Samarkand (11 page)

Soon the whole empire was in an upheaval, the administration was paralysed, troop movements were reported and people spoke
of civil war. It was said that Nizam had distributed arms in certain districts of Isfahan. In the bazaar, the merchandise
had been stored away. The gates of the principal souks, notably that of the jewellers, were closed at the beginning of the
afternoon. In the neighbourhood of the
diwan
the tension was at its greatest. The Grand Vizir had had to hand over over his offices to Hassan, but his residence adjoined
them and only a small garden separated him from what had become the territory of his rival. Now the garden had been transformed
into a veritable barracks, and Nizam’s personal guard patrolled it nervously, armed to the teeth.

No one was more embarrassed than Omar. He wanted to intervene to calm spirits down and to find a way for the two adversaries
to compromise. Even though Nizam continued to receive him, he missed no occasion to reproach him for the ‘poisoned gift’ which
he had made him. Hassan on the other hand spent his time locked up with his papers, busy preparing the report which he had
to present to the Sultan. Only at night did he allow himself to stretch out on the large carpet of the
diwan
, surrounded by a handful of his trusty men.

Three days before the fateful day, Khayyam still wanted to
attempt a final mediation. He went to Hassan’s apartments and insisted upon seeing him, but he was asked to come back one
hour later as the
sahib-khabar
was holding a meeting with the treasurers. Omar decided that he would take a few steps outside, and had just passed through
the doorway when one of the royal eunuchs, dressed all in red, addressed him:

‘If
khawaja
Omar would be so kind as to follow me, he is expected.’

After the man led him through a labyrinth of tunnels and staircases, Khayyam found himself in a garden of whose existence
he had had no suspicion. Peacocks strutted around free, apricots trees were in blossom and a fountain murmured. Behind the
fountain they came to a low door encrusted with mother-of-pearl. The eunuch opened it and invited Omar to proceed.

It was a vast room with brocade-lined walls, and at one end it had a sort of vaulted niche protected by a curtain, which fluttered
indicating someone’s presence behind it. Khayyam had hardly entered before the door was shut with a muffled sound. Another
minute of waiting and confusion ensued before a woman’s voice was heard. He did not recognise it, but he thought he could
identify a certain Turkish dialect. However, the voice was low and the speech was rapid with only a few words emerging like
rocks in a flood. The gist of the discourse escaped him and he wanted to interrupt her and ask her to speak in Persian or
Arabic, or just more slowly, but it was not so easy to address a woman through a curtain. Suddenly another voice took over:

‘My mistress, Terken Khatun, the wife of the Sultan, thanks you for having come to this meeting.’

This time the language was Persian, and the voice was one that Khayyam would recognize in a bazaar on the Day of Judgement.
He was going to shout, but his shout quickly turned into a happy but plaintive murmur:

‘Jahan!’

She pulled aside the edge of the curtain, raised her veil and smiled, but with a gesture prevented him from drawing close
to her.

‘The Sultana,’ she said, ‘is worried about the struggle unfolding
within the
diwan
. Disquiet is spreading and blood is going to be spilled. The Sultan himself is very concerned about this and has become irritable.
The harem resounds with his bursts of anger. This situation cannot last. The Sultana knows that you are attempting to do the
impossible and reconcile the two protagonists, and she desires to see you succeed, but such success seems distant.’

Khayyam concurred with a resigned nod of his head. Jahan continued:

‘Things having come so far, Terken Khatun considers that it would be preferable to dismiss the two adversaries and to confer
the vizirate upon a decent man who can calm spirits down. Her spouse, our master, is surrounded, according to her, with schemers,
but he just needs a wise man who is devoid of base ambition, a man of sound judgement and excellent counsel. As the Sultan
holds you in high esteem, she would like to suggest to him that he name you Grand Vizir. Your nomination would relieve the
whole court. Nevertheless, before putting forward such a suggestion, she would like to be assured of your agreement.’

Omar took some time to digest what was being asked of him, but he called out:

‘By God, Jahan! Are you after my downfall? Can you see me commanding the armies of the empire, decapitating people or quelling
a slave revolt? Leave me to my stars!’

‘Listen to me, Omar. I know that you have no desire to conduct affairs of state, your role will be simply to be there! The
decisions will be taken and carried out by others!’

‘In other words, you will be the real Vizir, and your mistress the real Sultan. Isn’t that what you are after?’

‘And how would that upset you? You would have the honours with none of the worries. What better could you wish for?’

Terken Khatun intervened to qualify her proposal. Jahan translated:

‘My mistress says it is because men like you turn away from politics that we are so badly governed. She considers you to have
all the qualities of an excellent vizir.’

‘Tell her that the qualities needed to govern are not those which are needed in order to accede to power. In order to run
things
smoothly, one must forget oneself and only be interested in others – particularly the most unfortunate; to get into power,
one must be the greediest of men, think only of oneself and be ready to crush one’s closest friends. I, however, will not
crush anyone!’

For the moment, the two women’s projects were at a standstill. Omar refused to bend to their demands. Anyway, it would have
served no use as the confrontation between Nizam and Hassan had become unavoidable.

That same day, the audience hall was a peaceful arena, and the fifteen people there were content to watch in silence. Malikshah
himself, usually so exuberant, was conversing in hushed tones with his chamberlain while idiosyncratically twiddling with
the ends of his moustache. From time to time he shot a glance at the two gladiators. Hassan was standing up, wearing a creased
black robe and a black turban and wearing his beard lower than usual. His face was furrowed and his searing eyes were ready
to meet those of Nizam, although they were red with fatigue and lack of sleep. Behind him a secretary carried a bundle of
papers tied up with a wide band of Cordovan.

As a privilege that comes with age, the Grand Vizir was seated, or more correctly slumped, in a chair. His robe was grey,
his beard flecked with white and his forehead wizened. Only his glance was young and alert, one might even say sparkling.
Two of his sons accompanied him, flashing looks of hatred or defiance.

Right next to the Sultan was Omar, as dour as he was overwhelmed. He was drawing up in his mind various conciliatory words
which he would doubtless not have occasion to utter.

‘Today is the day that we were promised a detailed report on the state of our Treasury. Is it ready?’ asked Malikshah.

Hassan leaned over.

‘My promise has been kept. Here is the report.’

He turned towards his secretary who came forward to meet him and carefully untied the leather band holding together the pile
of papers. Sabbah started to read them out. The first pages were, as custom would have it, expressions of thanks, pious discourses,
erudite
quotations and well-turned eloquent pages, but the audience was waiting for more. Then it came:

‘I have been able to calculate precisely,’ he declared,’ what the tax office of every province and known town has sent in
to the royal Treasury. In the same way, I have evaluated the booty won from the enemy and I now know how this gold has been
spent …’

With great ceremony, he cleared his throat, handed to his secretary the page he had just read, and fixed his eyes on the next
one. His lips opened a little and then shut tight. Silence fell again. He threw aside the leaf of paper and then set that
one aside with a furious gesture. There was still silence.

The Sultan was becoming a little anxious and impatient:

‘What is going on? We are listening to you.’

‘Master, I cannot find the continuation. I had arranged my papers in order. The sheet I am looking for must have fallen out.
I shall find it.’

He leafed through them again, rather pathetically. Nizam made the most of the situation by intervening, in a tone which tried
to sound magnanimous:

‘Anyone can lose a piece of paper. We should not hold that against our young friend. Instead of waiting around, I propose
that we go on with the rest of the report.’

‘You are right,
ata
, let us go on with the report.’

Everyone noticed that the Sultan had called his Vizir ‘father’ anew. Did this mean that he was back in favour? While Hassan
was still caught up in the most pathetic state of confusion, the Vizir pushed his advantage:

‘Let us forget this lost page. Instead of making the Sultan wait, I suggest that our brother Hassan presents to us the figures
on some important cities or provinces.’

The Sultan was eager to agree. Nizam carried on:

‘Let us take the city of Nishapur, for example, the birthplace of Omar Khayyam, who is here with us. Could we be informed
how much that city and its province have contributed to the Treasury?’

‘Immediately,’ responded Hassan, who had been trying to land on his feet.

He had ploughed expertly through his pile of papers, trying to
extract page thirty-four where he had written everything about Nishapur, but it was in vain.

‘The page is not there,’ he said. ‘It has disappeared, I have been robbed of it … Someone has messed up my papers …’

Nizam stood up. He went up to Malikshah and whispered in his ear: ‘If our master cannot have confidence in his most competent
servants who are aware of the difficulty of projects and can tell the difference between the possible and the impossible,
there will be no end to his being thus insulted, held up to ridicule, and fair game for the ignorant, the foolish and charlatans.’

Malikshah did not doubt for a moment that Hassan had just been the victim of some practical joke. As the chroniclers reported,
Nizam al-Mulk had succeeded in bribing Hassan’s secretary and ordered him to filch some pages and to misfile others, reducing
to nought the patient work carried out by his rival. Hassan tried in vain to claim that he was the victim of a plot, but his
voice could not be heard over the tumult, and the Sultan, disappointed to have been duped, but even more so to realize that
his attempt to shake his Vizir’s tutelage had failed, directed the whole blame onto Hassan. Having ordered his guards to seize
him, he there and then sentenced him to death.

For the first time, Omar spoke up: ‘May our Master be merciful. Hassan Sabbah may have made mistakes, he may have sinned through
an excess of zeal or enthusiasm, and he should be dismissed for these misdemeanours, but he is in no way guilty of a serious
misdeed against your person.’

‘Then let him be blinded! Bring the galenite and heat up the iron.’

Hassan stayed silent and it was Omar who spoke up again. He could not allow a man, whom he had had engaged, to be silenced
or blinded.

‘Master,’ he begged, ‘do not inflict such a punishment on a young man who could only find solace in his disgrace by reading
and writing.’

Malikshah then stated:

‘It is for your sake,
khawaja
Omar, the wisest and purest of men, that I agree to retract a decision of mine yet again. Hassan Sabbah
is thus condemned to be banished and will be exiled to a distant country until the end of his life. He will never be able
to tread anew upon the soil of the empire.’

But the man from Qom was to return and carry out an exceptional act of vengeance.

Both Paradise and Hell are in you

OMAR KHAYYAM

Seven years had past, seven years of plenty both for Khayyam and the empire, the last years of peace.

On a table under an awning of vine stood a long-necked carafe for the best Shiraz white wine with just the right hint of muskiness
and all around a hundred bowls burst into a riotous feast. Such was the ritual of a June evening on Omar’s terrace. He recommended
starting with the lightest, first of all the wine and fruit, then the cooked dishes such as rice with vine-leaves and stuffed
quince.

A soft wind from the Yellow Mountains blew through the orchards in flower. Jahan picked up a lute and plucked one string and
then another. The drawn-out slow music accompanied the wind. Omar raised his goblet and inhaled deeply. Jahan was watching
him. She chose from the table the largest, reddest and softest jujube and offered it to her man, which, in the language of
fruit, signified ‘a kiss, straight away’. He leant over to her and their lips brushed against each other, separated, touched
again, parted and joined. Their fingers intertwined, a serving girl arrived, and without undue haste they separated and both
picked up their goblets. Jahan smiled and murmured:

‘If I had seven lives, I would spend one coming here to stretch out every evening on this terrace; I would lounge on this
divan
drinking this wine and dangling my fingers in this bowl, for in monotony lurks happiness.’

Omar retorted:

‘One life-time, three or seven, I would pass them all just like this one, stretched out on this terrace with my hand in your
hair.’

Together, and different. Lovers for nine years, married for four years and their dreams still did not live under the same
roof. Jahan devoured time, Omar sipped it. She wanted to rule the world and had the ear of the Sultana who had the ear of
the Sultan. By day she intrigued in the royal harem, intercepting incoming and outgoing messages, alcove rumours, promises
of jewels and the stench of poison – all of which excited, agitated and inflamed her. In the evening she would give herself
up to the happiness of being loved. For Omar, life was different. It was the pleasure of science and the science of pleasure.
He would arise late, take the traditional ‘morning glass’ on an empty stomach, then settle down at his work table to write,
calculate, draw lines and figures, write more, and transcribe a poem in his secret book.