Samarkand

CHAPTER 1

Sometimes in Samarkand, in the evening of a slow and dreary day, city dwellers would come to while the time away at the dead-end Street of Two Taverns, near the pepper market. They came not to taste the musky wine of Soghdia but to watch the comings and goings or to waylay a carouser who would then be forced down into the dust, showered with insults, and cursed into a hell whose fire, until the end of all time, would recall the ruddiness of the wine’s enticements.

Out of such an incident the manuscript of the Rubaiyaat was to be born in the summer of 1072. Omar Khayyam was twenty-four and had recently arrived in Samarkand. Should he go to the tavern that evening, or stroll around at leisure? He chose the sweet pleasure of surveying an unknown town accompanied by the thousand sights of the waning day. In the Street of the Rhubarb Fields, a small boy bolted past, his bare feet padding over the wide paving slabs as he clutched to his neck an apple he had stolen from a stall. In the Bazaar of the Haberdashers, inside a raised stall, a group of backgammon players continued their dispute by the light of an oil lamp. Two dice went flying, followed by a curse and then a stifled laugh. In the arcade of the Rope-Makers, a muleteer stopped near a fountain, let the cool water run in the hollow formed by his two palms, then bent over, his lips pouting as if to kiss a sleeping child’s forehead. His thirst slaked, he ran his wet palms over his face and mumbled thanks to God. Then he fetched a hollowed-out watermelon, filled it with water and carried it to his beast so that it too might have its turn to drink.

In the square of the market for cooked foods, Khayyam was accosted by a pregnant girl of about fifteen, whose veil was pushed back. Without a word or a smile on her artless lips, she slipped from his hands a few of the toasted almonds which he had just bought, but the stroller was not surprised. There is an ancient belief in Samarkand: when a mother-to-be comes across a pleasing stranger in the street, she must venture to partake of his food so that the child will be just as handsome, and have the same slender profile, the same noble and smooth features.

Omar was lingering, proudly munching the remaining almonds as he watched the unknown women move off, when a noise prompted him to hurry on. Soon he was in the midst of an unruly crowd. An old man with long bony limbs was already on the ground. He was bare-headed with a few white hairs scattered about his tanned skull. His shouts of rage and fright were no more than a prolonged sob and his eyes implored the newcomer.

Around the unfortunate man there was a score of men sporting beards and brandishing vengeful clubs, and some distance away another group thrilled to the spectacle. One of them, noticing Khayyam’s horrified expression called out reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry. It’s only Jaber the Lanky!’ Omar flinched and a shudder of shame passed through him. ‘Jaber, the companion of Abu Ali!’ he muttered.

Abu Ali was one of the commonest names of all, but when a well-read man in Bukhara, Cordova, Balkh or Baghdad, pronounced it with such a tone of familiar deference, there could be no confusion over whom they meant. It was Abu Ali Ibn Sina, renowned in the Occident under the name of Avicenna. Omar had not met him, having been born eleven years after his death, but he revered him as the undisputed master of the generation, the possessor of science, the Apostle of Reason.

Khayyam muttered anew, ‘Jaber, the favourite disciple of Abu Ali!’, for, even though he was seeing him for the first time, he knew all about the pathetic and exemplary punishment which had been meted out to him. Avicenna had soon considered him as his successor in the fields of medicine and metaphysics; he had admired the power of his argument and only rebuked him for expounding his ideas in a manner which was slightly too haughty and blunt. This won Jaber several terms in prison and three public beatings, the last having taken place in the Great Square of Samarkand when he was given one hundred and fifty lashes in front of all his family. He never recovered from that humiliation. At what moment had he teetered over the edge into madness? Doubtless upon the death of his wife. He could be seen staggering about in rags and tatters, yelling out and ranting irreverently. Hot on his trail would follow packs of kids, clapping their hands and throwing sharp stones at him until he ended up in tears.

As he watched this scene, Omar could not help thinking, ‘If I am not careful, I could well end up a wretch like that.’ It was not so much that he feared drunkenness for he and wine had learnt to respect each other, and the one would never lay the other low. What he feared was the idea that the mob could break down his wall of respectability. He felt overly menaced by the spectacle of this fallen man and wanted to distance himself from it. He knew however that he could not just abandon a companion of Avicenna to the crowd. He took three solemn steps, and struck a detached pose as he spoke firmly and with regal gesture.

‘Leave the poor man alone.’

The gang leader who had been bent over Jaber came and planted himself upright in front of the intruder. A deep scar ran across his beard, from his right ear to the tip of his chin, and it was this puckered profile that he thrust towards Omar, as he uttered in judgement, ‘This man is a drunkard, an infidel.’ Then he hissed out the last word like a curse, ‘a failasuf!’

‘We want no failasuf in Samarkand!’

A murmur of approval arose from the crowd. For these people, the term ‘philosopher’ denoted anything too closely associated with the profane Greek sciences, and more generally anything which was neither religion nor literature. In spite of his tender age, Omar Khayyam was already an eminent failasuf and as such a greater catch than poor Jaber.

The man with the scar had certainly not recognized him, since he turned back to Jaber who was still speechless. He grabbed him by the hair, shook his head three or four times and made as if to smash it against the nearest wall, but then suddenly released him. Although brutal, it was a gesture of restraint, as if the man while showing his determination hesitated to commit a murder. Khayyam chose this moment to intervene again.

‘Leave the old man alone. He is a widower. He is sick — a lunatic. Can’t you see, he can hardly move his lips.’

The gang leader jumped up and came towards Khayyam, poking Khayyam’s beard.

‘You seem to know him quite well! Just who are you? You aren’t from Samarkand! No one has ever seen you in this city!’

Omar brushed aside the man’s hand haughtily but not abruptly enough to give him the excuse for a fight. The man took a step back, but persisted, ‘What is your name, stranger?’

Khayyam hesitated to deliver himself into their hands. He tried to think of some ploy. He raised his eyes to the sky where a light cloud had just obscured the crescent moon. He remained silent and then uttered a sigh. He longed to immerse himself in contemplation, to enumerate the stars, to be far off, safe from crowds!

The gang had surrounded him and some hands were brushing against him. He came back to himself.

‘I am Omar, son of Ibrahim of Nishapur. And who are you?’

The question was for the sake of form only. The man had no intention of introducing himself. He was in his home town and he was asking the questions. Later on Omar would learn his name. He was a student called Scar-Face. With a club in his hand and a quotation on his lips, he was soon to make all Samarkand tremble but for the moment his influence only extended to the circle of youths around him, who hung on his every word and gesture.

Suddenly his eyes lit up. He went back toward his disciples, and then turned towards the crowd triumphantly and shouted, ‘By God, how did I not recognise Omar, son of Ibrahim Khayyam of Nishapur? Omar, the star of Khorassan, the genius of Persia and Mesopotamia, the prince of philosophers!’

As he mimed a deep bow, he fluttered his fingers on both sides of his turban and succeeded in drawing out the guffaws of the onlookers, ‘How did I not recognize the man who composed such a pious and devotional rubai:

You have broken my jug of wine, Lord.

You have barred me from the path of pleasure, Lord.

You have spilt my ruby wine on the ground.

God forgive me, but perchance You are drunk, Lord.

Omar listened indignantly, but worried. This provocation could provide an excuse for murder on the spot. Without wasting a second, he shot back his response in a loud, clear voice lest anyone in the crowd be fooled. ‘I do not recognize this quatrain. Indeed this is first time I have ever heard it. But here is a rubai which I myself have composed:

They know nothing, neither do they desire to know.

Men with no knowledge who rule the world!

If you are not of them, they call you infidel

Ignore them, Khayyam, go your own way.

Omar really should not have accompanied the words ‘men with no knowledge’ with a scornful gesture toward his opponents. Hands came at him, grabbing his robe which started to rip. He tottered, his back struck someone’s knee and then landed on a paving stone. Crushed under the pack, he did not deign to fight his way out but was resigned to having his clothing ripped from him, being torn limb from limb, and he had already abandoned himself to the numbness of a sacrificial victim. He could feel nothing, hear nothing. He was closed in on himself and laid bare.

So much so, that he viewed as intruders the ten armed men who came to break up this sacrifice. On their felt hats they wore the pale green insignia of the ahdath, the town militia of Samarkand. The moment they saw them, his assailants drew back from Khayyam, but to justify their conduct they started to shout, ‘Alchemist! Alchemist!’, calling upon the crowd as their witness.

In the eyes of the authorities being a philosopher was not a crime, but practising alchemy could mean death.

However, the chief of the patrol did not intend to enter into an argument.

“If this man is in fact an alchemist,’ he pronounced, ‘then he must be taken before the chief qadi Abu Taher.’

As Jaber the Lanky, forgotten by all, crawled toward the nearest tavern, and inched his way inside resolving never to step foot outdoors again, Omar managed to raise himself up without anyone’s help. He walked straight ahead, in silence. His disdainful mien covered his tattered clothing and bloodied face like a veil of modesty. In front of him, the militiamen bearing torches forged ahead. To the rear followed his attackers, and behind them the group of gawkers.

Omar did not see or hear them. To him the streets were deserted, the country was silent, the sky was cloudless, and Samarkand was still the place of dreams which he had discovered a few years earlier.

He had arrived there after a journey of three weeks and, without taking the least rest, had decided to follow closely the advice of voyagers of times long past. Go up, they had suggested, onto the terrace of Kuhandiz. Take a good look around and you will see only water and greenery, beds in flower, cyprus trees pruned by the cleverest gardeners to look like bulls, elephants, sturdy camels or fighting panthers which appear about to leap. Indeed, even inside the wall, from the gate of the Monastery, to the West and up to the China Gate, Omar had never seen such dense orchards and sparkling brooks. Then, here and there, a brick minaret shot up with a dome chiselled by shadow, the whiteness of a belvedere wall, and, at the edge of a lake which brooded beneath its weeping willows, a naked swimmer spreading out her hair to the burning wind.

Is it not this vision of paradise that the anonymous painter wanted to evoke, when, much later, he attempted to illustrate the manuscript of the Rubaiyaat? Is it not this which Omar had in mind as he was being led away towards the quarter of Asfizar where Abu Taher, chief qadi of Samarkand, lived? He was repeating to himself, over and over, ‘I will not hate this city. Even if my swimming girl is just a mirage. Even if the reality should be cold and ugly. Even if this cool night should be my last.’

CHAPTER 2

In the qadi’s huge diwan the distant chandeliers gave Khayyam an ivory hue. As he entered two middle-aged guards pinned him by the shoulders as if he was a violent madman — and in this posture he waited by the door.

Seated at the other end of the room, the qadi had not noticed him as he gave out a ruling on some affair and carried on a discussion with the plaintiffs, reasoning with the one and reprimanding the other. It seemed to be an old quarrel amongst neighbours, consisting of tired old gripes and pettifoggery. Abu Taher ended by loudly showing his weariness, ordering the two heads of family to embrace, there and then in front of him, as if they had never quarrelled. One of the two took a step forward but the other, a giant with a narrow forehead, objected. The qadi gave him a mighty slap on the face at which the onlookers trembled. The giant cast a quick look at this chubby, angry and frisky man who had had to hoist himself up to reach him, then he lowered his head, wiped his cheek and complied.

Having dismissed this group, Abu Taher signalled to his militiamen to approach. They reeled off their report and replied to questions, having to explain how they had allowed such a crowd to gather in the streets. Then it was the turn of Scar-Face to give his explanation. He leant toward the qadi who seemed to have known him a long time, and started off on an animated monologue. Abu Taher listened closely without revealing his own feelings. Then, having taken a few moments to think it over, he gave an order, ‘Tell the crowd to disperse. Let every man go home by the shortest route and,’ addressing the attackers, ‘you all go home too. Nothing will be decided before tomorrow. The defendant will stay here overnight and he will be guarded by my men, and none other.’

Surprised by being asked so speedily to disappear, Scar-Face made a feeble protest but then thought the better of it. He wisely picked up the tail of his robe and retreated with a bow.

When he was alone with Omar, the only witnesses being his own confidants, Abu Taher pronounced a mysterious phrase of welcome, ‘It is an honour to receive the famous Omar Khayyam of Nishapur.’

He revealed not the slightest hint of emotion. He was neither sarcastic nor warm. His tone was neutral, his voice flat. He was wearing a tulip-shaped turban, had bushy eyebrows and a grey beard without moustache, and was giving Khayyam a long piercing gaze.

The welcome was the more puzzling since for an hour Omar had been standing there in tatters, for all to see and laugh at.

After several skilfully calculated moments of silence, Abu Taher added, ‘Omar, you are not unknown in Samarkand. In spite of your tender years, your knowledge has already become legendary, and your talents are talked about in the schools. Is it not true that in Isfahan you read seven times a weighty work by Ibn Sina, and that upon your return to Nishapur you reproduced it verbatim from memory?’

Khayyam was flattered that this authentic exploit was known in Transoxania, but his worries had not yet been quelled. The reference to Avicenna from the mouth of a qadi of the Shafi rite was not reassuring, and besides, he had not yet been invited to sit down. Abu Taher continued, ‘It is not just your exploits which are passed from mouth to mouth, but some very curious quatrains have been attributed to you.’

The sentence was dispassionate. He was not accusing but he was hardly acquitting him — rather he was only questioning him indirectly. Omar ventured to break the silence. ‘The rubai which Scar-Face quoted was not one of mine.’

The qadi dismissed the protest with a gesture of impatience, and for the first time his voice took on a severe tone. ‘It matters little whether you have written this or that verse. I have had reports of verses of such profanity that I would feel as guilty quoting them as the man who spread them about. I am not trying inflict any punishment upon you. These accusations of alchemy cannot just go in one ear and out of the other. We are alone. We are two men of erudition and I simply wish to know the truth.’

Omar was not at all reassured. He sensed a trap and hesitated to reply. He could see himself being handed over to the executioner for maiming, emasculation or crucifixion. Abu Taher raised his voice and almost shouted, ‘Omar, son of Ibrahim, tent-maker from Nishapur, can you not recognize a friend?’

The tone of sincerity in this phrase stunned Khayyam. ‘Recognize a friend?’ He gave serious thought to the subject, contemplated the qadi’s face, noted the way he was grinning and how his beard quivered. Slowly he let himself be won over. His features loosened and relaxed. He disengaged himself from his guards who, upon a sign from the qadi, stopped restraining him. Then he sat down without having been invited. The qadi smiled in a friendly manner but took up his questioning without respite. ‘Are you the infidel some people claim you to be?’

It was more than a question. It was a cry of distress that Omar did not overlook. ‘I despise the zeal of the devout, but I have never said that the One was two.’

‘Have you ever thought so?’

‘Never, as God is my witness.’

‘As far as I am concerned that suffices, and I believe it will for the Creator also. But not for the masses. They watch your words, your smallest gestures — mine too, as well as those of princes. You have been heard to say, “I sometimes go to mosques where the shade is good for a snooze.”’

‘Only a man at peace with his Creator could find sleep in a place of worship.’

In spite of the qadi’s doubting scowl, Omar became impassioned and continued, ‘I am not one of those for whom faith is simply fear of judgement. How do I pray? I study a rose, I count the stars, I marvel at the beauty of creation and how perfectly ordered it is, at man, the most beautiful work of the Creator, his brain thirsting for knowledge, his heart for love, and his senses, all his senses alert or gratified.’

The qadi stood up with a thoughtful look in his eyes and went over to sit next to Khayyam, placing a paternal hand on his shoulder. The guards exchanged dumbfounded glances.

‘Listen, my young friend. The Almighty has granted you the most valuable things that a son of Adam can have — intelligence, eloquence, health, beauty, the desire for knowledge and a lust for life, the admiration of men and, I suspect, the sighs of women. I hope that He has not deprived you of the wisdom of silence, without which all of the foregoing can neither be appreciated nor preserved.’

‘Do, I have to wait until I am an old man in order to express what I think?’

‘Before you can express everything you think, your children’s grandchildren will be old. We live in the age of the secret and of fear. You must have two faces. Show one to the crowd, and keep the other for yourself and your Creator. If you want to keep your eyes, your ears and your tongue, forget that you have them.’

The qadi suddenly fell silent, but not to let Omar speak, rather to give greater effect to his admonition. Omar kept his gaze down and waited for the qadi to pluck more thoughts from his head.

Abu Taher, however, took a deep breath and gave a crisp order to his men to leave. As soon as they had shut the door behind them, he made his way towards a corner of the diwan, lifted up a piece of tapestry, and opened a damask box. He took out a book which he offered to Omar with a formality softened by a paternal smile.

Now that book was the very one which I, Benjamin O. Lesage, would one day hold in my own hands. I suppose it felt just the same with its rough, thick leather with markings which looked like a peacock-tail and the edges of its pages irregular and frayed. When Khayyam opened it on that unforgettable summer night, he could see only two hundred and fifty-six blank pages which were not yet covered with poems, pictures, margin commentaries or illuminations.

To disguise his emotions, Abu Taher spoke with the tones of a salesman.

‘It’s made of Chinese kaghez, the best paper ever produced by the workshops of Samarkand. A Jew from the Maturid district made it to order according to an ancient recipe. It is made entirely from mulberry. Feel it. It has the same qualities as silk.’

He cleared his throat before going on.

‘I had a brother, ten years older than I. He died when he was as old as you. He had been banished to Balkh for having written a poem which displeased the ruler of the time. He was accused of formenting heresy. I don’t know if that was true, but I resent my brother for having wasted his life on a poem, a miserable poem hardly longer than a rubai.’

His voice shook, and he went on breathlessly.

‘Keep this book. Whenever a verse takes shape in your mind, or is on the tip of your tongue, just hold it back. Write it down on these sheets which will stay hidden, and as you write, think of Abu Taher.’

Did the qadi know that with that gesture and those words he was giving birth to one of the best-kept secrets in the history of literature, and that the world would have to wait eight centuries to discover the sublime poetry of Omar Khayyam, for the Rubaiyaat to be revered as one of the most original works of all time even before the strange fate of the Samarkand manuscript was known?

CHAPTER 3

That night, Omar tried in vain to catch some sleep in a belvedere, a wooden pavilion on a bare hillock in the middle of Abu Taher’s huge garden. Near him on a low table lay a quill and ink-pot, an unlit lamp and his book — open at the first page which was still blank.

At first light there was an apparition. A beautiful slave-girl brought him a plate of sliced melon, a new outfit and a winding-scarf of Zandan silk for his turban. She whispered a message to him.

‘The master will await you after the morning prayer.’

The room was already packed with plaintiffs, beggars, courtiers, friends and visitors of all sorts, and amongst them was Scar-Face who had doubtless come for news. As soon as Omar stepped through the door the qadi’s voice steered everyone’s gaze and comment to him.

‘Welcome to Imam Omar Khayyam, the man without equal in knowledge of the traditions of the Prophet, a reference that none can contest, a voice that none can contradict.’

One after another, the visitors arose, bowed and muttered a phrase before sitting down again. Out of the corner of his eye, Omar watched Scar-Face who seemed very subdued in his corner, but still had a timid smirk on his face.

In the most formal manner, Abu Taher bid Omar take his place at his right, making a great show of dismissing those near him. He then continued, ‘Our eminent visitor had a mishap yesterday evening. This man who is honoured in Khorassan, Fars and Mazandaran, this man whom every city wishes to receive within its walls and whom every prince hopes to attract to his court, this man was molested yesterday in the streets of Samarkand.’

Expressions of shock could be heard, followed by a commotion which the qadi allowed to grow a little before signalling for quiet and continuing.

‘Worse still, there was almost a riot in the bazaar. A riot on the eve of the visit of our revered sovereign, Nasr Khan, the Sun of Royalty, who is to arrive this very morning from Bukhara, God willing! I dare not imagine what distress we would be in today if the crowd had not been contained and dispersed. I tell you that heads would not be resting easy on shoulders!’

He stopped to get his breath, to drive his point home and let fear work its way into the audience’s hearts.

‘Happily one of my old students, who is with us here, recognized our eminent visitor and came to warn me.’

He pointed a finger towards Scar-Face and invited him to rise.

‘How did you recognize Imam Omar?’

He muttered a few syllables in answer.

‘Louder! Our old uncle here cannot hear you!’ shouted the qadi, indicating an ancient man with a white beard to his left.

‘I recognized the eminent visitor by his eloquence,’ Scar-Face could hardly get the words out. ‘and I asked him who he was before bringing him to our qadi.’

‘You did well. Had the riot continued, there might have been blood-shed. You deserve to come and sit next to our guest.’

As Scar-Face was approaching with an air of false submission, Abu Taher whispered in Omar’s ear, ‘He may not be your friend, but he will not dare to lay into you in public.’

He continued in a loud voice, ‘Can I hope that in spite of everything that he has been through, Khawaja Omar will not have too bad a memory of Samarkand?’

‘I have already forgotten whatever happened yesterday evening,’ replied Khayyam. ‘In the future, when I think of this city, a completely different image will spring to mind, the image of a wonderful man. I am not speaking of Abu Taher. The highest praise one can give to a qadi is not to extol his qualities but the honesty of those for whom he has responsibility. As it happens, on the day I arrived my mule had struggled up the last slope leading to the Kish Gate, and I myself had hardly put my feet on the ground when a man accosted me.

‘“Welcome to this town,” he said. ‘Do you have family, or friends here?”

‘I replied that I did not, without stopping, fearing that he might be some sort of crook, or at the very least a beggar or irksome. But the man went on:

‘“Do not be mistrustful of my insistence, noble visitor. It is my master who has ordered to wait here and offer his hospitality to all travellers who turn up.”

The man seemed to be of a modest background, but he was dressed in clean clothes and not unaware of the manners of respectable people. I followed him. A few steps on, he had me enter a heavy door and I crossed a vaulted corridor to find myself in the courtyard of a caravansary with a well in the centre and men and animals bustling all about. Around the edges, on two floors, there were rooms for travellers. The man said, “You can stay here as long as you wish, be it one night or the whole season. You will find a bed and food and fodder for your mule.”

‘When I asked him how much I had to pay, he was offended.

‘“You are my master’s guest.”

‘“Tell me where my generous host is, so that I can address my thanks to him.”

‘“My master died seven years ago, leaving me a sum of money which I must spend to honour visitors to Samarkand.”

‘“What was your master’s name, so that I can tell of his acts of kindness?”

‘“You should give thanks to the Almighty alone. He knows whose acts of kindness are being carried out in His name.”

‘That is how it came about that I stayed with this man for several days. I went out and about, and whenever I came back I found plates piled high with delicious dishes and my horse was better cared for than if I myself had been looking after him.’

Omar glanced at this audience, looking for some reaction, but his story had not caused any looks of surprise or mystery. The qadi, guessing Omar’s confusion, explained.

‘Many cities like to think that they are the most hospitable in all the lands of Islam, but only the inhabitants of Samarkand deserve the credit. As far as I know, no traveller has ever had to pay for his lodgings or food. I know whole families who have been ruined honouring visitors or the needy, but you will never hear them boast of it. The fountains you have seen on every street corner, filled with sweet water to slake the thirst of passers-by of which there are more than two thousand in this city made of tile, copper or porcelain have all been provided by the people of Samarkand. But do you think that a single man has had his name inscribed on one to garner gratitude?’

‘I must confess that I have nowhere met such generosity. Would you allow me to pose a question which has been bothering me?’

The qadi took the words out of his mouth, ‘I know what you are going to ask: how can people who so esteem the virtues of hospitality be capable of violence against a visitor such as yourself?’

‘Or against a poor old man like Jaber the Lanky?’

‘The answer I am going to give you is summed up in one word — fear. All violence here is born of fear. Our faith is being attacked from all sides by the Qarmatians in Bahrain, the Imamis of Qom, the seventy-two sects, the Rum in Constantinople, infidels of all denominations and above all the Ismailis in Egypt who have a massive following right in the heart of Baghdad and even here in Samarkand. Never forget that our cities of Islam — Mecca, Medina, Isfahan, Baghdad, Damascus, Bukhara, Merv, Cairo, Samarkand — are no more than oases that will revert to being desert if neglected for a moment. They are constantly at the mercy of a sand-storm!’

Through a window to his left the qadi expertly calculated the sun’s passage. He stood up.

‘It is time to go and meet our sovereign,’ he said.

He clapped his hands.

‘Bring us some fortification for the journey.’

It was his practice to supply himself with raisins to munch on his way, a practice much imitated by those around him and those who came to visit him. Hence the immense copper platter which was brought in to him piled high with a mound of these pale treats for everyone to stuff their pockets.

When it was Scar-Face’s turn, he grabbed a small handful which he held out to Khayyam with the words, ‘I suppose that you would prefer me to offer these to you as wine.’

He did not speak in a very loud voice, but as if by magic everyone present fell silent. They stood with bated breath, watching Omar lips. He spoke.

‘When one wishes to drink wine, one chooses carefully one’s cupbearer and drinking companion.’

Scar-Face’s voice rose a little.

‘For my part, I would not touch a drop. I am hoping for a place in paradise. You do not seem anxious to join me there.’

‘The whole of eternity in the company of sententious ulema? No, thank you. God promised us something else.’

The exchange stopped there. Omar hurried to join the qadi who was calling him.

‘The townspeople must see you ride next to me. That will dispel their impressions of yesterday evening.’

In the crowd gathered around the residence, Omar thought he could make out the almond-seller concealed in the shadow of a pear-tree. He slowed down and looked around for her, but Abu Taher badgered him.

‘Faster. Woe betide you should the Khan arrive before us.’

CHAPTER 4

‘Since the dawn of time astrologers have proclaimed that four cities were born under the sign of revolt, Samarkand, Mecca, Damascus and Palermo, and their words are truth! These cities have only ever submitted to government through force. They follow the straight path only when it is traced by the sword. The Prophet reduced the arrogance of the Meccans by the sword and it is by the sword that I will reduce the arrogance of the people of Samarkand!’

Nasr Khan, the master of Transoxania, a bronzed giant in flowing embroidered robes, gesticulated standing in front of his throne. His voice caused trembling amongst his household and visitors. His eyes sought out amongst those present a victim, a lip that might dare to tremble, an insufficiently contrite look, the memory of some treachery. By instinct everyone slipped behind his neighbour, letting his back, neck and shoulders slump, and waited for the storm to pass.

Having found no prey for his claws, Nasr Khan grabbed armfuls of his ceremonial robes and in a fury flung them one after another into a pile at his feet, yelling insult after insult in the sonorous Turco-Mongol dialect of Kashgar. According to custom, sovereigns would wear three, four or sometimes seven layers of embroidered robes, which they peeled off during the day, solemnly placing them on the backs of those whom they wish to honour. Behaving in such a manner, Nasr Khan showed that day that he had no intention of gratifying any of his numerous visitors.

As with every sovereign’s visit to Samarkand, this was to have been a day of festivities, but any trace of joy was extinguished in the first minutes. Having climbed the paved road leading up from the River Siab, the Khan effected his solemn entry by the Bukhara Gate at the north of the city. He smiled with his whole face, making his small eyes seem more deeply set, more slanting than ever, and making his cheekbones glow in the amber reflection of the sun. Then suddenly he lost his good humour. He approached a group of some two hundred notables who were gathered around the qadi Abu Taher, focusing a worried and almost suspicious gaze upon the group in whose midst was Omar Khayyam. Apparently not having seen those he sought, he abruptly made his horse rear up, jerked hard on the reins and moved off, grumbling inaudibly. Rigid on his black mare, he no longer smiled, nor did he respond with the slightest gesture to the repeated cheers of the thousands of citizens who had been gathering there since dawn to greet him. Some of them held up petitions, composed by some public scribe. In vain, for no one dared to present his petition to the sovereign, but rather applied to the chamberlain who leaned over again and again to accept the sheets, mouthing a vague promise to take action.

Preceded by four horsemen, holding aloft the brown standards of the dynasty, followed on foot by a slave naked to the waist and bearing a huge parasol, the Khan crossed the great thoroughfares lined with twisting mulberry trees without stopping. He avoided the bazaars and went along the main irrigation canals, called ariks, until he came to the district of Asfizar. There he had had set up a temporary palace, directly adjoining Abu Taher’s residence. In the past, sovereigns would lodge inside the citadel, but since recent battles had left it in a state of extreme dilapidation, it had had to be abandoned. Now, only the Turkish garrison would periodically erect its yurts there.

Having observed the sovereign’s bad humour, Omar hesitated to go to the palace to give his respects, but the qadi urged him, no doubt in the hope that the presence of his eminent friend would provide a favourable distraction. On the way, Abu Taher took it upon himself to brief Khayyam on what had just transpired. The religious dignitaries of the city had decided to boycott the reception, accusing the Khan of having burnt down the Grand Mosque of Bukhara where armed opponents had entrenched themselves. ‘Between the sovereign and the religious establishment,’ explained the qadi, ‘the war rages on as ever. Sometimes it is overt and bloody, but most often clandestine and insidious.’

It was even rumoured that the ulema had made contact with a number of officers who were exasperated by the behaviour of the prince. His forbears used to eat with the troops, they said, omitting no occasion to state that their power derived from the bravery of their people’s warriors. But from one generation to the next, the Turkish khans had acquired the regrettable habits of the Persian monarchs. They thought of themselves as demi-gods, surrounding themselves with an increasingly complex ceremonial which was incomprehensible and humiliating for their officers. A number of the latter had thus consulted the religious chiefs. They took pleasure in hearing the officers vilify Nasr and accuse him of having cast aside the ways of Islam. To intimidate the military, the sovereign reacted harshly against the ulema. Had not his father, a pious man moreover, inaugurated his reign by cutting off an abundantly turbaned head?

In this year of 1072, Abu Taher was one of the few religious dignitaries who managed to maintain close ties with the prince, visiting him often in the citadel of Bukhara, his main residence and receiving him with solemnity each time he stopped at Samarkand. Certain of the ulema eyed warily Abu Taher’s conciliatory attitude, but most of them welcomed the presence of this intermediary.

Yet again the qadi easily fell into the role of conciliator. He avoided contradicting Nasr, profiting of the slightest glimmer of an improvement of his humour to buoy up his spirits. He waited until the difficult moments were over, and when the sovereign returned to his throne and Abu Taher had seen him finally settle himself firmly against a soft cushion, he undertook a subtle and imperceptible resumption of control which Omar watched with relief. Upon a sign from the qadi the chamberlain summoned a young slave-girl to pick up the robes which were abandoned on the ground like corpses after a battle. Instantly, the atmosphere became less stifling, people discreetly stretched their limbs and some chanced to whisper a few words into the nearest ear.

Then, striding towards the space in the centre of the room, the qadi positioned himself in front of the monarch, lowered his head and said nothing. The manoeuvre was so well-executed that after a long silence, when Nasr finally declared, with a strength tinged with fatigue, ‘Go and tell all the ulema of this city to come at dawn to prostrate themselves at my feet. The head which is not bowed will be cut off. Let no one attempt to flee, for no land can give shelter from my anger,’ everyone understood that the storm had passed and that a resolution was in sight. The clerics had only to make amends and the monarch would forego taking harsh measures.

The next day, when Omar again accompanied the qadi to the court, the atmosphere was hardly recognizable. Nasr was on his throne, a type of raised platform covered with a dark carpet, next to which a slave was holding up a plate of crystallized rose petals. The sovereign would choose one, place it on his tongue, let it melt against his palate, before nonchalantly holding his hand out to another slave who sprinkled perfumed water on his fingers and wiped them attentively. The ritual was repeated twenty or thirty times, while the delegations filed past. They represented the districts of the city, notably Asfizar, Panjkhin, Zagrimach, Maturid, the bazaar corporations, the trade guilds of coppersmiths, papermakers, silkworm breeders and water-carriers, as well as the protected communities: Jews, Parsees and Nestorian Christians.

They all began by kissing the ground. They then raised themselves up, and made another bow which they held until the monarch signalled them to rise. Their spokesman uttered a few phrases and they went out backwards, it actually being forbidden to turn one’s back to the sovereign before leaving the room. A curious practice. Was it introduced by a monarch over-keen on respect, or by a particularly distrustful visitor?

Then the religious dignitaries came, awaited with curiosity but also with apprehension. There were more than a score of them. Abu Taher had had no difficulty convincing them to come. Since they had shown their feelings to ample extent, to persevere in that path would be to ask for martyrdom which none of them desired.

Now they too presented themselves in front of the throne, each bending as low as his age and joints would allow him, awaiting the sign from the prince to rise. But the sign did not come. Ten minutes went by and even the youngest of them could not remain in such an uncomfortable pose indefinitely. What could they do? To rise without having been authorised would be to expose themselves to condemnation by the monarch. One after another they fell on their knees, a pose which was just as respectful but less exhausting. Only when the last kneecap had touched the ground did the sovereign make the sign that they might get up and leave with no further ado. No one was surprised by the turn of events. That was the price to pay. Such is the order of affairs of the kingdom.

Turkish officers and groups of notables then approached, as well as some dihkans, headmen from neighbouring villages. According to his rank, each kissed the foot or shoulder of the sovereign. Then a poet came forward to recite a pompous eulogy to the glory of the monarch who very quickly looked ostensibly bored. With a gesture he interrupted the poet, made a sign to the chamberlain to lean over and gave the order which he was to transmit. ‘Our master wishes the poets assembled here to know that he is tired of hearing the same themes repeated, he wishes to be compared neither to a lion nor an eagle, and even less to the sun. Let those who have nothing else to say depart.’

CHAPTER 5

The chamberlain’s words were followed by murmurs, clucking and a general din from the twenty-odd poets who had been awaiting their turn. Some of them even took two steps backward before quietly slipping away. Only a woman stepped out of the ranks and approached with a steady tread. Quizzed by Omar’s glance, the qadi whispered, ‘A poetess from Bukhara. She has herself called Jahan, meaning the vast world. She is a fickle young widow.’

His tone was that of rebuke, but Omar’s interest was only heightened and he could not turn his gaze away. Jahan had already raised the bottom of her veil, revealing lips without make-up. She recited a pleasantly worked poem in which, strangely, the Khan’s name was not mentioned one single time. Praise was given to the River Soghd which dispenses its bounty to Samarkand and then to Bukhara before losing itself in the desert since there is no sea worthy of receiving its waters.

‘You have spoken well. Let your mouth be filled with gold,’ said Nasr, pronouncing his usual phrase.

The poetess lent over a huge platter of golden dinars and started putting the coins into her mouth one by one as the audience counted them aloud. When Jahan hiccupped and almost choked, the whole court, with the monarch at the fore, let out a laugh. The chamberlain signalled to the poetess to return to her place. They had counted forty-six dinars.

Khayyam alone did not laugh. With his eyes fixed on Jahan, he tried to work out what emotion he felt toward her. Her poetry was so pure, her eloquence so dignified, her gait so courageous, but here she was stuffing her mouth with yellow metal and being subjected to this humiliating reward. Before pulling her veil back down, she lifted it a little more and cast a glance which Omar noticed, inhaled and tried to hold on to. It was a moment too fleet to be detected by the crowd but an eternity for the lover. Time has two faces, Khayyam said to himself. It has two dimensions, its length is measured by the rhythm of the sun but its depth by the rhythm of passion.

This sublime moment between them was interrupted by the qadi tapping Khayyam’s arm and bringing him back to himself. Too late, the woman had gone. There were only veils left.

Abu Taher wanted to present his friend to the Khan. He uttered the formula, ‘Your august roof today shelters the greatest intellect of Khorassan, Omar Khayyam, for whom the plants hold no secrets and the stars no mystery.’

It was not serendipity that made the qadi note medicine and astrology out of all the disciplines in which Omar excelled, as they were always in favour with princes; the former to try and preserve their health and life, and the latter to preserve their fortune.

The prince’s expression cheered up and he said that he was honoured. However, not being in a mood to engage in intellectual conversation and apparently mistaking the visitor’s intentions, he chose to reiterate his favourite formula, ‘Let his mouth be filled with gold!’

Omar was taken aback and suppressed a retch. Abu Taher noticed this and was worried.

Fearing lest a refusal offend the sovereign, he gave his friend an insistent and serious look and pushed him forward by the shoulder but to no avail. Khayyam had already made his decision.

‘Would my Lord be so kind as to excuse me. I am in a period of fasting and can put nothing in my mouth.’

‘But the month of fasting finished three weeks ago, if I am not mistaken!’

‘During Ramadan I was travelling from Nishapur to Samarkand. I had to break my fast with the vow that I would complete it later.’

The qadi took fright and all those assembled fidgeted, but the sovereign’s face was blank. He chose to question Abu Taher.

‘Can you tell me, you who have knowledge of all the minutiae of the faith, can you tell me if putting gold coins in his mouth and taking them out quickly thereafter constitutes breaking the fast for Khawaja Omar?’

The qadi adopted his most neutral tone;

‘Strictly speaking, anything that goes into the mouth can constitute breaking the fast. It has happened that a coin was swallowed by accident.’

Nasr accepted the argument, but he was not satisfied. He questioned Omar:

‘Have you told me the real reason for your refusal?’

Khayyam hesitated for a moment and then said:

‘That is not the only reason.’

‘Speak,’ said the Khan. ‘You have nothing to fear from me.’

Then Omar pronounced these verses:

It was not poverty that drove me to you

I am not poor for my desires are simple.

The only thing I seek from you is honour

The honour of a free and steadfast man.

‘May God darken your days, Khayyam!’ murmured Abu Taher, as if to himself.

He did not know what to think, but his fear was tangible. There still rang in his ears the echo of an all too recent anger and he was not sure if he would again be able to tame the beast. The Khan remained silent and still, as if frozen in unfathomable deliberation. Those close to the Khan were awaiting his first word as if it were a verdict and some courtiers chose to leave before the storm.

Omar profited from the general disarray to seek out Jahan’s eyes. She was leaning with her back against a pillar with her face buried in her hands. Could it be for him that she was trembling?

Finally the Khan arose. He marched resolutely toward Omar, gave him a vigorous hug, took him by the hand and led him off.

‘The master of Transoxania,’ the chroniclers report, ‘developed such an esteem for Omar Khayyam that he invited him to sit next to him on the throne.’

‘So now you are the Khan’s friend,’ Abu Taher called out to Khayyam when they had left the palace.

His joviality was as great as the anguish which had gripped his throat, but Khayyam replied coolly:

‘Could you have forgotten the proverb which says, “The sea knows no neighbours, the prince knows no friends”?’

‘Do not scorn the open door. It seems to me that your career is marked out at court!’

‘Court life is not for me; my only ambition is that one day I will have an observatory with a rose garden and that I will be able to throw myself into contemplating the sky, a goblet in my hand and a beautiful woman at my side.’

‘As beautiful as that poetess?’ chuckled Abu Taher.

Omar could think of nothing but her, but he did not reply. He was afraid that the smallest word uttered carelessly might betray him. Feeling a little light-hearted, the qadi changed both his tone and the subject:

‘I have a favour to ask of you!’

‘It is you who has showered me with your favours.’

Abu Taher quickly conceded that point. ‘Let us say that I would like something in exchange.’

They had arrived at the gateway of his residence. He invited Khayyam to continue their conversation around a table laden with food.

‘I have thought up a project for you, a book project. Let us forget your Rubaiyaat for a moment. As far as I am concerned they are just the inevitable whims of genius. The real domains in which you excel are medicine, astrology, mathematics, physics and metaphysics. Am I mistaken when I say that since Ibn Sina’s death there is none who knows them better than you?’

Khayyam said nothing. Abu Taher continued:

‘It is in those areas of knowledge that I expect you to write the definitive book, and I want you to dedicate that book to me.’

‘I don’t think that there can be a definitive book in those disciplines, and that is exactly why I have been content to read and to learn without writing anything myself.’

‘Explain yourself!’

‘Let us consider the Ancients — the Greeks, the Indians and the Muslims who have come before me. They wrote abundantly in all those disciplines. If I repeat what they have said, then my work is redundant; if I contradict them, as I am constantly tempted, others will come after me to contradict me. What will there remain tomorrow of the writings of the intellectuals? Only the bad that they have said about those who came before them. People will remember what they have destroyed of others’ theories, but the theories they construct themselves will inevitably be destroyed and even ridiculed by those who come after. That is the law of science. Poetry does not have a similar law. It never negates what has come before it and is never negated by what follows. Poetry lives in complete calm through the centuries. That is why I wrote my Rubaiyaat. Do you know what fascinates me about science? It is that I have found the supreme poetry: the intoxicating giddiness of numbers in mathematics and the mysterious murmur of the universe in astronomy. But, by your leave, please do not speak to me of Truth.’

He was silent for a moment and then continued:

‘It happened that I was taking a walk round about Samarkand and I saw ruins with inscriptions that people could no longer decipher, and I wondered, “What is left of the city which used to exist here?” Let us not speak about people, for they are the most ephemeral of creatures, but what is left of their civilisation? What kingdom, science, law and truth existed here? Nothing, I searched around those ruins in vain and all I found was a face engraved on a potsherd and a fragment of a frieze. That is what my poems will be in a thousand years — shards, fragments, the detritus of a world buried for all eternity. What remains of a city is the detached gaze with which a half-drunk poet looked at it.’

‘I understand your words,’ stuttered Abu Taher, rather at sea. ‘However you would not dedicate to a qadi of the Shafi ritual poems which smack of wine!’

In fact, Omar would be able to appear conciliatory and grateful. He would water down his wine, so to speak. During the following months, he undertook to compile a very serious work on cubic equations. To represent the unknown in this treatise on algebra, Khayyam used the Arabic term shay, which means thing. This word, spelled xay in Spanish scientific works, was gradually replaced by its first letter, x, which became the universal symbol for the unknown.

This work of Khayyam’s was completed at Samarkand and dedicated to his protector: ‘We are the victims of an age in which men of science are discredited and very few of them have the possibility of committing themselves to real research. The little knowledge that today’s intellectuals have is devoted to the pursuit of material aims. I had thus despaired of finding in this world a man as interested in the scientific as the mundane, a man preoccupied by the fate of mankind, until God accorded me the favour of meeting the great qadi, the Imam Abu Taher. His favours permitted me to devote myself to these works.’

That night, when he went back toward the belvedere which was serving him as a house, Khayyam did not take a lamp with him, telling himself that it was too late to read or write. However, his path was only faintly illuminated by the moon, a frail crescent at the end of the month of shawwal. As he walked further from the qadi’s villa, he had to grope his way along. He tripped more than once, held on to the bushes and took the grim caress of a weeping willow full in the face.

He had hardly reached his room when he heard a voice of sweet reproach. ‘I was expecting you earlier.’

Had he thought about this woman so much that he now believed he could hear her? As he stood in front of the door, which he slowly closed, he tried to make out a silhouette. In vain, for only the voice broke through again, audible yet hazy.

‘You are keeping quiet. You refuse to believe that a woman could dare to force her way into your room like this. In the palace our eyes met and lit up, but the Khan was there as well as the qadi and the court and you averted your eyes. Like so many men, you chose not to stop. What good is it to defy fate, what good is it to attract the wrath of a prince just for a woman, a widow who can only bring you as a dowry a sharp tongue and a dubious reputation?’

Omar felt restrained by some mysterious power and could neither move nor loosen his lips.

‘You are saying nothing,’ commented Jahan with gentle irony. ‘Oh well, I’ll go on speaking on my own, and anyway I am the only one who has made the move so far. When you left the court, I asked after you and learned where you live. I gave out that I was going to stay with a cousin who is married to a rich Samarkand merchant. Ordinarily when I move about with the court, I go and sleep with the harem where I have some friends who appreciate my company. They devour the stories I being them. They do not see me as a rival as they know that I have no desire to be a wife to the Khan. I could have seduced him, but I have spent too much time with kings’ spouses for such a fate to tempt me. Life, for me, is so much more important than men! As long as I am someone else’s wife, or no one’s, the sovereign loves to show me off in his diwan with my verses and my laughter. If ever he dreamt of marrying me, he would start by locking me up.’

Emerging with difficulty from his torpor, Omar had grasped nothing of Jahan’s words, and, when he decided to utter his first words, he was speaking less to her than to himself, or to a shade:

‘How often, as an adolescent, or later, have I received a look or a smile. At night I would dream that that look became corporeal, turned into flesh, a woman, a dazzling sight in the dark. Suddenly, in the dark of this night, in this unreal pavilion, in this unreal city, you are here — a beautiful woman, a poetess moreover, and available.’

She laughed.

‘Available! How do you know? You have not even touched me, you have not seen me, and doubtless you will not see me since I shall depart well before the sun chases me away.’

In the dense darkness there was a disorderly rustle of silk and a whiff of perfume. Omar held his breath, his body was aroused. He could not help asking with the naïveté of a schoolboy:

‘Are you still wearing your veil?’

‘The only veil I am wearing is the night.’

CHAPTER 6

A woman and a man. The anonymous painter imagined them in profile, stretched out and intertwined. He took away the walls of the pavilion, gave them a bed of grass with a border of roses and made a silvery brook flow at their feet. He gave Jahan the shapely breasts of a Hindu deity. Omar caresses her hair with one hand and holds a goblet in the other.

Every day at the palace their paths would cross, but they avoided looking at each other lest they give themselves away. Every evening Khayyam would dash back to the pavilion to await his beloved. How many nights had fate granted them? Everything depended on the sovereign. When he decamped Jahan would follow. He never announced anything in advance. One morning this nomad’s son would jump up onto his charger and set out for Bukhara, Kish or Panjikent and the court would be thrown into panic trying to catch up with him. Omar and Jahan dreaded this moment and their every kiss carried with it a taste of farewell, their every embrace a breathless flight.

On one of the most oppressive summer nights, Khayyam had gone out to wait on the terrace of the belvedere, when he heard the qadi’s guards laughing from what seemed very close by and he became uneasy, but for no reason, since Jahan arrived and reassured him that no one had noticed her. They exchanged a first furtive kiss, followed by another more intense. That was how they rounded off a day during which they belonged to others and started off on a night which belonged to them.

‘In this city how many lovers do you think there are who at this very moment are being united like us?’ Jahan whispered impishly. Omar adjusted his nightcap learnedly and puffed out his cheeks and spoke wistfully:

‘Let us consider this carefully: if we exclude bored spouses, obedient slaves, street girls selling or hiring themselves out and sighing virgins, how many woman are there left, how many women are there being united with the man they have chosen? In the same fashion, how many men will sleep next to a woman they love, a woman who gives herself to them for some reason other than that they have no choice? Who knows, tonight in Samarkand there is perhaps only one such man and one such woman. Why you and why me, you will say? Because God has made us fall in love just as he has made certain flowers poisonous.’

He laughed and she let her tears flow.

‘Let us go in and shut the door. They will be able to hear our happiness.’

Many caresses later, Jahan sat up, half covered herself and gently extricated herself from her lover’s embrace.

‘I must pass on to you a secret which I have from the Khan’s senior wife. Do you know why he is in Samarkand?’

Omar stopped her, thinking it would be some harem tittle-tattle.

‘The secrets of princes do not interest me. They burn the ears of those who listen to them.’

‘Just hear me out. This secret affects us too, since it can disrupt our lives. Nasr Khan has come to inspect the fortifications. At the end of the summer, when the intense heat has subsided, he is expecting an attack by the Seljuk army.’

The Seljuks, Khayyam knew them. They peopled his first memories of childhood. Well before they became the masters of Muslim Asia, they had laid into the city of his birth and left behind, for generations, the memory of the Great Fear.

That had taken place ten years before he was born. The people of Nishapur had woken up one morning to find their city completely encircled by the Turkish warriors, headed by two brothers, Tughrul Beg the Falcon and his brother Tchagri Beg the Hawk, sons of Mikhael son of Seljuk, at the time obscure nomadic chieftains who had only recently been converted to Islam. A message came to the city’s notables: ‘It is told that your men are proud and that you have sweet water running in underground canals. If you attempt to resist us, your canals will soon be open to the heavens and your men will be in the ground.’

This was the type of bragging which was frequent at the time of a siege. The notables of Nishapur nevertheless made speed to capitulate in return for a promise that the inhabitants’ lives would be spared and that their goods, houses and canals would be safe. But of what value are the promises of a conqueror? When the horde entered the city, Tchagri wanted to loose his men in the streets and the bazaar. Tughrul was of a different opinion, wanting the month of Ramadan to be honoured, during which period of fasting a city of Islam could not be pillaged. This argument won the day, but Tchagri was not disarmed and he resigned himself to waiting until the population was no longer in a state of grace.

When the citizens got wind of the dispute between the two brothers and realized that at the beginning of the coming month they would be handed over to be pillaged, raped and massacred, that was start of the Great Fear. Worse than rape is the announcement of impending rape, combined with a passive and humiliating wait for the unavoidable. The stalls emptied, men went to ground and their wives and daughters saw them bewail their impotence. What could they do, how could they flee, by what route? The occupier was everywhere. Soldiers with braided hair lurked in the bazaar of the Grand Square, the various districts of the city and its suburbs, the area around the Burnt Gate. They were constantly drunk and on the lookout for ransom or plunder, and their disorderly hordes infested the neighbouring countryside.

Does one not usually desire the fast to come to an end and the feast day to arrive? That year they wanted the fast to go on forever and hoped that the Feast of Breaking would never come. When the crescent moon of the new month was spotted, no one thought to rejoice or to slit the throat of a lamb. The whole city felt like a gigantic lamb fattened for slaughter.

The night before the feast, this night when every wish is granted, was a night of agony, tears and prayers spent by thousands of families in the precarious shelter of mosques, and the mausoleums of saints.

In the citadel, there was now a stormy discussion raging between the Seljuk brothers. Tchagri shouted that his men had not been paid for months, and that they had only agreed to fight because they had been promised a free hand in this opulent city, that they were on the verge of revolt and that he, Tchagri, could no longer hold them back.

Tughrul spoke another language:

‘We are only at the start of our conquests. There are so many cities to take, Isfahjan, Shiraz, Ray, Tabriz and others further on. If we pillage Nishapur after it has surrendered, after all our promises, no other gate will open for us, no other garrison will show any weakness.’

‘How will we be able to conquer all those cities of which you are dreaming if we lose our army and our men abandon us? The most loyal are already complaining and threatening.’

The two brothers were surrounded by their lieutenants and the elders of the clan who unanimously confirmed Tchagri’s words. Encouraged by this, he rose and decided to bring things to a conclusion:

‘We have spoken too much. I am going to tell my men to do as they wish with the city. If you wish to restrain your men, do so. To each of us his own troops.’

Caught on the horns of a dilemma, he did not move. Suddenly he sprang away from them and grabbed a dagger.

Tchagri, for his part, had also unsheathed his sword. No one knew whether to intervene or, as was the custom, let the Seljuk brothers settle their difference with blood, when Tughrul called out:

‘Brother, I cannot force you to obey me. I cannot restrain your men, but if you set them on the city I will plant this dagger in my heart.’

As he said that he clutched the handle of the dagger with both hands and pointed the blade down toward his chest. His brother hesitated little, but walked toward him with his arms open and gave him a long embrace, promising not to go against his will. Nishapur was saved, but it would never forget the Great Fear of Ramadan.

CHAPTER 7

‘That is how the Seljuks are,’ Khayyam observed. ‘Uneducated looters and enlightened sovereigns who are capable of great meanness and sublime gestures. Tughrul Beg above all had the temperament of an empire builder. I was three years old when he took Isfahan and ten years old when he conquered Baghdad, imposing himself as the protector of the Caliph and wheedling out of him the title of ‘Sultan, King of the East and West’ and at seventy marrying the Prince of the Believers’ very own daughter.’

Omar recounted in a tone of admiration, perhaps with even a touch of solemnity, but Jahan let out a very irreverent laugh. He was offended and gave her a sharp look, unable to understand this sudden hilarity. She excused herself and explained:

‘When you mentioned the marriage, I remembered what they told me in the harem.’

Omar vaguely remembered the episode whose every detail Jahan had greedily retained.

When he received the message from Tughrul demanding the hand of his daughter Sayyida, the Caliph had become wild with rage. The emissary of the Sultan had hardly withdrawn before he exploded:

‘This Turk who has just stepped out from his yurt! This Turk whose fathers in the very recent past were still worshipping some idol or another and who painted pigs’ snouts on their standards! How dare he demand in marriage the daughter of the Prince of the Believers, descendant of the most noble lineage?’

If he was trembling so violently in all his august limbs it was because he knew that he could not deflect the claim. After months of hesitation and two messages of appeal, he ended up by formulating a reply. One of his old counsellors was charged with conveying it and he left for the city of Ray, whose ruins are still visible in the area of Teheran. Tughrul’s court was there.

The Caliph’s emissary was first of all received by the Vizir who confronted him with these words:

‘The Sultan’s patience is running out and he is harassing me. I am happy that you at last have arrived with a reply.’

‘You will be less happy when you hear it: the Prince of Believers begs you to excuse him for not being able to accede to the demand which has been put to him.’

The Vizir did not seem particularly concerned. He continued to finger his jade worry-beads.

‘And so,’ he said, ‘you are going to walk down this corridor and go through that tall doorway and announce to the master of Iraq, Fars, Khorassan and Azerbaijan, to the conqueror of Asia, the sword who defends the true Religion, to the protector of the Abbassid throne: “No, the Caliph will not give you his daughter!” Very well. This guard will show you the way.’

The latter presented himself and the emissary arose to follow him, when the Vizir added innocuously:

‘I assume, wise man that you are, that you have paid your debts, shared out your fortune among your sons and married off all your daughters!’

The emissary sat back down, suddenly exhausted.

‘What do you advise me to do?’

‘Did the Caliph give you no other directive, no other way of settling affairs?’

‘He told me that if there was really no way of escaping from this marriage, he wished for three hundred thousand gold dinars as compensation.’

‘There we have already a better way of proceeding. However, I do not think it is reasonable for him to ask for compensation after all that the Sultan has done for the Caliph, after he had brought him back to the city whence the Shiites had chased him, after he had restored to him his wealth and his territory. We could reach the same result without offending Tughrul Beg. You will tell him that the Caliph offers him his daughter’s hand, and I, for my part, will make use of the moment of intense satisfaction to suggest that he gives a gift of dinars commensurate to such a personage.’

That was what happened. The Sultan, in a state of excitement, put together a great convoy comprising the Vizir, several princes, dozens of officers and dignitaries, and aged female relatives with hundreds of guards and slaves who carried to Baghdad for him presents of great value — camphor, myrrh, brocade and boxes full of gems as well as a hundred thousand pieces of gold.

The Caliph held an audience for the principal members of the delegation and exchanged polite but amorphous greetings. Then, during his talk with the Sultan’s Vizir, he told him bluntly that the marriage did not have his consent and that if they tried to coerce him he would leave Baghdad.

‘If that is the stance of the Prince of Believers, why did he propose an arrangement in dinars?’

‘I could not simply turn him down with a single “no”. I hoped that the Sultan would understand by my attitude that he could not obtain such a sacrifice from me. I can tell you that no other Sultans, be they Turks or Persians, have ever demanded such a thing from a Caliph. I must defend my honour!’

‘Several months ago, when I felt that your response might be negative, I tried to prepare the Sultan. I explained to him that no one before him had ever dared to formulate such a request, that it was untraditional and that people would be surprised. I could never dare to repeat what he replied to me.’

‘Speak. Fear not!’

‘May the Prince of Believers excuse me, for those words can never cross my lips.’

The Caliph lost his patience.

‘Speak, I order you. Hide nothing!’

‘The Sultan started by insulting me and accusing me of siding with the Prince of Believers against him … He threatened to have me put in irons …’

The Vizir stuttered deliberately.

‘Get to the point. Tell me what Tughrul Beg said?’

‘The Sultan yelled: “What a strange clan those Abbassids are! Their ancestors conquered the best half of the world, they built the most flourishing cities and just look at them today! I take their empire and they put up with that. I take their capital and they are happy, they shower me with presents and the Prince of Believers says to me, ‘I give you all the lands which God has given to me and I place in your hands all the believers whose fate He has entrusted to me.’ He begs me to put his palace, his person and his harem under my protection. However, if I ask for his daughter, he rises up and wishes to defend his honour. Is the only territory for which the Sultan is ready to fight the thighs of a virgin?”’

The Caliph choked and could not utter a word. The Vizir made the most of this to conclude the message.

‘The Sultan added, “Go and tell them that I will take that girl the way I took this empire, the way I took Baghdad!”’

CHAPTER 8

Jahan recounted in great detail, and with a guilty pleasure, the matrimonial heartbreaks of the great people of the world; having given up reprimanding her, Omar was now lapping up her stories. When she mischievously threatened to be quiet, he begged her to continue, backing this up with caresses, even though he knew perfectly well how the story ended.

The Prince of Believers therefore resigned himself to saying ‘yes’, but he had death in his soul. As soon as he received the Caliph’s response, Tughrul set out for Baghdad, and even before reaching the city, he sent his Vizir on ahead as a scout, so impatient was he to see what arrangements had already been planned for the marriage.

Arriving at the Caliph’s palace, the emissary heard it plainly stated that the marriage contract could be signed, but the union of the two spouses was out of the question, ‘as the honour of the alliance was the crucial point and not the match of the couple’.

The Vizir was exasperated, but he controlled himself.

‘Knowing Tughrul Beg as I do,’ he explained, ‘I can assure you beyond all measure of doubt that the importance he gives to the union is in no way secondary.’

In fact, in order to emphasize how ardent his desire was, the Sultan did not hesitate to place his troops in a state of alert, to place Baghdad under close control and to surround the Caliph’s palace. The Caliph had to back down and the ‘union’ took place. The Princess sat on a gold-carpeted bed. Tughrul Beg entered the room and kissed the ground in front of her. ‘Then he honoured her,’ the chronicles confirm, ‘while she did not remove the veil from her face, say a word or give heed to his presence.’ He would come to see her every day with valuable presents and he honoured her every day, but not once did she let him see her face. A number of people awaited him as he left after every ‘meeting’, for he was in such good humour that he granted all their requests and gave presents out recklessly.

No child was born of this marriage of decadence and arrogance. Tughrul died six months later. It was generally known that he had been sterile, having repudiated his two first wives and accused them of the ill from which he suffered. With his string of women, wives and slaves he should have faced up to the fact that if there was any fault it was his. Astrologers, healers and shaman had been consulted and prescribed that he swallow the foreskin of a newly circumcised infant at full moon. But this had no result and he had to resign himself to the truth. However, in order to prevent this infirmity lowering his prestige amongst his men, he forged himself a solid reputation as an insatiable lover, dragging behind him for even the shortest move of the court an amply furnished harem. His performance was a required subject of conversation amongst his entourage and it was not rare that officers and even foreign visitors would ask after his prowess and, after lauding his nocturnal energy, they would ask him for his recipes and elixirs.

Sayyida thus became a widow. Her golden bed was empty but she did not think to complain. The void in power seemed more serious. The empire had just been born, and, even if it bore the name of its nebulous Seljuk ancestor, its real founder was Tughrul. Was his disappearance without issue now going to plunge the Orient into anarchy? Brothers, nephews and cousins were legion and the Turks did not recognize any birthright or law of succession.

Very quickly, however, a man managed to impose himself: Alp Arslan, son of Tchagri. Within a few months he came to prevail over the members of the clan, massacring some and buying the allegiance of others. He would soon appear to his subjects as a great sovereign who was firm and just, but he was nevertheless to be dogged by a rumour, nurtured by his rivals. Whereas the sterile Tughrul was accredited with unbounded virility, Alp Arslan, the father of nine children, by reason of his behaviour and rumours attached to him, acquired the image of a man for whom the other sex held little attraction. His enemies nicknamed him ‘the Effeminate’ and his courtiers avoided mentioning such an embarrassing subject in their conversation. It was this reputation, merited or not, which was to cause his downfall and prematurely interrupt a career which at first had seemed so brilliant.

Jahan and Omar did not yet know this. At the time they were chatting away in the belvedere in Abu Taher’s garden, Alp Arslan was at thirty-eight years old the most powerful man on earth. His empire extended from Kabul to the Mediterranean, his power was undivided and his army faithful. As Vizir he had the most able statesman of his time, Nizam al-Mulk. Moreover, in the little village of Manzikart in Anatolia, Alp Arslan had just won a resounding victory over the Byzantine empire whose army had been shattered and the emperor captured. Preachers in all the mosques lauded his exploits and told how, at the hour of battle, he had dressed himself in a white shroud and perfumed himself with embalmer’s herbs, how with his own hands he had plaited his horse’s tail and surprised Russian scouts sent by the Byzantines who were at the perimeters of his camp and had their noses sliced off but also how he gave the imprisoned Emperor back his liberty.

Doubtless it was a great moment for Islam, but it was a subject of grave concern for Samarkand. Alp Arslan had always coveted the city and in the past had even sought to seize it. Only his conflict with the Byzantines had constrained him to conclude a truce between the two dynasties which had been sealed by matrimonial alliances: Malikshah the oldest son of the Sultan had obtained the hand of Terken Khatun, sister of Nasr Khan; the Khan himself had married the daughter of Alp Arslan.

However, no one was fooled by these arrangements. Ever since he had learnt of his brother-in-law’s victory over the Christians, the master of Samarkand had been fearing the worst for his city. He was not wrong and events started to move apace.

Two hundred thousand Seljuk cavalrymen were preparing to cross ‘the river’, which at that time was named the Jayhun, which the ancients had called the Oxus and which was later to become the Amu Darya. It took twenty days until the last soldier had crossed it on a tottery pontoon bridge.

The throne room at Samarkand was often full, but as quiet as the house of a deceased person. The Khan himself seemed subdued by the ordeal and had neither fits of temper nor outbursts of shouting. His courtiers seemed overwhelmed. His haughtiness reassured them even if they were victim to it. His calmness unsettled them and they felt that he had resigned himself to his fate. They judged him to be a defeated man and gave thought to their own safety. Should they flee now, wait around or pray?

Twice a day the Khan would arise followed by his retinue and would go off to inspect a mulberry patch or be acclaimed by his soldiers or the populace. During one of these rounds some young townspeople attempted to approach the monarch. Held at a distance by the guards, they yelled out that they were ready to fight alongside the soldiers and to die in defence of the city, the Khan and the dynasty. Far from rejoicing at their initiative, the sovereign was irritated, broke off his visit to retrace his steps and ordered the soldiers to disperse them roughly.

When he was back in the palace, he addressed his soldiers:

‘When my grandfather, may God preserve in us the memory of his wisdom, wished to capture the city of Balkh, the inhabitants took up arms in the absence of their sovereign and killed a large number of our soldiers, forcing our army to retreat. My grandfather then wrote a letter to Mahmoud, the master of Balkh, in which he rebuked him: ‘I most ardently desire our troops to clash, may God grant victory to whom he wishes, but where will we end up if the common people start meddling in our quarrels?’ Mahmoud sided with him and punished his subjects, forbidding them to carry arms. He fined them great amounts of gold to make up for the destruction the clashes had caused. What was true for the people of Balkh was even more so for those of Samarkand who are by nature rebellious. I would rather betake myself to Alp Arslan alone and unarmed than owe my safety to the citizenry.’

The officers all fell in with his view. They promised to repress any popular zeal, renewed their oaths of allegiance and swore to fight like wounded wildcats. These were not just words. The Transoxanian troops were no less brave than those of the Seljuks. Alp Arslan had only the advantage of numbers and age. Not his age, that is, but that of his dynasty. He belonged to the second generation which was still animated by the ambition of empire-builders. Nasr was the fifth of his line and much more desirous of enjoying his acquisitions than of expansion.

During this whole period of agitation, Khayyam wanted to stay well away from the city. Naturally he could not refrain from putting in a brief appearance at court or at the qadi’s palace from time to time without seeming to desert them in their ordeal. However, most often he would stay shut up in his belvedere, immersed in his works or in his secret book whose pages he was furiously blackening as if the war only existed in the detached wisdom which was inspired in him.

Only Jahan brought him back to the reality of the drama happening around them. Every evening she would bring him the latest news from the front and report the moods of the palace to which he would listen without obvious enthusiasm.

On the ground, Alp Arslan’s advance was slow. He was weighted down with excess troops, discipline was slipshod and he had to contend with illness and the swamps as well as occasional outbreaks of fierce resistance. One man in particular was making the Sultan’s life hard. He was the commander of a fortress not far from the river. The army could have skirted around it and continued to advance, but its rear would have been less secure, harassments would have continued and in case of difficulty any retreat would have been turned out to be perilous. Alp Arslan thus had given the order to put the fortress out of action ten days earlier and they had made numerous assaults on it.

The battle was being followed very closely from Samarkand. Every three days a pigeon would arrive, released by the defenders. The message was never an appeal for help. It did not describe the exhaustion of supplies or men, it spoke only of adverse losses and rumours of epidemics rife amongst the besiegers. Overnight the commander of the site, a certain Yussif, originally from Khwarazm, became the hero of Transoxania.

However, eventually the defenders were overwhelmed, the foundations of the fortress were undermined and the walls scaled. Yussif fought to the last before being wounded and captured. He was led off to the Sultan, who was curious to see close up the cause of his troubles. It was a lean little man, hirsute and dusty, who was marched in front of the Sultan. He held himself upright with his head held high, between two giants who gripped him by the arms. Alp Arslan, for his part, was stretched out on a wooden dais covered with cushions. The two men looked at each other defiantly, then the victor ordered:

‘Place four posts in the ground, tie him to them and have him quartered.’

Yussif looked at the Sultan condescendingly and scornfully, and shouted: ‘Is that the way to punish someone who has fought like a man?’

Alp Arslan did not reply. He turned his face away. The prisoner added: ‘You, the Effeminate. I am talking to you!’

The Sultan jumped up, as if stung by a scorpion. He seized his bow which was lying near him, loaded an arrow, and before firing he ordered the guards to release the prisoner as he could not fire on the man without the risk of wounding his own soldiers. In any case, he had nothing to worry about for he had never missed a target.

Perhaps it was his extreme annoyance, his hurry or the awkwardness of firing at such a short distance but Yussif was still unharmed and the Sultan did not have time to load a second arrow before the prisoner attacked him. Alp Arslan, who could not defend himself while still perched on his pedestal, tried to extricate himself, tripped on a cushion, stumbled and fell to the ground. Yussif was upon him straight away, grasping the knife which he had kept hidden in the folds of his clothing. He had time to stab him in the side before he himself was dispatched by a massive blow. The soldiers set upon his lifeless, mutilated body. His lips, however, still kept the sardonic smile which death had frozen on them. He was avenged and the Sultan was not to outlast him for long.

Alp Arslan in fact died after four long nights of agony and bitter meditation. His words were recorded in the chronicles of the time: ‘The other day I reviewed my troops from high on a promontory and I felt the earth tremble under their step. I told myself, “I am the master of the world! Who can measure up to me?” For my arrogance and vanity God sent out the most wretched of humans, a prisoner, a condemned man on his way to be executed; he proved himself more powerful than I, he struck me, he knocked me off my throne, he has removed my life.’

Was it the day after this drama that Omar Khayyam wrote in his book:

Once in a while a man arises boasting;

He shows his wealth and cries out, ‘It is I!’

A day or two his puny matters flourish;

Then Death appears and cries out, ‘It is I!’

CHAPTER 9

It was feast-time in Samarkand and a woman dared to cry — the wife of the triumphant Khan, but she was also above all the daughter of the assassinated Sultan. Naturally her husband had gone to present his condolences. He had ordered the whole harem to wear mourning and had a eunuch who had displayed too much good humour flogged in front of her. However, when he was back in his diwan he did not hesitate to tell all and sundry that ‘God has granted the prayers of the people of Samarkand’.

It might be supposed that at that time the inhabitants of a city had no reason for preferring one sovereign over the other. However, they said their prayers, for what they really feared was a change of master with his string of massacres and ordeals and the inevitable pillaging and plundering. For the population to wish to be conquered by another, the monarch had to go beyond the limit in submitting them to exorbitant taxes and continuous harassment. This was not the case with Nasr. If he was not the best of princes, he certainly was not the worst. They could live with him and they put their faith in the ability of the Almighty to keep him in check.

Thus in Samarkand they were celebrating being spared from war. The immense square of Ras al-Tak was overflowing with smoke and noise. Itinerant merchants had erected stalls against every wall, and under every street lamp there was a singing girl or a lute player improvising melodies. Myriad groups were forming and dispersing around the story-tellers, the palm-readers and the snake-charmers. In the centre of the square, on a hastily constructed and shaky rostrum they were holding the traditional contest amongst popular poets who sang praise to the incomparability and invincibility of Samarkand. The public’s judgement was instant. New stars arose and others waned. There were wood fires almost everywhere, as it was December and the nights had already turned cold. In the palace, jars of wine were being emptied and smashed. The Khan was jovial, boisterous and swaggering with drink.

The next day he had the prayer for the dead recited in the great mosque and then received condolences over the death of his father-in-law. The same people who had rushed over the day before to congratulate him on his victory came back, wearing expressions of mourning to express their sorrow. The qadi, who had recited some appropriate verses and invited Omar to do the same, gave Omar an aside:

‘Do not be astonished at anything. Reality has two faces and so do people.’

That very evening, Abu Taher was summoned by Nasr Khan, who asked him to join the delegation charged with going to pay Samarkand’s homage to the deceased Sultan. Omar had set off too, albeit with a hundred and twenty other people.

The site of the condolences was an old Seljuk army camp, situated just north of the river. Thousands of tents and yurts were pitched all around, a veritable improvised city where the solemn representatives of Transoxania rubbed shoulders distrustingly with the nomad warriors with long plaited hair who had come to renew their clan’s allegiance. Malikshah, at seventeen, a giant with the face of a child, was wrapped in a flowing karakul coat and sat enthroned on the very dais where his father, Alp Arslan, had fallen. Several steps in front of him stood the Grand Vizir, at fifty-five years old the strongman of the empire, whom Malikshah called ‘father’ as a sign of extreme deference. Nizam al-Mulk, the Order of the Kingdom. Never had a name been more deserved. Every time a visitor of rank approached, the young sultan gave the Vizir a questioning look. He then gave an imperceptible signal as to whether to receive the visitor warmly or reservedly, serenely or distrustingly, attentively or absently.

The whole delegation from Samarkand prostrated themselves at the feet of Malikshah who acknowledged them with a condescending nod of the head. Then a number of the notables left the group to make their way toward Nizam. The Vizir was impassive. His colleagues were bustling around him but he looked at them and listened to them without reacting. He should not be thought of as a master of the palace who shouted out his orders. If his influence was ubiquitous, it was because he worked like a puppeteer, who with a discreet touch impressed on others the movements which he desired. His silences were proverbial. It was not rare for a visitor to spend an hour in his presence without any words being exchanged other than the phrases of greeting and parting. He was not visited for his conversation, but so that allegiances could be renewed, suspicions dispelled and oblivion avoided.

Twelve people from the Samarkand delegation had obtained the privilege of shaking the hand which held the rudder of the empire. Omar followed close behind the qadi Abu Taher who muttered a formula. Nizam nodded and kept his hand in the qadi’s for a few seconds, thereby honouring him. When it was Omar’s turn, the Vizir leant over to his ear and murmured:

‘On this day next year, be at Isfahan and we shall speak.’

Khayyam was not certain that he had heard correctly and he felt a little off-balance. The personage intimidated him, the ceremonies impressed him, the chaos intoxicated him and the wails of the mourners were deafening him. He could no longer trust his senses. He wanted some confirmation that he had heard correctly but he was already being swept along by the flow of people. The Vizir was looking elsewhere and had started to nod his head in silence again.

On his way back, Khayyam could not stop mulling over the incident. Was he the only one to whom the Vizir had uttered those words? Had he not confused him for someone else, and why was the meeting so distant, both in terms of time and space?

He decided to take the matter up with the qadi. Since he had been just in front of him, he must have heard, felt, seen or guessed something. Abu Taher let him recount the scene, before admitting mischievously:

‘I noticed that the Vizir whispered some words to you. I did not hear them, but I can assure you that he did not mistake you for anyone else. Did you see all the people around him. Their job is to obtain information on the composition of each delegation and to whisper him the name and position of those approaching him. They asked me your name, assured themselves that you were the Khayyam of Nishapur, the intellectual and the astrologer. There was no confusion over your identity. Anyway, the only confusion with Nizam al-Mulk is that which he deems fit to create.’

The way was flat and stony. To the right in the distance lay a line of high mountains, the foothills of Pamir. Khayyam and Abu Taher rode along side by side with their mounts brushing against each other.

‘What can he want of me?’

‘In order to find out, you will have to wait a year. Until that time, I advise you not to bog yourself down in conjecture. The wait is too long and you will exhaust yourself. Above all, do not mention this to a soul!’

‘Do I usually prattle?’

The tone was that of reproach, but the qadi did not allow himself to be flustered:

‘I wish to be clear: do not mention this to that woman!’

Omar should have suspected that Jahan’s repeated visits could not have gone unnoticed. Abu Taher continued:

‘At your first meeting the guards came to inform me. I concocted a complicated story to justify her visits. I ordered them not to see her and forbade them to wake you up every morning. Have not the slightest doubt, that pavilion is your house, I want you to know that today and tomorrow. However, I have to speak to you about that woman.’

Omar was embarrassed. He did not appreciate at all the way his friend said ‘that woman’ and he had no desire to discuss his affairs. Although he was saying nothing to his elder, his face tightened.

‘I know that what I am saying vexes you, but I shall go on saying it until I have said it all, and if our too-recent friendship does not give me the right, my age and position do. When you saw that woman for the first time in the palace you looked upon her with desire. She is young and beautiful and you liked her poetry and her audaciousness warmed your blood. However you had differing attitudes towards the gold. She stuffed her mouth with what disgusted you. She behaved like a court poetess and you acted as a sage. Have you spoken to her about it since then?’

The reply was no, and, even though Omar said nothing, Abu Taher heard it clearly. He continued:

‘Often, at the beginning of an affair, the sensitive questions are avoided. There is a fear of destroying this fragile edifice which has just been erected with a thousand precautions, but as far as I am concerned what sets you apart from this woman is both serious and fundamental. You do not look at life the same way.’

‘She is a woman and, what is more, a widow. She is trying to fend for herself without depending on a master, and I can only admire her courage. And how can one reproach her for taking the gold which her verses are worth?’

‘I understand,’ said the qadi, satisfied at having finally dragged his friend into that discussion. ‘But you must admit, at least, that this woman would be unable to envisage any life other than that of the court.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You must also admit that, for you, court life is odious and unbearable and that you will not stay a moment longer than necessary.’

An embarrassed silence followed. Abu Taher finished by stating resolutely:

‘I have told you that you should listen to a true friend. Henceforth I will not bring up the matter unless you raise it first yourself.’

CHAPTER 10

By the time they reached Samarkand, they were exhausted by the cold, the jolting of their mounts and the disquiet which had arisen amongst them. Omar retired to his pavilion straight away without taking the time to dine. During the trip he had composed three quatrains which he started to recite aloud, ten times, twenty times, replacing a word and modifying a turn of phrase before consigning them to the secrecy of his manuscript.

Jahan, who unexpectedly arrived earlier than usual, had slipped in through the half-open door and noiselessly taken off her woollen shawl. She was walking on tip-toe behind Omar. He was still distracted when she suddenly threw her bare arms around his neck, pressed his face to hers and let her perfumed hair fall into his eyes.

Omar should have been overjoyed. Could a lover hope for more tender aggression? Once the moment of surprise had passed should he not in turn have folded his arms around his beloved, held her and impressed on her body all the pain of absence and all the warmth of reunion? However, Omar was upset by this intrusion. His book still lay open in front of him and he wanted to get it out of sight. His first impulse was to free himself, and even though he repented immediately and his hesitancy had only lasted a second, Jahan, who had felt this wavering and aloofness, very quickly understood the reason. She looked at the book with distrust, as if it were a rival.

‘Excuse me! I was so impatient to see you again that I did not think my arrival could unsettle you.’

A heavy silence lay between them. Khayyam hastened to break it.

‘It’s the book, isn’t it? It is true that I had not thought of showing it to you. I have always hidden it when you were here, but the person who gave it to me made me promise to keep it a secret.’

He held it out to her. She leafed through it for a few moments, pretending to be completely indifferent to the sight of a few pages of writing scattered amongst dozens of blank pages. She handed it back to him with a decided pout.

‘Why are you showing it to me? I did not ask you for anything. Anyway, I have never learned to read. I have acquired everything I know from listening to others.’

Omar was not surprised. It was not rare at that time for the best poets to be illiterate, just like almost all women of course.

‘What is so secret in this book. Does it contain alchemy formulas?’

‘They are poems which I write down sometimes.’

‘Forbidden and heretical poems, subversive poems?’

She looked at him suspiciously, but he defended himself laughingly:

‘No, what are you trying to make out? Do I have the soul of a plotter? They are only rubaiyaat about wine, beauty, life and its vanity.’

‘You! You write rubaiyaat?’

She let out a cry of incredulity which was almost scorn. Rubaiyaat were something of a minor literary genre, they were trite and even coarse and suited only for poets from the popular districts. It could be taken as an amusement, a peccadillo or even a flirtation for an intellectual like Omar Khayyam to allow himself to compose a rubai from time to time, but what astonished and worried a poetess devoted to the norms of eloquence was that he should take such care to consign his verses, and with such extreme gravity, to a book shrouded in mystery. Omar seemed ashamed but Jahan was intrigued:

‘Could you read some of the verses to me?’

Omar did not want to commit himself further.

‘I will be able to read them all to you one day, when I judge them to be ready.’

She did not press the point and stopped asking him further questions, but she commented, without stressing the irony:

‘When you finish this book, do not offer it to Nasr Khan. He does not think much of the authors of rubaiyaat. He will not ask you to join him on his throne any more.’

‘I have no intention of offering this book to anyone at all. I do not wish to gain anything by it. I do not have the ambitions of a court poet.’

She had hurt him and he had wounded her. In the silence which enfolded them, they wondered if they had overstepped the mark and if there was still time to stop and save what could still be saved. At that moment, it was not Jahan whom Khayyam resented, but the qadi. He regretted having allowed him to speak and wondered if his words had not damaged irreparably the way he saw his lover. Until then, they had been living a carefree life with neither of them wishing to bring up any potentially divisive subjects. Omar could not decide whether the qadi had opened his eyes to the truth, or just clouded his happiness?

‘You have changed, Omar. I cannot say how, but there is in the way you are looking at me and talking to me something which I cannot quite put my finger on. It is as if you suspect me of some misdeed, as if you resent me for some reason. I do not understand you, but suddenly I am greatly saddened.’

He tried to draw her toward him, but she stepped aside brusquely:

‘You cannot reassure me like that! Our bodies can only draw out our words, they cannot take their place or belie them. Tell me what the matter is!’

‘Jahan! Let us speak no more of it until tomorrow.’

‘I shall no longer be here tomorrow. The Khan is leaving Samarkand early in the morning.’

‘Where is he going?’

‘To Kish, Bukhara, Termez, I don’t know. The whole court will follow him, along with me.’

‘Could you not stay in Samarkand with your cousin?’

‘If it were only a question of finding excuses! I have my place at court. I had to fight like ten men to gain it and I will not give it up today for a frolic in the belvedere of Abu Taher’s garden.’

Without really thinking it over, Khayyam said, ‘It is not a question of a frolic. Would you not share my life?’

‘Share your life? There is nothing to share!’

She had said it without spite. It was simply a statement, and not lacking in tenderness. However, when she saw how crestfallen Omar was, she begged him to forgive her and sobbed.

‘I knew that I was going to cry this evening, but I did not know I would cry such bitter tears. I knew that we were going to be parted for a long time, perhaps forever, but I did not know we would use such words and glances. I do not want to carry from the most beautiful love affair I have had the memory of those eyes of a stranger. Look at me, Omar. Look at me for the last time! Remember, I am your lover. You loved me and I loved you. Can you still recognize me?’

Khayyam tenderly put his arm around her. He sighed.

‘If only we had the time to explain ourselves, I know that this stupid quarrel would be cleared up, but time is rushing us into playing out our future in a few confused minutes.’

He could sense a tear sliding down his face. He wanted to hide this tear, but Jahan clutched him savagely to her, pressing his face against hers.

‘You can hide your writings, but not your tears. I want to see them, touch them and mix them with mine. I want to keep their traces on my cheeks and their salty taste on my tongue.’

It was as if they were trying to tear each other apart, to suffocate or destroy each other. Their hands ran amok and their clothes were scattered about. There is no night of love comparable to that of two bodies set on fire by burning tears. The fire raged and enveloped them. It wound them up, intoxicated them, inflamed them, and fused them together, skin against skin, taking them to the very extremes of pleasure. On the table an hourglass was running out, grain by grain. The fire died down, smouldered and went out. They both wore an exhausted smile, and were breathing slowly. Omar murmured, either to her or to the fate which they had just faced.

‘Our fight is just beginning.’

Jahan clutched him, her eyes closed.

‘Do not let me sleep until dawn.’

The next day there were two new lines in the manuscript. The calligraphy was scratchy, hesitant and tortured.

Next to your beloved, Khayyam, how alone you are!

Now that she is gone, you can take refuge in her.

CHAPTER 11

Kashan — an oasis of low houses on the silk route, at the end of the Salt Desert. Caravans nestled there, catching their breath before passing by Kargas Kuh, the sinister Vulture Mountain which was the retreat of the bandits who were scourge of the districts around Isfahan.

Kashan was built of mud and clay. A visitor could search in vain for a gaily decorated wall or an ornamented façade. However, it is in Kashan that the most famous varnished tiles were made to embellish the green and gold of the thousand mosques, palaces or madrasas from Samarkand to Baghdad. Throughout the whole of the Muslim East, faience was simply called kashi or kashani, rather as porcelain, in both Persian and English, is named after China.

Outside the city, in the shade of the palm trees, there was a caravansary enclosed by rectangular walls with watch towers, an exterior courtyard for animals and goods and an inside courtyard with small rooms all the way around. Omar wanted to rent a room but the hostel-keeper apologized that he had none left for the night. Some wealthy merchants from Isfahan had just arrived with their sons and servants. He did not need to check the register to verify his claim, the place was swarming with noisy retainers and venerable mounts. In spite of the incipient winter, Omar would have considered sleeping under the stars, but the scorpions of Kashan are hardly less renowned than its faïence.

‘Is there really not even a nook for me to spread out my mat until dawn?’

The landlord scratched his forehead. It was dark and he could not refuse shelter to a Muslim.

‘I have a small corner room, occupied by a student. Ask him if he will let you share.’

They went to the room and found the door closed. The hostel-keeper pushed it open without knocking. A candle flickered and a book was slammed shut.

‘This noble traveller left Samarkand three months ago and I wondered if he might share your room.’

If the young man was against this idea he avoided showing it. He remained polite, although without appearing eager.

Khayyam entered, greeted him and carefully stated his identity as ‘Omar of Nishapur’.

There was a short, but intense glimmer of interest in the eyes of his companion. He in turn introduced himself:

‘Hassan, son of Ali Sabbah, native of Qom, student at Rayy, en route to Isfahan.’

This detailed listing made Khayyam uneasy. It was an invitation for him to say more about himself, his occupation and the purpose of his voyage. He could not see any point in doing so and was suspicious of such behaviour. He thus kept quiet, took the time to sit down against a wall and to take a good look at this dark-skinned young man with such angular features who was so frail and emaciated. Khayyam was disconcerted by his seven-day growth of beard, his tightly-wound black turban and his bulging eyes.

The student unnerved him with a smile.

‘It is not very clever for people called Omar to be out and about in Kashan.’

Omar feigned complete surprise. However, he had understood the allusion. His first name was that of the Prophet’s second successor, the Caliph Omar who was hated by the Shiites as he had been a fierce rival of their founding father, Ali. Even though, for the time being, the overwhelming majority of Persia’s population was Sunni, there were already some pockets of Shiism, namely the oasis cities of Qom and Kashan where strange traditions were carried on. Every year an absurd carnival celebrated the anniversary of the Caliph Omar’s murder. To this end women put on make-up, prepared sweets and grilled pistachio nuts while the children positioned themselves on the terraces and emptied buckets of water on the passers-by as they shouted triumphantly: ‘God curse Omar!’ An effigy of the Caliph was made, holding a string of turds and this was then paraded through certain districts by people chanting: ‘Your name is Omar and your abode is Hell. You are the biggest villain ever! You are the infamous usurper!’ The cobblers of Qom and Kashan had the custom of writing ‘Omar’ on the soles of the shoes they made, muleteers gave his name to their beasts and liked to utter it as they beat their mules, and hunters, as they flexed their last arrow, would murmur, This one is for the heart of Omar!’

Hassan had made reference to those practices in a few vague words avoiding the coarser details, but Omar looked at him unkindly as he stated with finality:

‘I will not change my route because of my name, and I will not change my name because of my route.’

A long, cold silence ensued during which they avoided each other’s sight. Omar took off his shoes and stretched out to try and sleep. It was Hassan who badgered him:

‘Perhaps I have offended you by recounting these customs, but I only wanted you to be careful about mentioning your name in this place. Do not be mistaken about my intentions. Naturally, I happened to participate in those festivities during my childhood in Qom, but since my adolescence I have seen them in a different light and have come to understand that such excesses are not worthy of a man of learning. Neither do they conform to the teaching of the Prophet. All the same, when you gaze in awe, in Samarkand or elsewhere, at a mosque wonderfully clad in tiles glazed by the Shiite artisans of Kashan, and when the preacher of that same mosque launches into tirades of invective and curses against “the accursed heretical sectarians of Ali”, that too is hardly in conformity with the teaching of the Prophet.’

Omar raised himself up a little.

‘Now those are the words of a sensible man.’

‘I know how to be sensible, just as I know how to be a fool. I can be likeable or disagreeable. But, how can a man be friendly with someone who comes to share his room but who will not even deign to introduce himself?’

‘Telling you my first name was enough for you to unleash a verbal attack on me. What would you have said if I had stated my whole identity?’

‘Perhaps I would have said none of what I did. One can hate the Caliph Omar and feel nothing but admiration for Omar the Geometrician, Omar the Algebraist, Omar the Astronomer or even Omar the Philosopher.’

Omar sat upright. Hassan went on triumphantly:

‘Do you think that people can only be identified by their name? They can be recognized by the way they look, by their gait and bearing or the tone which they affect. The moment you entered I knew that you were a man of knowledge, accustomed to honours and yet scornful of them, a man who arrives without having to ask the way. The moment you gave out the first part of your name, I understood: my ears can recognize only one Omar of Nishapur.’

‘If you have been trying to impress me, I have to admit that you have succeeded. Who, then, are you?’

‘I have told you my name, but it means nothing to you. I am Hassan Sabbah of Qom. I can boast of nothing save having managed, by the age of seventeen, to read everything there is on science and religion, philosophy, history and the stars.’

‘One can never read everything, there is so much new knowledge to acquire every day.’

‘Put me to the test.’

As a jest, Omar started to ask him some questions on Plato, Euclid, Porphyry, Ptolomy, on the medicine of Disocorides, Galen, Razi and Avicenna and then on interpretations of Quranic law. His companion’s responses were always precise, thorough and flawless. When dawn arose neither of them had slept or felt the speedy passage of time. Hassan felt a real joy. Omar was fascinated and had to admit:

‘I have never met a man who has learnt so many things. What do you plan to do with all this accumulation of knowledge?’

Hassan looked at him distrustingly, as if some secret part of his soul had been violated, but he recovered his composure and lowered his eyes.

‘I want to work my way close to Nizam al-Mulk. He may have some position for me.’

Omar was so beguiled by his companion that he was on the point of revealing to him that he himself was on his way to see the Grand Vizir. However, at the last moment, he changed his mind. The last trace of distrust had not yet disappeared.

Two days later, when they had joined a caravan of merchants, they rode side by side, quoting from memory in Persian and Arabic large sections of the most beautiful writings of the authors they admired. Sometimes an argument would start up, but then quickly die down. When Hassan spoke of certainties, raised his voice, proclaimed ‘empirical truths’ and enjoined his companion to admit them, Omar remained sceptical. He slowly weighed the merits of certain opinions but seldom settled for any of them, and willingly displayed his ignorance. He found himself repeating untiringly: ‘What do you want me to say? These things are veiled, and you and I are on the same side of the veil. When it falls, we will no longer be here.’

After a week en route, they arrived in Isfahan.

CHAPTER 12

Esfahan, nesf-é jahan! is what the Persians of today say. ‘Isfahan, half of the world!’ The expression came into use well after the age of Khayyam, but even in 1074 the city was exalted in words: ‘its stones are of galenite, its flies are bees, its grass is saffron’, ‘its air is so pure and healthy that its granaries do not change according to any calendar and flesh does not decompose’. It is true that the city lies at an altitude of five thousand feet, but Isfahan also had sixty caravansarays, two hundred bankers and money-changers and endless covered bazaars. Its workshops produced silk and cotton. Its carpets, cloths and padlocks were exported to the most distant countries. Its roses blossomed in a thousand varieties and its opulence was proverbial. This city, the most populous in the Persian world, attracted all those who were seeking power, fortune or knowledge.

I have said ‘this city’, but one can not really speak of a city. They still tell the story there of a young traveller from Rayy, who was in such a hurry to see the wonders of Isfahan that on the last day he galloped ahead of his caravan. After several hours he came to the bank of the Zayandé-Rud, ‘the life-giving river’, and followed it until he reached a wall of earth. The town seemed to him to be of a respectable size, but smaller than his own city of Rayy. When he reached the gate, he asked the guards.

‘This is the city of Jay,’ he was told.

He did not so much as go in but turned and followed his route toward the West. His mount was exhausted, but he did not spare the crop. Soon he found himself, panting, at the gates of another city, more imposing than the first, but scarcely larger than Rayy. He questioned an old passer-by.

‘This is Yahoudiyeh, the “Jews’ town”.’

‘Are there so many Jews in this country?’

‘There are some, but most of the inhabitants are Muslims, like you and I. The town is called Yahoudiyé because King Nebuchadnezzar is supposed to have settled here the Jews he deported from Jerusalem. Others claim that it was the Jewish spouse of a Persian Shah who, before the age of Islam, had members of her community brought here. God alone knows the truth!’

Our young traveller thus turned away, determined to follow his route even if his horse were to collapse beteen his legs, when the old man called to him:

‘Where are you trying to get to, my son?’

‘To Isfahan!’

The old man burst out laughing.

‘Has no one ever told you that Isfahan does not exist?’

‘What do you mean. Is it not the largest and most beautiful city of Persia? Was it not in the distant past the proud capital of Artaban, King of the Parthians? Have its wonders not been extolled in books?’

‘I do not know what the books say, but I was born here sixty years ago and only foreigners have ever spoken to me of the city of Isfahan. I have never seen it.’

This was hardly any exaggeration. The name Isfahan had for a long time not designated a city but an oasis where there were the two distant cities Jay and Yahoudiyeh, which were separated from each other by an hour’s journey. It was not until the sixteenth century that they, and the surrounding villages, formed a real city. In Khayyam’s day, it did not exist yet, but a wall had been built, three parasangs or twelve miles long, to protect the whole oasis.

Omar and Hassan arrived late in the evening. They found lodgings in Jay, in a caravansary near the Tirah Gate. There they stretched out and before they could exchange a single word they started to snore in unison.

The next day Khayyam went off to see the Grand Vizir. In the Square of the Money-changers, Andalusian, Greek and Chinese travellers and merchants amongst others were milling around the money-changers who, appropriately equipped with their statutory scales, were scratching a Kirman, Nishapur or Seville dinar, sniffing a Delhi tanka, feeling the weight of a Bukhara dirham or pulling a face at a recently devalued nomisma from Constantinople.

The gateway of the diwan, the seat of government and the official residence of Nizam al-Mulk, was not far off. The musicians of the nowba were stationed there to sound their trumpets three times a day in honour of the Grand Vizir. In spite of all this pomp, everyone, down to the most humble widow, was granted permission to venture into the diwan, the huge audience hall, in order to expose their tears and grievances to the strong man of the empire. It was only there that guards and chamberlains made a circle around Nizam, questioned the visitors and sent away the nuisances.

Omar stopped in the doorway. He examined the room, its bare walls and its three layers of carpet. He greeted those present with a hesitant gesture. They were a mixed but contemplative group who surrounded the Vizir, who was in conversation for the time being with a Turkish officer. Out of the corner of his eye, Nizam had spotted the newcomer; he smiled at him in a friendly manner and signalled to him to be seated. Five minutes later he came over to him, and kissed him on both cheeks and then on the forehead.

‘I have been waiting for you. I knew that you would be here on time. I have much to say to you.’

He then led him by the hand away from everyone into a small anti-chamber where they sat down side by side on an enormous leather cushion.

‘Some of what I am about to say will surprise you, but I hope that when all is said and done you will not regret having responded to my invitation.’

‘Could anyone ever regret having entered through Nizam al-Mulk’s gateway.’

‘That has happened,’ murmured the Vizir with a savage smile. ‘I have raised men up to the skies, and I have brought others low. Every day I dispense life and death. God will be the judge of my intentions. He is the source of all power. He granted the supreme authority to the Arab Caliph, who ceded it to the Turkish Sultan, who has delivered it into the hands of the Persian Vizir, your servant. Of others I demand that they respect this authority, but of you, khawajeh Omar, I demand that you respect my dream. Yes, I dream of making this huge country of mine into the most powerful, prosperous, stable state, into the best policed state in the universe. I dream of an empire where every province and city will be administered by a just and God-fearing man who pays heed to the groans of his weakest subjects. I dream of a state where the wolf and the lamb will drink peacefully together, in complete peace, water from the same brook. However, it is not enough for me merely to dream, I am building. Go and walk about in the districts of Isfahan and you will see regiments of workers digging and building, and artisans going about their work. Hospices, mosques, caravansaries, citadels and seats of government are being built everywhere. Soon every important city will have its own large school which will carry my name, a ‘madrasa Nizamiya’. The one in Baghdad is already in operation. I drew up its plans with my own hands, I established its curriculum, I chose the best teachers for it and I have allotted a grant for every student. You see, this empire is one large building site. It is rising up, expanding and prospering. Heaven has allowed us to live in a blessed age.’

A light-haired servant came in and bowed. He was carrying two goblets of iced rose-syrup on an engraved silver tray. Omar took one. As he raised it his lips felt its icy steam and he decided to sip it slowly. Nizam finished his off in one gulp and continued:

‘Your presence here gladdens and honours me!’

Khayyam wanted to reply to this rush of amiability, but Nizam stopped him with a gesture.

‘Do not think that I am trying to flatter you. I am so powerful that I need only sing the praises of the Creator. However, you see, khawajeh Omar, as far-flung, as populated or as opulent as an empire may be, there is always a shortage of men. In appearance what a lot of creatures, how teeming the streets are, what dense crowds! But when I chance to look upon the deployment of my army, or a mosque at prayer time, a bazaar or even my diwan, I have to ask myself: if I were to demand some wisdom, knowledge, loyalty or integrity from these men, would I not, at the mention of each quality, see the throng thin out, then melt and disappear? I find myself alone, khawajeh Omar, desperately alone. My diwan is empty, as is my palace. This town and this empire are empty. I always feel that I have to clap with one hand behind my back. I am not content with sending for men like you to come from Samarkand, I myself am ready to go on foot to Samarkand to fetch them.’

Omar murmured a confused ‘God forbid!’, but the Vizir did not stop.

‘Those are my dreams and my worries. I could speak to you of them for days and nights, but I want to listen to you. I am impatient to know if this dream moves you in some way, if you are ready to take your rightful place at my side.’

‘Your projects are exhilarating and I am honoured by your faith in me.’

‘What do you require in order to work with me? Tell me frankly, the way I have spoken to you. You will obtain everything you desire. Do not be timorous, and do not let my moment of rash prodigality pass by.’

He laughed. Khayyam managed to cover his utter confusion with a weak smile.

‘My only desire is to be able to carry on my humble works sheltered from need. My greed goes no further than having something to drink, clothing on my back and shelter for the night.’

‘By way of shelter, I offer you one of Isfahan’s most beautiful houses. I myself resided there while this palace was being built. It will be yours, with its gardens, orchards, carpets, servants and maidservants. For your expenses, I am allotting you a pension of ten thousand royal dinars. As long as I am alive it will be paid to you at the beginning of every year. Is it sufficient?’

‘That is more than I need. I shall not know what to do with such a great sum.’

Khayyam was being sincere, but this irritated Nizam.

‘When you have bought all the books, had all the jars of wine filled and all your mistresses covered with jewels, you will distribute alms to the poor, finance the Mecca caravan and build a mosque in your name!’

Realizing that his detachment and the modesty of his demands had displeased his host, Omar made bold:

‘I have always wanted to construct an observatory with a large stone sextant, an astrolabe and various instruments. I would like to measure the exact length of the solar year.’

‘Granted! By next week funds will be allotted to you for that end. You will choose the site and your observatory will be erected within a few months. But, tell me, is there nothing else that would give you pleasure?’

‘By God, I want nothing more. Your generosity overwhelms me.’

‘Then perhaps I, in my turn, might formulate a demand for you?’

‘After what you have just granted me, I will be only too glad to be able to show you a small part of my immense gratitude.’

Nizam did not hesitate.

‘I know that you are discreet and little inclined to gossip. I know that you are wise, just, impartial and in a position to discern the truth from the false in everything. I know that you are trustworthy: I would like to charge you with the most delicate commission of all.’

Omar waited for the worst, and indeed it was the worst which was in store for him.

‘I name you sahib-khabar,’

‘Sahib-khabar, me! The head spy?’

‘Head of the Empire’s information. Do not respond in haste, it is not a question of spying on good people or infiltrating the homes of believers, but of looking after the peace for everyone. In a state, the least coercion or injustice must be brought to the attention of the sovereign and quelled in an exemplary fashion, whoever the guilty party may be. We can only learn if some qadi or provincial governor is exploiting his office to enrich himself at the expense of the weak by means of our spies, since the victims do not always dare to complain!’

‘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.’

CHAPTER 13

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.’

CHAPTER 14

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.