Samarkand (34 page)

Fazel hesitated. He was not even looking at the map, but was pondering over the political outcome of the operation. Would
it allow him to gain a few days? The debate went on and became animated. Baskerville insisted and argued, often supported
by Moore. The
Guardian
correspondent laid out his own military experience and stated that the surprise element could turn out to be decisive. Fazel
brought the debate to a conclusion.

‘I am still not convinced, but, as no other action can be envisaged I will not oppose Howard’s plan.’

The attack was launched the next day, 20 April, at three in the morning. It was agreed that if by five o’clock the position
had been won, operations would take place at multiple points along the front in order to prevent the enemy pulling troops
back for a counterattack. However, within the first minutes the attempt seemed in jeopardy: a barrage of fire met the first
sortie, led by Moore, Baskerville and some sixty other volunteers. Apparently the enemy was not all taken by surprise. Could
a spy have informed them of our preparations? We will never know, but the sector was guarded, Liakhov having entrusted it
to one of his most adept officers.

Fazel sensibly ordered the operation to be halted without delay and had the signal for a withdrawal given – a lengthy bird-call.
The fighters rushed back. Several of them, including Moore, were wounded.

Baskerville was the only one who did not return. He had been felled by the first salvo.

For three days Tabriz would live to the rhythm of condolences. There were discreet condolences at the Presbyterian Mission
and noisy, impassioned, incensed condolences in the districts held by the sons of Adam. My eyes were red as I shook hands
with people whom I mostly did not know, and I listened to endless tributes.

Among the throng of visitors was the English consul. He took me aside.

‘It will perhaps be of some consolation to you to learn that six hours after your friend’s death I received a message from
London informing me that the Powers had reached agreement on the question of Tabriz. Mr Baskerville will not have died in
vain. An expeditionary force has already set out to relieve the city by bringing in provisions, as well as to evacuate the
foreign community.’

‘A Russian expeditionary force?’

‘Of course,’ Wratislaw admitted. ‘They are the only ones who have an army in the area. However we have obtained guarantees.
Constitutionalists will not be troubled and the Tsar’s troops will withdraw when their mission is completed. I am counting
on you to convince Fazel to lay down his arms.’

Why did I accept? Perhaps I was overwhelmed or exhausted, or maybe a Persian sense of fatalism had worked its way into me.
Whatever the reason, I did not protest and let myself be persuaded that I was the one who had to carry out this loathsome
mission. However, I decided not to go to Fazel’s straight away. I preferred to escape for a few hours – to Shireen.

Since our night of love I had only met her again in public. The siege had created a new atmosphere in Tabriz. People were
always speaking of enemy infiltration. They thought that they saw spies or sappers everywhere. Armed men patrolled the streets
and guarded the access of the main buildings. There were often five, six, or sometimes more men at the gates of the empty
palace. Although they were always ready to greet me with beaming smiles, their presence effectively prevented a visit being
discreet.

That evening everyone’s vigilance was relaxed, and I managed to
wend my way as far as the princess’s bedroom. The door was ajar and I pushed it noiselessly.

Shireen was sitting up in bed with the manuscript open on her knees. I slipped to her side, shoulder to shoulder and hip to
hip. Neither of us had any thought for caresses, but that night we loved in a different fashion, immersed in the same book.
She guided my eyes and lips. She knew every word, every painting; for me it was the first time.

She would often translate into French in her own way the ends of poems which dealt with a wisdom which was so accurate or
a beauty so timeless that one forgot that they had been uttered for the first time eight centuries earlier in some garden
in Nishapur, Isfahan or Samarkand.

The wounded birds hide so they may die.

There were words of heartache and consolation, the touching monologue of a defeated and dignified poet:

Peace to man in the black silence of the beyond.

But there were also words of joy and sublime unconcern:

Some wine! Let it be as pink as your cheeks

And my regrets as light as your locks.

After we had read aloud the very last quatrain and gazed admiringly at each miniature, we turned back to the beginning of
the book to go through the chronicles written in the margins. First of all we read the one by Vartan the Armenian which covered
a good half of the work, and thanks to which that night I learnt the history of Khayyam, Jahan and the three friends. There
followed the chronicles written by the librarians of Alamut – father, son and grandson – each chronicle being thirty pages
long arid telling, the manuscript’s extraordinary fate after it was stolen from Merv and its influence on the Assassins as
well as a concise history of the Assassins up until the invasion of the Mongol hordes.

Shireen read out the last lines as I could not make out the handwriting very easily: ‘I had to flee Alamut on the eve of its
destruction, toward Kirman, my place of birth, carrying the manuscript of the incomparable Khayyam of Nishapur, which I have
decide to hide this very day in the hope that it will not be found until there are men fit to hold it and for that I put my
trust in the Almighty. He guides whom he wishes and leads astray whom he wishes.’ There followed a date, which according to
my reckoning corresponds to 14 March 1257.

This set me thinking.

‘The manuscript ends at the thirteenth century,’ I said. ‘Janialadin was given it in the nineteenth. What happened to it in
the meantime?’

‘A long sleep,’ said Shireen. ‘An interminable oriental siesta. Then it was jolted awake in the arms of that madman, Mirza
Reza. Wasn’t he from Kirman, like the librarians from Alamut? Are you so shocked to find that he had an ancestor who was an
Assassin?’

She had got up and gone to sit on a stool in front of her oval mirror with a comb in her hand. I could have stayed hours just
watching the gracious movements of her bare arms, but she brought me back the prosaic reality of things:

‘You must get ready if you do not wish to be caught in my bed.’

In fact daylight was already flooding into the room, as the curtains were too light.

‘It is true,’ I said wearily. ‘I almost forgot your reputation.’

She turning toward me, laughing:

‘Exactly. I have my reputation to maintain. I do not want it told in all the harems of Persia that a handsome stranger was
able to pass a whole night at my side without even thinking of taking his clothes off. No one would ever desire me again!’

After placing the manuscript back in its box, I placed a kiss upon my beloved’s lips, and then I ran down the corridor and
through two secret doors to dive back into the turmoil of the besieged city.

Of all those who died during those months of hardship, why have I singled out Baskerville? Because he was my friend and compatriot?
Most probably. But also because his only ambition was to see liberty and democracy triumph in the rebirth of the orient, which
for all that was foreign to him. Had he given his life for nothing? In ten, twenty or a hundred years would the West remember
his example, or would Persia remember his action? I chose not to think about it lest I fall into the inescapable melancholy
of those who live between two worlds which are equally promising and disappointing.

However if I limit myself to the events immediately after Baskerville’s death, I can make myself believe that he did not die
in vain.

Foreign intervention, the lifting of the blockade and a food convoy all happened. Was it thanks to Howard? Perhaps the decision
had already been taken, but my friend’s death quickened the rescue effort and thousands of gaunt townspeople owed their survival
to him.

It can be imagined that the prospect of the Tsar’s soldiers arriving in the besieged city did not thrill Fazel. I did my best
to talk him into accepting the situation.

‘The population is no longer in a state to resist. The only gift that you can still give them is to save them from famine
and you owe them that after all the hardship they have put up with.’

‘To have fought for six months only to end up under the thumb of Tsar Nicholas, the Shah’s protector!’

‘The Russians are not acting alone, they have the mandate of the whole international community. Our friends throughout the
world will applaud this operation. To resist it or to fight it would be to lose the benefit of the enormous support which
has been lavished upon us so far.’

‘But to submit and lay down our weapons now that victory is in sight!’

‘Is it me that you are talking to, or are you just inveighing against fate?’

Fazel recoiled and gave me a look of deep reproach.

‘Tabriz does not deserve to be so humiliated!’

‘I can do nothing about it, and neither can you. There are some times when any decision is a bad one and we must choose the
one we will regret least!’

He seemed to calm down and gave the matter serious thought.

‘What fate is in store for my friends?’

‘The British are guaranteeing their safety.’

‘Our weapons?’

‘Everyone will be able to keep his rifle. The houses will not be searched with the exception of those from which there was
shooting. However, heavy weapons must be handed over.’

He did not seem in any way reassured.

‘And tomorrow who will force the Tsar to withdraw his troops?’

‘For that we have to trust Providence!’

‘Suddenly I find you extremely oriental.’

Those who knew Fazel knew that he hardly ever meant the word oriental to be a compliment – and particularly when he had a
suspicious scowl on his face. I felt obliged to try a different tactic, so I stood up with a resounding sigh.

‘No doubt you are right. I was wrong to argue. I am going to tell the British Consul that I have not been able to convince
you. Then I shall come back and stay with you until the end.’

Fazel took me by the shoulder to hold me back.

‘I have not accused you of anything. I have not even turned down your suggestion.’

‘My suggestion? I have only passed on a suggestion from the English, and made sure to tell you its provenance.’

‘Calm down and listen to me! I know very well that I do not have the means to prevent the Russians entering Tabriz. I also
know that if I offer them the slightest resistance the whole world will condemn me, starting with my compatriots who want
now to be rescued, no matter by whom. I am even aware of the fact that the end of the siege will constitute a defeat for the
Shah.’

‘Was that not what you were fighting for?’

‘Not at all! You see, I may condemn the Shah, but it is not against him that I am fighting. To triumph over a despot cannot
be one’s ultimate goal; I have been fighting so that Persians might be aware of being free, being sons of Adam as we say we
are, so that they might have faith in themselves and their strength and be able to take their place in today’s world. That
is what I wanted to see come to pass here. This city has thrown off the tutelage of the Shah and the religious chiefs, it
has defied the Powers and aroused the support and admiration of well-intentioned men everywhere. The people of Tabriz are
on the verge of winning, but they are not allowed to. It is feared that they would set a precedent and they must therefore
be humiliated. The proud population of this city will have to bow to the Tsar’s soldiers for bread. You who were born free
in a free country, ought to understand.’

I remained silent for a few strained seconds and then brought the matter to a conclusion:

‘So what do you want me to reply to the English Consul?’

Fazel forced his face to smile.

‘Tell him that I will be delighted to seek asylum once again in His Majesty’s Consulate.’

I needed some time in order to understand just how much Fazel’s bitterness was justified, for in the short term events seemed
to contradict his fears. He only stayed a few days at the British Consulate before Mr Wratislaw drove him in his car across
the Russian lines to the outskirts of Kazvin. There he could join the constitutionalist
troops who, after a long wait, were preparing themselves to march toward Teheran.

In fact while Tabriz was in danger of being strangled, the Shah had a powerful means of dissuasion against his enemies and
he could still manage to frighten and contain them. Once the siege was lifted, Fazel’s friends felt free to move and with
no further delay they set off to march on to the capital which they did with two armies, one coming from Kazvin in the north
and the other from Isfahan in the south. The latter, mostly made up of men from Bakhtiari tribes seized Qom on 23 June. A
few days later a joint Anglo-Russian communiqué was broadcast demanding the Constitutionalists to cease their offensive immediately
in order to come to an arrangement with the Shah. If not, the two Powers would find themselves obliged to intervene. However
Fazel and his friends turned a deaf ear and hurried on: on 9 July their troops joined up below the walls of Teheran; on the
13th, two thousand men made their entrance into the capital by an unguarded gate in the north-west near the French legation,
watched with astonishment by the correspondent of the
Temps.

Only Liakhov tried to resist. With three hundred men, some old cannons and two Creusot machine guns he managed to keep control
over several districts in the centre of the city. Heavy fighting went on unabated until 16 July.

On that day at eight-thirty in the morning, the Shah went to take refuge in the Russian Legation, formally accompanied by
five hundred soldiers and courtiers. His action was tantamount to an act of abdication.