Alamut

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was a clear, starry night, one of those nights when we think we can hear the heartbeat of the universe. A snowy chill blowing down from Mount Demavend did battle with the dampness evaporating out of an earth still warm from the sun.

One after the other the warriors rode through the canyon. Abu Ali was at their head. Every fifth horseman swung a torch above his head, lighting the way for those who came behind him. Moths darted around the flames, flew into them, and burned up. The clatter of hooves echoed off the rocky canyon walls. The commands of the officers and sergeants, the shouts of the camel drivers, and the neighing of the horses merged in a mighty din that drowned out the roar of the mountain stream.

The fedayeen set up camp behind a lookout ridge. They were well covered. They pitched their tents, lit their campfires, and posted guards. Some two hundred paces away from them the other warriors, horsemen, lancers and archers had settled in atop a hill overgrown with shrubs. At the bottom of a small gulley they kindled low-burning fires, warmed themselves next to them, and roasted an ox. They spoke in muffled tones and laughed excitedly. Anxiously they cast glances at the figure atop the guard tower, his outlines motionless against the horizon. Those who had drawn lookout or guard duty wrapped themselves in their jackets and lay down to get their sleep in early.

The fedayeen were overcome with fatigue from their examinations and the excitement of their initiation. Following Abu Soraka’s advice, early that morning they had wrapped themselves in horse blankets, which they had brought with them, and tried to sleep. Over the last two days they had become so used to surprises that the impending battle didn’t particularly disturb them. Some of them went right to sleep. Others extricated themselves from their blankets and began poking the fires, which had almost gone out.

“Praise be to Allah, we’re done with school,” Suleiman remarked. “Waiting for the enemy at night is a whole different thing from spending your days polishing your butt on your heels and scratching at tablets with a pencil.”

“I just wonder if the enemy’s going to come at all,” ibn Vakas worried. In school he had been one of the quietest and most unobtrusive, but with danger looming, battle fever suddenly awakened in him.

“That would be just great,” Yusuf said. “So all the preparation and all the excitement would be for nothing, and we wouldn’t even get a Turk within sword’s length.”

“It would be even more entertaining if, after all your work and effort, they got you within sword’s length,” Suleiman joked.

“Our fate is written in the book of Allah,” Jafar remarked indifferently. He had drawn the lot to become flag bearer. He tried to subdue the vanity that threatened to show through in him with his submission to fate.

“But it would be stupid if we struggled so much in school, just so the first savage who comes along can do us in,” Obeida added.

“Cowards die a thousand times, a brave man only once,” Jafar pronounced.

“Do you think I’m a coward just because I’d prefer not to die right away?” Obeida said angrily.

“Stop going at each other,” Yusuf said, trying to pacify them. “Look at ibn Tahir staring at the stars. Maybe he thinks he’s looking at them for the last time.”

“Yusuf is becoming a wise man,” Suleiman laughed.

Several paces away, ibn Tahir lay wrapped in his blanket, staring at the sky.

“How wonderful this life of mine is,” he said to himself. “Like the fulfillment of some distant dreams.” He remembered his childhood in his parents’ home and how he would listen to the conversations of the men who gathered around his father. They would discuss the issue of the true caliph, refer to the Koran, refute the Sunna, and talk to each other in whispers about the mysterious Mahdi from the line of Ali, who would come to save the world from lies and injustice. “Oh, if only he would come during my lifetime,” he had wished back then. He envisioned himself as his defender, just as Ali had been for the Prophet. Instinctively he kept comparing himself with Mohammed’s son-in-law. He had been the Prophet’s most ardent follower and had fought and bled for him from his early childhood, and yet, after his death he was deprived of his legacy. When the people finally elected him, he had been treacherously murdered. It was for these very reasons that ibn Tahir had come to love him most. He was his shining example, the paragon on which he most tried to model himself.

How his heart beat when his father sent him to Alamut to enter Sayyiduna’s service! He had heard that this man was a saint and that many people regarded him as a prophet. From the very beginning, something had told him: this is your al-Mahdi, this is the one you’ve been waiting for, whom you’ve been longing to serve. But why didn’t anybody see him? Why hadn’t he initiated them into the fedayeen? Why had he chosen as his intermediary that toothless old man who resembled an old woman more than a man and a warrior? Until now, until this moment, it had never occurred to him to doubt that Sayyiduna was really in the castle. In this instant of illumination he felt terrified at the thought that he may have been living a delusion, and that Hasan ibn Sabbah wasn’t at Alamut at all, or that he wasn’t even alive anymore. In that case Abu Ali would be the one leading the Ismailis, and all of the dais and commanders would have some secret agreement with him. Abu Ali, a prophet? No, someone like him couldn’t be, shouldn’t be a prophet! Maybe they invented Sayyiduna, unseen and unheard, precisely for that reason, in order not to repel the faithful. Because who would want to recognize Abu Ali as the supreme commander of the Ismailis?

The castle concealed a great mystery, this much he sensed. At night, this night, it began to distress him as never before. Would he ever be given the chance to remove the veil from it, to look it in the face? Would he ever see the real, living Sayyiduna?

He heard the clatter of horse hooves. Instinctively he reached for his weapons. He got up and looked around. His companions were asleep, wrapped tightly in their blankets. A messenger had arrived. He could see him communicating in whispers with Abu Ali. A brief order followed and the guards put out the last remnants of the fires. The enemy was approaching.

A quiet peace came over him. He looked at the stars glimmering above him, small and sharp. He became aware of how small and lost he was in the universe. And that awareness was almost pleasant. Eventually, I may get to paradise, he thought. Oh, if only I could! he fervently whispered to himself. Heavenly maidens with dark eyes and white limbs will be waiting for me there. He recalled the women he had known: his mother, his sisters, and other relatives. The houris must be completely different, he thought, in a way that makes it worthwhile to shed blood for them in this world.

He tried to imagine himself actually arriving in paradise and entering through an iron gate grown over with ivy. He looked around and tried to find all the things the Koran promised. He pulled the blanket more tightly around himself. Now he really was in paradise. A beautiful maiden was walking toward him. He was half aware that he was dozing off and starting to dream. But it was pleasant and he was afraid of breaking the delicate threads. And so, at last, he fell asleep.

The sustained sound of a trumpet called them to battle. Drums began beating and the army jumped to its feet. The fedayeen hastily put on their sword belts, fastened their helmet straps, and grabbed their spears and shields. They stood in formation and, without having yet quite awakened, looked at each other questioningly.

“A messenger has just announced that the sultan’s forces are approaching,” said ibn Vakas, who had taken the last watch.

Abu Soraka stepped before them and ordered them to get their bows and quivers ready. Then he led them to the top of the hill and had them assume positions on the ground next to the guardhouse. For a while they waited with bated breath, but when no enemy appeared, they reached into their knapsacks and pulled out dried figs, dates and pieces of hardtack to chew on.

The horses had stayed at the foot of the hill, with two soldiers keeping watch over them. From time to time they could hear them whinny and neigh restlessly.

Daybreak came. The fedayeen looked toward the hillside where the rest of the army had camped. Abu Ali had assembled the horsemen behind some of the overgrowth. The riders stood next to their horses, holding their lances or sabers, a foot in one stirrup. On top of the hill the archers crouched with their bows drawn.

The grand dai inspected his units for their readiness. Behind him walked a soldier leading his horse by the reins. At last they reached the fedayeen, and Abu Ali climbed to the top of the tower.

Soon afterward a tiny white dot appeared on the horizon. Abu Ali came flying out of the guardhouse and, out of breath, pointed it out to Abu Soraka.

“Ready your bows!” the dai commanded.

The white dot grew visibly larger and a lone rider emerged from it. They could see him wildly spurring the horse on. Abu Ali watched, blinked, and squinted. Finally he called out.

“Don’t shoot! He’s ours!”

He mounted his horse and raced down the hill. He waved to several horsemen to join him. He grabbed the flag from one of them and galloped on toward the approaching rider, waving it.

Confused and frightened, the rider turned his horse aside, but when he saw the white flag, he drove the animal toward Abu Ali.

At that instant Abu Ali recognized him.

“Buzurg Ummid!” he called out.

“Abu Ali!” The rider pointed behind himself.

All eyes were trained on the horizon. A black line appeared along it, bending strangely and constantly growing. Then individual riders could be made out. Over their heads fluttered the black flags of the caliph of Baghdad.

“Ready your bows!” Abu Soraka commanded again.

Abu Ali and Buzurg Ummid joined the soldiers on the hillside. They were trembling with excitement, ready to attack.

“Find your man!” came the command to the archers.

The enemy horsemen were already quite close. One rode ahead of the others, leading the way. They turned toward the entrance to the canyon.

“Fire!”

Arrows flew toward the Turks. Several horses and riders dropped to the ground. For a moment the cavalry paused, then its commander, who was visible to all by the enormous plume that fluttered atop his helmet, called out.

“Into the canyon!”

At that instant Abu Ali gave a sign. He dashed down the slope on horseback with the others behind him and cut the Turks off at the entrance to the canyon. Lances flew past lances and sabers glinted over their heads. White flags mingled with black ones.

The fedayeen watched the battle from the top of the hill. They were seized with an indescribable enthusiasm. Suleiman shouted, “Let’s go! Mount up! Charge!”

He was already racing downhill toward the horses, when Abu Soraka lunged at him and held him back.

“Are you crazy!? Didn’t you hear the order?”

Suleiman howled in powerless rage. He flung his bow and lance aside and threw himself on the ground. He started writhing around as though he were out of his mind. He bit his knuckles and cried.

The Turks, who had been scattered by the unexpected attack, had now regrouped and were charging toward the canyon again to force their way through. Their commander had concluded that the entire Ismaili army was here outside Alamut, and that the fortress itself must be only lightly defended. The fedayeen watched in painful trepidation as the first casualties fell from Alamut’s ranks. Watching the battle with their arms crossed was intolerable.

Abu Soraka kept his watch toward the horizon. At last a second swarming line appeared there. The fedayeen didn’t notice it, but Abu Soraka’s heart pounded in elation when the white flags of the martyr Ali appeared, fluttering above them.

Now came the moment when he could send the fedayeen into battle. His eyes sought out the enemy’s regimental flag and he pointed it out to them.

“Mount up! Go capture the enemy’s regimental flag! All of you, in full force, to battle!”

The youths whooped for joy. They went flying down the hillside and leapt onto their horses in a flash. They brandished their bare sabers, and Jafar raised the white flag high up in the air. They all broke out at once toward the enemy and with their first thrust pressed them toward the river.

Chaos broke out among the Turks. Suleiman grimly brought down his first opponent. Jafar went flying with the flag into a gap that had opened up, and the other fedayeen pressed close behind him. Yusuf roared and thrashed wildly around, causing the frightened Turks to yield way. Ibn Tahir tirelessly hacked away at a small round shield, behind which a bowlegged Tatar was hiding. The latter had dropped his useless lance and was jerkily trying to pull his heavy saber out of its sheath in time. Finally the arm he held the shield with gave out. Covered in blood, he tried to slip away from the battle.

Suleiman and the others alongside him knocked several more of the enemy off of their horses. The white flag drew closer and closer to the black one.

The Turkish colonel finally guessed what the fedayeen were trying to do.

“Defend the regimental flag!” he howled, so that friend and foe alike could hear him.

“Let’s go for their leader!” ibn Tahir called out.

The Turks crowded around their flag and their commander. At that moment Abdul Malik and Muzaffar’s men slammed into them. The clash was horrible. The Turks dispersed to all sides of them like chaff.

Suleiman had not lost sight of the enemy flag bearer, just as ibn Tahir still tracked the colonel, who was shouting, “Retreat! Each man for himself! Rescue the flag!”

At that point ibn Tahir had fought his way up to him. Their sabers crossed. But Muzaffar’s men came racing up. Several Turks tried to hold them back. A hopeless tangle ensued, burying the colonel and his horse. Ibn Tahir extricated himself. He turned to look for the enemy flag bearer. He caught sight of him racing alongside the stream with Suleiman close behind. He rushed after him to help, and several of their comrades followed.

Suleiman rode alongside the flag bearer. The Turk was wildly whipping his horse. He shoved his lance out to the side to repel his pursuer. Suleiman was riding abreast of him. Suddenly his opponent turned his horse and Suleiman was struck by the lance. The unexpected blow was so strong that it threw him from his saddle.

Ibn Tahir howled. He spurred his horse on and within an instant was riding alongside the flag bearer. He realized vaguely that Suleiman was on the ground, possibly dead. But now only one thing mattered: to carry out the assignment, to seize the enemy’s flag.

He forced the Turk right up to the edge of the stream. Suddenly an avalanche of earth broke loose under the horse’s legs. It crashed into the rapids with the rider on it.

Ibn Tahir hesitated for a moment. Then he raced down the steep embankment into the river. For an instant the water covered him and his animal. Just as quickly they came back to the surface. They waded after the Turk, who was holding his flag out of the water. They caught up with him. Ibn Tahir slashed at his head with his sword. The arm holding the flag dropped and the Turk vanished under the waves. The black flag fluttered again in ibn Tahir’s hands.

A victorious shout greeted him from the shore as the current carried him downstream with tremendous speed. His horse was beginning to choke. The fedayeen raced down the river bank alongside him and shouted encouragement to hold out.

By exerting all his strength he finally drew the horse toward the shore. The horse felt firm ground beneath its legs, but the current was still dragging it downstream. One of the fedayeen jumped off his own horse, got on his stomach, and held a long lance out toward ibn Tahir. Meanwhile the others unwound snares and threw them to their comrade so he could tie the horse to them. Eventually they pulled them both out of the stream.

“What happened to Suleiman?” he asked when he was standing on the bank again. Unthinkingly he handed the enemy banner to ibn Vakas.

The fedayeen looked at each other.

“That’s right, what’s happened to him?”

They turned to look back. Suleiman was slowly walking toward them, downcast and leading his horse.

Ibn Tahir hurried toward him.

“It’s only thanks to you that we seized the enemy’s flag.”

Suleiman brushed the comment aside.

“What’s the point. For once I had a chance to do a great deed, and I failed. I can tell, fate is against me.”

He grabbed his leg and cursed. His comrades helped him onto his horse, and they headed back toward their camp.

The victory over the Turks was complete. The enemy commander and a hundred and twelve of his men had fallen. They took thirty-five wounded enemy captive. The rest had scattered to the four winds. Horsemen pursuing them returned, one after the other, and reported how many of them they had managed to kill. The Ismailis themselves lost twenty-six men. Slightly more than that had been injured.

Abu Ali ordered a large ditch dug at the foot of the hill, into which they threw the enemy dead. He had the Turkish colonel beheaded and his head stuck onto a lance atop the watchtower. Manuchehr and his men arrived from the castle and listened downcast to the victors’ raucous accounts of the course of the battle. Al-Hakim and his assistants hurriedly treated the wounded and had them carried on litters to Alamut. He knew he still had hard work ahead of him there.

When the wounded had been tended to and the enemy bodies disposed of, Abu Ali ordered for the trumpet to sound the return. The soldiers loaded their fallen comrades and plunder onto the camels and donkeys, mounted their horses, and, amid impetuous shouts, returned to the castle.

Hasan had observed the course of the battle from his tower. He saw the Turks rushing in and Abu Ali cutting off their path. He saw the fedayeen joining the battle and Muzaffar’s horsemen, with Abdul Malik at their head, assuring victory. He was extraordinarily satisfied.

A gong sounded the arrival of news for him. No one was allowed atop his tower, under punishment of death, not even his eunuchs. He went back into his room. Buzurg Ummid was waiting for him there.

Hasan rushed toward him and embraced him tightly.

“Now I’m perfectly happy!” he exclaimed.

In contrast with Abu Ali, Buzurg Ummid was a man of striking appearance. He was tall and strong and had an aristocratic face. His magnificent black beard was curled, with silver threads showing only here and there. His lively eyes expressed will and determination. His lips were full and well articulated, though sometimes, when he laughed, they hinted at inflexibility and even cruelty. Like the other leaders he was dressed Arabian style in a white cloak and white turban, from which a wide kerchief draped down onto his shoulders. But his clothing was cut from choice fabric and tailored to fit. Even now, with a long and arduous ride just behind him, he looked as though he had dressed expressly for a formal occasion.

“The Turks nearly got me under their sabers,” he said, smiling. “Yesterday after third prayers your carrier pigeon brought me your order. I had barely managed to give instructions to cover my absence, when your messenger came swimming up Shah Rud with the news. The Turks had positioned a large detachment in front of the castle, and your man had to ford the water on his horse so they wouldn’t catch him.”

Then he described how he had taken a shorter route on the other side of the river and finally managed to outdistance them. Barely a hundred paces ahead of them, he forded another stream, and he became infernally fearful that Hasan’s men wouldn’t be able to let the bridge down for him or, if they did so, that the Turks would be able to charge into the fortress right behind him.

Hasan rubbed his hands in delight.

“Everything is working out beautifully,” he said. “You and Abu Ali are going to get to see what I’ve come up with. You’ll be so amazed your head will spin.”

Abu Ali returned and Hasan embraced him, grinning.

“Truly, I wasn’t mistaken about you,” he said.

He had him describe the course of the battle in detail. He was particularly interested in the fedayeen.

“So the grandson of Tahir, our poet, seized the regimental flag? Excellent, excellent.”

“Suleiman was right behind their flag bearer, but he fell, and ibn Tahir finished the job,” Abu Ali explained. “The Turk slid into the river on his horse, and the poet chased after him and took the flag away from him.”

Then he provided a count of the casualties and described their plunder.

“Let’s go to the assembly hall,” Hasan said. “I want to congratulate my men on their victory myself.”

Al-Hakim assigned several fedayeen to work with his assistants, so they could see in real life how the injured were cared for and treated. They helped him straighten out broken limbs and bandage wounds. Some of the wounded had to have large wounds burned out, so that the entire infirmary smelled of burnt flesh. The injured shouted and wailed, and their cries were audible throughout the fortress. Those who had to have a limb sawed off lost and regained consciousness repeatedly and bellowed most hopelessly of all.

“This is horrible,” ibn Tahir whispered to himself.

“How lucky that we fedayeen came away intact,” Yusuf remarked.

“War is something terrible,” Naim said.

“It’s not for little doves like you, that’s for sure,” Suleiman laughed.

“Leave Naim alone,” Yusuf shot back. “He was at my side the whole time, and I wasn’t hiding.”

“You were roaring so loudly the Turks had to hold their ears instead of fight,” Suleiman joked. “Small wonder our cricket hid under your wings.”

“You couldn’t get to the Turkish flag, no matter how hard you tried,” Obeida snorted at him.

Suleiman went pale. He didn’t say a word but watched al-Hakim as he approached another injured man.

The Greek was a capable physician. The cries and moans of the injured didn’t bother him a bit. Now and then he would comfort a patient with an encouraging word, but otherwise he did his job skillfully and matter-of-factly, like a craftsman at work. In the process he explained the basics of dressing wounds to the fedayeen, seasoning his words with his personal wisdom.

A Turk had broken Sergeant Abuna’s arm. Al-Hakim approached him, removed the improvised sling, took a board from the hands of a feday and used it to straighten and then reinforce the broken limb.

While the sergeant gnashed his teeth in pain, the Greek spoke to the fedayeen.

“The human body’s predisposition to harmony is so strong that the separate parts of a broken limb long to be reunited and fused. The power of this passion for reestablishing the whole is so great that even wrongly adjusted parts will reunite. The skill of a good doctor is in knowing the body’s true structure, avoiding that kind of irregularity and being able to rejoin the parts of a broken limb in accordance with nature.”

By the time he had finished with the Ismaili wounded, he was dead tired. He saw how many Turkish wounded were still waiting for him, and he sent ibn Tahir to ask Abu Ali what he should do with them. He secretly hoped he could deal with them more quickly, perhaps even “curing” some of the more critically wounded with a dependable poison.

Ibn Tahir ran into Abu Soraka, who went to ask the grand dai.

The order came back: “Treat the Turks as carefully as if they were our friends. We need them as hostages.”

The doctor cursed and threw himself back into his work. Now he no longer offered encouraging words to the groaning wounded, and he didn’t bother to explain anything to the fedayeen. He left the easier jobs for his assistants. Of the fedayeen, Obeida proved to be the most capable.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that he finished treating wounds and setting broken bones. He gave his assistants appropriate orders and then left to find the commanders.

Meanwhile the commanders were talking about the day’s exploits over food and wine in the assembly hall. They shared conjectures about the supreme commander’s next moves and what advantages the day’s victory might bring them. They all praised Abdul Malik for carrying out his assignment so brilliantly.

Their mood reached a high point when Hasan appeared in the hall with the two grand dais. His face shone with satisfaction, and as he and the commanders greeted each other, his cheeks trembled from smiling.

“I have excellent assistants in you,” he said as they sat over the platters and jugs. He particularly praised Abu Ali, who had led the entire expedition. Then he turned to Abdul Malik and asked him how he had fared with the harems at Muzaffar’s. He acknowledged his successful contribution to the battle and thanked him for it. He also praised Abu Soraka for leading the fedayeen and carrying out his instructions so precisely. Then he looked at Captain Manuchehr. A roguish smile came over his face.

Manuchehr had not been participating in the discussions. He was sulking because he had been forced to stand with his arms crossed while the others were winning battle laurels. He stared gloomily ahead, eating little and drinking a lot. His gigantic body shuddered when he was accosted by Hasan’s grinning gaze.

“There are two men among us,” Hasan said, his voice wavering slightly with suppressed deviltry, “who have earned themselves the highest recognition for their sacrifices today. For a true soldier, the highest honor is in facing the enemy. And not just the highest honor but the greatest joy too. Whoever is forced to forgo that honor and that joy for a higher cause proves that he’s a real man, and he deserves special recognition.”

He looked at the astonished faces around him. Then he grew serious and continued.

“As I said, there are two men among us who had to forgo that honor and joy today, even though at heart they are true soldiers. Those two are Manuchehr and myself. The reasons for our having to do this are obvious. I have my satisfaction from the fact that you who fought the battle proved yourselves. Manuchehr has the honor of being designated by me as emir and commander of the forces of all Ismaili castles.”

He rose and approached Manuchehr, who also stood up, his face red with surprise and embarrassment.

“Surely you’re joking, Sayyiduna,” he stammered.

“By no means, my friend,” Hasan replied, embracing him. “The order has been signed and Abu Ali will deliver it to you.”

An approving murmur coursed through the assembly of commanders.

“What’s more, your share of the plunder will equal that of the other commanders,” he added. “Yes, speaking of plunder, let’s talk about apportioning it now.”

Abu Ali recounted how many animals and weapons, how much money and other valuables had fallen into their hands that morning.

“Manuchehr and each of the commanders who fought in the battle will get one horse and one suit of armor each,” Hasan determined. “Plus ten gold pieces as well. Muzaffar’s men will likewise each get ten gold pieces, and his officers and sergeants will also get armor. We will send Muzaffar ten horses, ten camels and two hundred gold pieces as a sign of thanks for sending us help. The families of the dead will get fifty gold pieces each. The rest of the plunder is to be divided among our men. The fedayeen are to get nothing. For them, the fact that they got to fight today is reward enough.”

When they had apportioned the booty, Hasan spoke again.

“We must strike while the iron is hot. The news of the Turkish vanguard’s defeat will spread like wildfire all through Iran. It will lift the courage of our coreligionists and friends, and it will strengthen the doubters. Many who secretly approved of our actions will now feel emboldened to support us openly. Our comrades in fortresses under siege will be encouraged to hold out. Our enemies will be forced to reckon with us, and some of them will feel their hearts race in their treacherous breasts.”

Here he was thinking of the grand vizier, and the commanders nodded as a sign that they understood.

“Now, following the victory, we can count on a large influx of new believers,” he continued. “The entire district of Rudbar is friendly to us, and fathers are going to send their sons to the castle to become Ismaili warriors. Abu Soraka, you will receive them and make selections as you’ve done until now. The youngest, strongest and most clear-headed are to become fedayeen. But the condition remains that they must not be married or have lived a dissolute life. In short, they mustn’t know women and their delights. All the other able-bodied ones are to be inducted as soldiers. We’re going to augment the old rules and add some new ones. Whoever was in the castle before the battle will have certain advantages. The ones who distinguished themselves are to be promoted. Each individual’s rank, duties, rights and obligations are to be clearly stipulated. We will promulgate stricter laws. Everyone must simultaneously be a soldier and a believer. We will extirpate every earthly desire. Today is the first and last time we will permit the soldiers to drink wine, because Muzaffar’s people are in the castle. Let them find out that we are the masters of what is and isn’t allowed. As time goes on they will unwittingly be working for us. Oh yes, from now on let the recruitment of new followers be one of our highest priorities. We will release the fedayeen into the land like a swarm of bees, to talk and bear witness on our behalf. We are also going to work on the prisoners, so be sure they are well taken care of. The sultan’s army is approaching, and it may not be long before it has us surrounded. We need people who know their way around in it. They’ll go among the men and spread our faith and our zeal. This is how we must try to weaken its foundations, and the rest will topple of its own accord.”

He ordered Abdul Malik to select a sufficient number of men and set out with them early the next morning for the fortress at Rudbar to disperse the Turkish vanguard, if it was still there. Then he was to take a detachment and scour the surrounding territory from Qazvin to Rudbar and wipe out any pockets of the enemy. At that point he was to send scouts to intercept the sultan’s army.

Then he bade farewell to the commanders, nodded to the two grand dais, and left with them for his chambers.

All that day Muzaffar’s men and the men of Alamut boisterously celebrated the victory. On the lower and middle terraces fires were hastily lit, over which fat oxen and plump lambs were roasted on spits. They crouched around them or sat resting on their heels, waiting impatiently for their portion of roast. The pleasant smell of sizzling meat teased their nostrils. To allay their appetite, they tore off pieces of bread and stuck them under the spits to catch and absorb the dripping fat. They talked raucously about their feats of the morning, trying to outdo and outshine each other, boasting of real and imaginary heroism and exaggerating the numbers of the enemy killed. There were some arguments and some names called. Whenever a lamb or an ox was done, they attacked it with their knives. Each of them wanted the best piece. They began threatening each other with their fists, even with weapons. The sergeants had their hands full trying to pacify them. Finally it became apparent that there was enough roast meat for everyone and that there was no point in fighting over it.

Then donkeys were led in bearing huge wineskins. Groups of ten men were given tall jugs, into which the sergeants began pouring wine.

“Who’s given us permission to drink wine?” they asked.

“Sayyiduna,” the sergeants answered. “He’s the commander of the Ismailis and a new prophet.”

“Can he allow what the Prophet has forbidden?”

“Of course he can. Allah has given him the power to issue commandments and prohibitions. He’s also given him the key that opens the gate to heaven.”

Unused to wine, the soldiers soon got drunk. They cheered the supreme commander and the Ismailis, deliberated and argued about him and his teachings, and asked the men of Alamut for explanations. Many of them decided that, once they finished their service to Muzaffar, they would return to the castle to serve Hasan.

The fedayeen gathered on the roof of the school building and watched the noisy goings-on below. They roasted a lamb and, when they had eaten their fill, they continued their discussion of the day’s events. They drank no wine. They felt they were an elite force. Instinctively they looked down on the men chaotically swarming around the fires. Those who had been helping the doctor treat the wounded talked about their impressions. But the seizure of the flag remained the focus of discussion and analysis for a long time.