didn’t you know that death would await you?”

“Yes, I knew.”

“And you weren’t afraid?”

“For a feday, death in the course of fulfilling his duty means happiness.”

“What madness!” the vizier moaned.

Then he was seized with anger.

“You’ve been duped. You don’t know what you’re doing. Do you know the governing principle of the Ismailis?”

“I do. Carry out your commander’s orders.”

“Idiot! Fanatical fool! Don’t you know that even I know your master’s doctrine?”

“Of course. You’re an apostate. A traitor.”

The vizier smiled indulgently.

“Listen to me, boy. The supreme principle of the Ismailis is this: Nothing is true, everything is permitted.”

“That’s a lie!”

Ibn Tahir shook with indignation.

“You don’t know who Sayyiduna is,” he said. “Sayyiduna is the most brilliant and powerful of all people. Allah gave him the power to open the gates of paradise to his faithful.”

“O Allah, forgive him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“You think I don’t know what I’m saying? I was one of ones he sent to paradise.”

The grand vizier held his breath. With difficulty he raised himself up on one elbow. He looked ibn Tahir intently in the eye. He knew he wasn’t lying. He shook his head incredulously.

Then he recalled the legends about Alamut. About the youths who claimed they had spent a night in paradise. Things began to dawn on him.

“So you say you were in paradise?”

“I saw it with my own eyes, felt it with my own hands.”

“And you’ll go back there when you die?”

“Yes, death will take me back there.”

The vizier collapsed back onto his pillows.

“Allah! Allah!” he groaned in a frail voice. “What a sin! So that’s why he needed so many beautiful slaves! That’s why he bought so many of them at the bazaars!”

Ibn Tahir listened closely. His whole face was taut in attention.

The vizier asked him, “Has it never occurred to you that you’ve been caught in a deception? That you were in a paradise of Hasan’s making? That you never left Alamut?”

“There aren’t any gardens like that at Alamut. The gardens I was in are exactly like the ones described in the Koran.”

One of those present, a senior officer who knew practically all of the fortresses in Iran, interrupted.

“Those could be the gardens of the kings of Daylam, who built them behind the castle for their entertainment. I’ve heard tell about them.”

Ibn Tahir’s eyes widened. Childlike fear showed in them.

“You’re making that up …”

The officer flushed red with anger.

“Hold your tongue, murderer! Anyone who served in the north of the country years ago will tell you that there are beautiful gardens behind Alamut, designed by the kings of Daylam.”

Everything started dancing before ibn Tahir’s eyes. He tried to grab onto one last straw.

“I saw a leopard in the gardens that was as tame as a lamb and followed its mistress around like a dog.”

The men all laughed.

“Princes and grandees have as many of those tamed leopards as you could want. Hunters use them instead of hounds.”

“And the dark-eyed houris who served me?”

“Dark-eyed houris?” The grand vizier gave a painful laugh. “Hasan’s slaves and concubines, bought at all the markets of Iran. My offices have precise records of all of those purchases.”

It was as though a veil fell from ibn Tahir’s eyes. Suddenly everything became clear to him. Miriam—Hasan’s slave and concubine. He, ibn Tahir, the helpless victim of their intrigue, their deception. He felt like his head was about to explode.

His knees weakened. He dropped to the floor and cried.

“O Allah, forgive me!”

The grand vizier lost consciousness from the strain. His throat emitted heavy gasps. The scribe dropped to his knees beside him.

“He’s dying,” he whispered. Tears welled up in his eyes.

The physicians hurried to the victim’s aid. They brought him back to consciousness with water and incense.

“What a crime!” he whispered.

He saw ibn Tahir on his knees before him.

“Do you see through it now?” he asked him.

Ibn Tahir only nodded, unable to produce a single word. His life’s edifice had crumbled within him.

“I’m dying because of your blindness.”

“O Allah! Allah! What have I done!”

“Are you repentant?”

“I am, Excellency.”

“You’re a brave boy. Do you have the courage to make amends for your crime?”

“If only I could.”

“You can. Go back to Alamut and rescue Iran from that Ismaili Satan.”

Ibn Tahir couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He smiled through his tears childishly and looked around. He saw nothing but grim, hateful faces.

“Are you afraid?”

“No, I’m not afraid. I just don’t know what you’re going to do with me.”

“We’re going to let you go back to Alamut.”

The men present protested. The criminal had to accept his punishment! They couldn’t let him go.

The vizier gave an exhausted wave of his hand.

“I know people,” he said. “If anyone can deal with Hasan, this boy can.”

“But it’s unheard of to give a criminal free passage. What will His Highness say?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m still alive and I take the responsibility. Scribe, write!”

He dictated an order.

The men present exchanged glances, shaking their heads.

“This youth who stabbed me is a greater victim of the henchman of Alamut than I am. He has seen the truth. Now he will avenge both himself and me. Have a detachment of men take him to the castle. Have him go in. There he will do what he feels to be his duty.”

“I’ll plant a dagger in his guts.”

Ibn Tahir got up, his eyes glinting with hatred.

“I swear I won’t rest until I’ve either gotten revenge or died.”

“Did you hear? That’s as it should be … Now wash him and bandage his wounds. Give him some new clothes … I’m tired.”

He closed his eyes. The blood in his veins scorched him as though it were embers. He began to shake.

“The end is near,” the doctor whispered.

He gave a signal and everyone left the room. Ibn Tahir’s guards led him away to a separate tent. They washed him, bound his wounds and dressed him, and then tied him to a stake.

What a nightmare life was! The man venerated by all his followers as a saint was in fact the basest of frauds. He toyed with people’s happiness and lives like a child with pebbles. He abused their trust. He calmly encouraged them to see him as a prophet and an emissary of Allah. Was this even possible? He had to go to Alamut! To make sure he wasn’t mistaken. If he wasn’t, then it would be the greatest pleasure to shove the poisoned blade into his body. His life was played out anyway. Allah’s will would be done.

The vizier spent the night with a severe fever. He remained almost continually unconscious. If he came to now and then, horrible visions tormented him. He moaned and called for Allah to help him.