Alamut

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The son of the supreme commander had murdered the dai of Khuzestan! The next day all of Alamut was talking about it. No one quite knew how the news had spread. The messenger had first entrusted it to the grand dais, who immediately took him to see Hasan. Perhaps one of the dais standing nearby had caught wind of it, or perhaps the grand dais themselves had let it slip to someone. Everyone knew about it, and it would have been pointless to try to hide it in any way from the faithful.

Ibn Tahir had to wait a long time for Hasan to receive him. The supreme commander wanted to know all the details of the murder, so he questioned the messenger in detail.

“The carrier pigeon brought your order to Gonbadan, Sayyiduna. Kizil Sarik had us under siege for ten days at that point. He had destroyed all the lesser fortresses and then encamped outside of ours with his twenty thousand men. He offered us safe passage, but the grand dai refused. But Hosein, your son, insisted that he surrender the castle. That’s when Alkeini asked for your instructions as to what to do with him. You ordered him clapped into chains. Alkeini relayed this to him and insisted that he give himself up. Hosein went wild with rage. ‘You’ve betrayed me to my father, you dog!’ he shrieked at him. He drew his saber and cut down our commander.”

“What did you do with the murderer?”

“We put him in chains and locked him in a cellar. Sheik Abdul Malik ibn Atash assumed command of the fortress.”

“What’s the situation there?”

“Difficult, master. There’s not much water, and soon the faithful will run out of food too. There’s more than three thousand of them in the fortress. The entire population of Khuzestan is with us. But that damned Kizil Sarik is cruel, and they’re afraid of him. We can’t count on much help from them.”

Hasan dismissed him.

Now he was steady and focused again.

“What do you plan to do with your son, ibn Sabbah?” Buzurg Ummid asked him.

“We’ll judge him according to our laws.”

He dismissed the grand dais and had ibn Tahir summoned.

“How is it coming with al-Ghazali?”

“I spent practically the whole night with it, Sayyiduna.”

“Good. Have you heard what has happened in Khuzestan?”

Ibn Tahir looked at him. He saw new furrows in his face.

“I have, Sayyiduna.”

“What would you do if you were in my place?”

Ibn Tahir looked at him with clear, bright eyes.

“I would do what the law commands.”

“And you’re right… Do you know who Iblis is?”

“Iblis is the evil spirit that tempted the first human beings.”

“Iblis is more than that. Iblis is a traitor to his own master, his sworn enemy.”

Ibn Tahir nodded.

“Whoever is a traitor to the true faith and becomes its enemy is related to Iblis. Because the true faith is Allah’s faith. And only one faith is true.”

“Yes. The Ismaili faith.”

“Correct. Do you know anyone who has betrayed our faith and become its sworn enemy?”

Ibn Tahir looked in his eyes, trying to guess what he was thinking.

“Perhaps you mean the grand vizier?”

“Yes, the same man who murdered your grandfather for professing our faith. He is our Iblis, our evil spirit. You be our archangel and your grandfather’s avenger. Get your sword ready.”

Ibn Tahir clenched his fists. He stood before Hasan as straight as a cypress.

“My sword is ready, Sayyiduna.”

“Do you know the road from Rai to Baghdad?”

“I do. I’m from the town of Sava, which lies on that road.”

“Then listen. You’re to set out along that road. You’ll go to Rai and from there through Sava and Hamadan to Nehavend. But avoid your father’s home! The whole time you have to be thinking about one thing—how to reach your goal. Be on the lookout everywhere and find out where the grand vizier is and what he’s planning to do. I’ve received a report that he’s assembling a large army in Nehavend that he plans to lead against us and his rival in Isfahan, Taj al-Mulk. Are you following all of this? Al-Ghazali is his friend. From now on you’re going to be al-Ghazali’s student Othman, bringing him a message from your teacher. So take his book along with you. Here’s the black garb of a Sunni seminarian for you, here’s a coin purse with money for the road, and here’s a letter for the grand vizier. The seal you see on it will clear the way for you.”

Ibn Tahir took the black clothing from him and examined it with a kind of happy excitement. He fixed the coin purse to his belt and put the envelope under his robe.

“You’ve learned from Hakim how to behave in the presence of the grand vizier. When you ride out from Alamut, you’ll take along everything I’ve given you in a bag. Once you’re away from the fortress you’ll find a concealed place to change clothes in and get rid of anything that might give you away. I know Nizam al-Mulk. When he hears that al-Ghazali has sent you, he’ll welcome you with open arms. Now listen carefully! There is a long, sharp dagger hidden in that sealed letter. Before you hand the envelope to the vizier, secretly take the dagger out of it. While the vizier is opening the letter, you thrust it hard into his neck. If you notice just a drop of blood, you can know that you’ve succeeded. But be careful not to injure yourself with it first—the tip of the dagger has been tempered in a terrible poison. If you even graze yourself with it, you won’t be able to complete your task and the paradise you want so much will be lost to you forever.”

Pale, but with eyes shining, ibn Tahir listened to him.

“And… what do I do then?”

Hasan gave him an abrupt glance.

“Then… then commend yourself to Allah. The gate to your paradise will be open to you. No one will be able to take that away from you at that point. The soft pillows are already spread out over the carpets. Miriam is waiting for you on them, surrounded by her and your servants. If you fall, you’ll go flying straight into her embrace. Do you understand me?”

“I understand, Sayyiduna.”

He bowed and quickly kissed Hasan’s hand.

Hasan shuddered. Ibn Tahir was too preoccupied with himself to notice this. Then the commander uncovered a shelf and took down from it the gold chest that ibn Tahir already knew. He opened it and shook several pellets out of it onto a linen cloth.

“One for each evening. They’ll bring you closer and closer to paradise. But be sure to save the last one for just before your audience with the grand vizier. Take good care of them, because they’re the key that will unlock the gates to paradise for you.”

He put his arm around his shoulders.

“Now off with you, my son.”

Dazed, pale, proud and strangely moved, ibn Tahir left him. Hasan watched until he disappeared behind the curtain. Then he grabbed at his heart. He needed air. He rushed to the top of the tower, where he took deep breaths.

“There’s still time,” he told himself.

It would be good to die now, he thought. Just one firm decision to throw himself over the battlements, and everything would be over. But God knows where he would awaken after that.

The night before, when he had learned about the murder of Alkeini, he had been unbelievably close to this state. It took the grand dais a long time to bring him back to consciousness. When he came to, his first thought was that he had died and was now in some different world. A crazed fear overcame him. “So there is something after death,” he told himself. He felt horrified by his whole life. He was conscious that he had done everything as though there were just a great nothing waiting after death. It was only the voices of his two friends that had summoned him back to reality.

Within a moment he had felt steady again. Praise be to Allah, the weakness had passed. He dismissed the grand dais. Husein Alkeini, his right hand, dead, murdered by his own son! He would execute the law mercilessly. Ibn Tahir would have to set out on his mission. He wrote a few words of a letter and sealed it. He took a sharp, awl-like dagger that looked just like a writing instrument and dipped it in poison. He let it dry. Then he threw himself on his bed and slept the sleep of the dead.

The dais and other commanders discussed the murder in Khuzestan passionately. What was Hasan going to do? Would he really observe the law? Would he sign his own son’s death warrant?

“Ibn Sabbah is in a difficult place,” Abdul Malik observed. “Husein Alkeini was his best associate, but the murderer is his own son.”

“The law is above everything,” Ibrahim said.

“Go on! One crow doesn’t attack the other.”

The Greek laughed. Ibrahim cast an ill-tempered glance at him.

“He has no small responsibility.”

“I know, dai Ibrahim. But it’s hard for me to imagine a father leading his son to the block.”

“Hosein is a member of the Ismaili brotherhood.”

“It’s true,” Abu Soraka commented. “He wrote the law and now he’s caught in it himself.”

“It’s easy for us to talk,” Manuchehr said. “But he’s facing the moment when he’ll have to pass sentence on his son.”

“It’s easier to pronounce them over other men’s sons,” the Greek muttered.

“It’s easy to mete out justice to others,” Abu Soraka added.

“I wouldn’t want to be in the commander’s skin,” Abdul Malik said. “Alkeini was more than a son to him. He owes half his success to him.”

“Fathers aren’t always responsible for the actions of their sons,” Ibrahim said.

“But if he condemns his son, people will say, ‘What a cruel father!’ He has the power to change the law, and he hasn’t used it.”

So spoke Abu Soraka.

The Greek added, “Strangers are going to laugh at him. Idiot! they’ll say. Could he really not find a way to sidestep the law?”

Ibrahim took a turn. “The faithful would rebel if the law weren’t carried out to the letter. The purpose of every law is to have universal applicability.”

“It’s true, our commander is in a mean vice,” the Greek suggested. “He’s lost his most trusted shield-bearer at the most critical moment. Who’s going to collect taxes for him in Khuzestan now? Who’s going to ambush and plunder infidel caravans? He may very well not have any option but to carry out the full measure of the law.”

Yusuf and Suleiman had returned from their morning maneuvers with the novices. The sun bore down on the courtyard relentlessly. They lay on their beds lazily and inertly, chewing on dried fruit and exchanging a few words now and then.

The passions awakened in them, but no longer satisfied, had utterly crippled them. Their heads felt heavy and their eyes were sunken and swollen with blood.

Suddenly Naim burst in on them.

“Ibn Tahir has been to see Sayyiduna. He’s going on a trip.”

This news was like an explosion.

“Where to?”

“Who told you that?”

“I saw him as he was leaving the tower. He didn’t even notice me. It was like he’d gone strange in the head. He looked lost and he was smiling to himself. Then he ordered a soldier to saddle up a horse for him.”

“Is he going to paradise?”

Suleiman jumped off his bed.

“Let’s go see him, Yusuf!”

In the meantime ibn Tahir had cleared out all his possessions. He destroyed the wax cast of Miriam’s bite. He wrapped up his poems in an envelope. When Jafar came, he gave them to him.

“Keep this envelope for me until I return. If I don’t come back within a month, give it to Sayyiduna.”

Jafar promised to do this.

Suleiman and Yusuf rushed into the room. Naim lingered at the door. “You’ve been to see Sayyiduna!”

Suleiman grabbed ibn Tahir by the shoulders and gazed searchingly into his eyes.

“You know?”

“Sure. Naim told us.”

“Then you also know what my duty is.”

He shook loose of his grip. He picked up the bag holding the items Hasan had given him.

Yusuf and Suleiman looked at him woefully.

Jafar nodded to Naim. The two of them withdrew from the room.

“It’s hard, but I have to keep silent,” ibn Tahir said when they were alone.

“At least tell us if we’re going back to paradise.”

Suleiman’s voice was imploring and helpless.

“Be patient. Do everything Sayyiduna orders you to do. He’s looking out for all of us.”

He said goodbye to them both.

“We’re fedayeen,” he added, “the ones who sacrifice themselves. We’ve seen the reward, so we’re not afraid of death.”

He would have liked to embrace them one more time. But he mastered himself, waved to them in farewell, and hurried off toward his horse. He leapt up onto it and ordered the bridge lowered. He said the password and the guard let him leave the fortress. From the canyon he turned around to take one last look. Just as he had several months ago, now he saw the two imposing towers that ruled over their surroundings. That was Alamut, the eagle’s nest, where miracles took place and the fate of the world was forged. Would he see it again? A strange melancholy came over him. At this farewell he felt as though he could cry.

He found a concealed location and changed clothes there. He put everything he didn’t plan to take with him in the bag, which he placed in a hollow and covered with stones.

He had a look at himself. Yes, there was no way he could still be the old ibn Tahir. He was Othman, a student at the university in Baghdad, al-Ghazali’s student. Black trousers, a black jacket, black headgear. This was the color of the Sunnis, infidels, enemies of the Ismaili faith. He carried the book and the letter with the dagger in his billowing sleeves. Over his hip he carried a water bag and a satchel with provisions.

He set out toward the south. He rode the whole day and half the night until the moon came out. Then he found a place to bed down amid some rocks. The next morning from atop a ridge he noticed a large encampment in the valley—the vanguard of the sultan’s army. He steered clear of them and by evening arrived in Rai.

In the tavern where he was planning to spend the night, he learned that emir Arslan Tash was finally getting ready to attack Alamut after all, and that the whole army was marching toward the mountains—this at the sultan’s order, to avenge the shameful defeat of the Turkish cavalry. About the grand vizier he learned nothing.

He could barely wait to go to sleep. With trembling hands he untied the bundle and took out of it the first of the pellets that Hasan had given him for the journey. He swallowed it and waited for it to take effect.

Once again the mysterious power appeared. This time he no longer felt the same weakness as he did the first time. He thought about Miriam, but completely different images drew his attention. Before him he saw gigantic square buildings with tall towers. They glinted in their blinding whiteness. Then they began to melt, as though an unseen hand were crushing them into their components. New cities emerged and round cupolas shone in vivid colors. He felt as though he were the omnipotent ruler in control of it all. The climax came, followed by fatigue and sleep. He woke up late the next morning, feeling as though his arms and legs had been crushed. Oh, why hadn’t he awoken like the first time?

“I have to get going. Fast!” he told himself.

He took a detour around his native town. He was afraid of the memories. His head felt heavy and the sun was beating down hopelessly. His thoughts were dull, only his destination and everything connected with it were clearly visible ahead of him. He had just one wish: to find a place to spend the night as quickly as possible, stretch out, swallow a pellet and yield to its miraculous power.

Outside of Hamadan he caught up with a detachment of armed horsemen. He joined their quartermaster wagons.

“Where are you coming from, Pahlavan?” a sergeant asked him.

“Isfahan. Actually, I’ve been sent from Baghdad with a request for the grand vizier. But in Isfahan I learned that he’s set out down this road after the sultan.”

“You’re looking for His Excellency Nizam al-Mulk?”

The sergeant immediately began to show more respect.

“Yes. I have a request for him. There are other men in Isfahan.”

“Then come with us! His Excellency is in Nehavend, where there’s a military camp now. They’re assembling units there. Word is he’s going to march on Isfahan itself.”

“In the capital I almost fell into the hands of that other one. Completely by accident I learned in a tavern that His Excellency had left for somewhere else. Isn’t there some conflict involving some infidels?”

“Do you mean the Ismailis? They aren’t dangerous. Emirs Arslan Tash and Kizil Sarik will take care of them. There are more important things at stake.”

Ibn Tahir maneuvered his horse right up to the sergeant’s.

“I don’t know what more important things you mean.”

“The rumor is there’s a bitter battle going on over the succession. Nizam al-Mulk wants the first-born, Barkiarok, to be designated the sultan’s heir. But the sultana has been pressuring His Highness to promise the succession to her son Mohammed. The army and the people are for Barkiarok. I once saw him. There’s a real man for you. A soldier from head to foot. What Mohammed will be like, no one can know. He’s barely out of the cradle.”

Before they reached Hamadan, ibn Tahir had found out everything that the people and soldiers were saying about intrigues at the court. In the city he heard that the sultan had already left Nehavend heading for Baghdad. He left the sergeant and the quartermaster wagons, spent the night once again at an inn, and then changed horses and rode farther on toward Nehavend.

From the four corners of the realm, units were arriving at the military camp near Nehavend. Several thousand tents had been pitched on the broad, sun-scorched plain. The horses, mules, and camels chomped on dry grass, chased each other around the camp in herds, dug into the earth, and fled from guards on horseback. Thousands of head of cattle, goats and sheep were being kept in huge pens. In the mornings, shepherds would drive the herds into the hills, where pastures remained green. Detachments of soldiers rode from village to village collecting and plundering fodder for the livestock and anything that was in the least bit edible.

There was a large empty space in the middle of the camp. That was where the sultan’s tents had stood just a few days before. The trampled ground and the large beds of ashes left over from the campfires that the emperor’s escort had lit and tended testified to that.

Only one tent was left. A large, sumptuously green tent, the dwelling of the grand vizier.

These last months since falling out of his master’s favor, Nizam al-Mulk had aged considerably. Although he was already past seventy, he had still been exceptionally healthy and robust right up to the end. Everyone admired how firmly in the saddle he still remained. He had held the reins of state in his hands for more than thirty years. The current ruler’s father, sultan Alp Arslan Shah, had named him vizier and never regretted it. As he was dying, he recommended the vizier to his son and heir. One of the titles the latter conferred on him was ata beg, or “king’s father.” The vizier established peace at the borders, criss-crossed the country with roads, built cities, mosques and schools, regulated taxes, and raised the level of safety and well-being in the country to an unprecedented degree. He enjoyed the ruler’s unqualified trust, until he quarreled with the young sultana about the succession to the throne. Even before then his rivals and detractors had tried to blacken his name with the emperor. But the sultan didn’t listen to them. He granted his vizier the wealth he had accumulated in his service. He also let Nizam al-Mulk place his twelve sons in the highest positions in the land. But Turkan Khatun eventually succeeded in demonstrating to the sultan how capricious the vizier’s actions had been, how he had treated him, his master, like a schoolboy, and how ruthlessly he abused his power. The most obvious instance of this willfulness of the vizier’s was seen in a certain action taken by his eldest son, Muad-u-dolah. The sultan had advised him to accept a certain Adil into an area of his service. The vizier’s son refused, claiming the man was not suitable for the position. “Am I really such a complete zero in my own country?!” the sultan exclaimed. He immediately ordered the vizier’s son deposed and appointed in his place the very same Adil whom the son had rejected. This behavior offended the vizier deeply. He let slip some bitter words about the thanklessness of rulers. These words were brought to the sultan’s attention and made him even angrier. He threatened to take away Nizam’s quiver, pen, ink and brush—the symbols of the vizier’s rank. “I’ll be glad to hand over my quiver and brush to the sultan,” the vizier said bitterly. “The peace and prosperity of this country are my doing. While the sea was still stormy, His Highness honored me with his trust. Now that the waves have been calmed and the sky is clear, he listens to my critics. But he stands to realize very soon how closely the quiver and brush in my hands are connected with his crown.” These words put the sultan in an even worse humor, until the vizier’s own admission that he had misrepresented Hasan’s abilities so wounded the sultan’s pride that he deposed the vizier in a fit of extreme anger.

Now that they had made peace again in the face of the danger threatening the state, he was gradually becoming his old self again. He set two goals for himself: toppling his rival Taj al-Mulk and destroying the latter’s ally, his own mortal enemy Hasan. If he could achieve those two goals, he would once again be the unlimited master of all Iran.

The first steps had not been bad. He had portrayed the defeat of the Turkish vanguard outside of Alamut—that insignificant scratch against the cavalry—in such a way that he undermined the sultan’s faith in Taj al-Mulk. The sultan remembered all too well how much the sultana and her secretary had tried to keep him from taking any action against the Ismailis. Now the vizier persuaded him that he had to move decisively against those apostates if he wanted to keep the respect of his own citizens. And so the ruler gave the vizier the authority to deal with Alamut once and for all. Nizam felt it was high time for this. Legends of miracles in the castle, of fanatics who said that Hasan had shown them paradise, were reaching his ears too. Even though he viewed all these reports as pure nonsense, he didn’t underestimate their potential effect on the masses. He knew too well that they were not just gullible, but took a particular delight in hearing and succumbing to tales of miracles.

Now the military camp near Nehavend became a kind of provisional chancellery for him. People came to him from all directions with requests and complaints. While he had been grand vizier instead of Nizam, Taj al-Mulk had fired a large number of old bureaucrats and appointed his own people to replace them. When the former bureaucrats learned that the sultan had reinstated his old vizier, they either came rushing to see him or sent their confidants with the request to accept them back into service, seeing as how they had lost their positions on account of their loyalty to him. Nizam al-Mulk received his petitioners and made promises. At the same time he was assembling an army to force his rival, protected by the sultana, to step down.

One morning his master of ceremonies announced that a certain Othman, a student of al-Ghazali, was requesting an audience. Apparently his teacher had sent him from the Nizamiyah in Baghdad with a petition that he would like to present to him.

The grand vizier was reclining on a heap of pillows. Beside him was a gilt platter of raisins, sweetened nuts and other delicacies. Now and then he reached over and picked up this or that morsel to savor. He would pour himself some mead into a cup from a copper decanter and slowly sip it. He had already dealt with a large number of petitions and visits, and his two assistants, who sat to either side of him, writing, had their hands full.

“What’s that? Al-Ghazali’s student, did you say? Bring him in! Bring him in!”

It was much easier to get to the grand vizier than to the Ismaili supreme commander. That day ibn Tahir found this out for himself. He had come across a guard outside the encampment. He showed the commanding officer the sealed letter from the university in Baghdad and explained he had brought it for the grand vizier. He was allowed to pass. They showed him Nizam’s green tent.

He was remarkably calm and focused. He didn’t stutter when he said what he had come for. He couldn’t feel any effects from the pellet yet. He remembered paradise and Miriam and smiled a childlike smile. He hadn’t been thinking of her particularly at all these past days. Now suddenly he became aware that she was waiting for him as a reward for his action, so he would have to summon all his might to carry it out successfully.

A guard drew back a curtain, revealing yet another room. In fact, the vizier’s tent was a veritable edifice. He bravely passed through the opening to find himself once again standing before some armed men. One of them, carrying a silver mace over his shoulder, was especially well dressed in a jacket woven with silver and gold, broad red trousers, and a brightly colored turban sporting a long bird’s feather. This was the vizier’s master of ceremonies. He sized up the newcomer sharply and asked him what he wanted.

Ibn Tahir bowed deeply. In a clear voice he explained who had sent him. He showed him the letter and the seal on it. The master of ceremonies nodded to a soldier, who frisked the newcomer. All he found was al-Ghazali’s book and the coin purse.

“This is our custom,” the master of ceremonies said apologetically. Then he stepped around a curtain to announce the visitor to the vizier.

Those were the most tense moments of all for ibn Tahir. The poison in his body had begun to take effect. He began to hear voices and tried to make them out. An eerie feeling down his spine caused him to shudder. He thought he could hear Miriam’s voice.

“O Allah!” he said to himself. “Sayyiduna was right. I can already hear the murmur of paradise around me.”

The master of ceremonies had to call his name twice before he heard and came through the entrance, where a soldier had drawn the curtain aside. He caught sight of a splendid old man sitting among his pillows. Everything about him bespoke benevolent majesty. Ibn Tahir had the impression he had said something to him, but the voice seemed to be coming from a great distance away.

He bowed deeply. When he stood back up, everything around him was changed. “The pavilion in paradise!” he exclaimed to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

The vizier unsealed the envelope and unfolded the letter.

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

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

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

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

The vizier’s weakened voice reached him.

“Don’t kill him! Take him alive!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, the old man of the mountain?”

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

“Yes. This is his revenge.”

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

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

“It’s the height of religious delusion!”

“No, it’s madness.”

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

“He truly wasn’t afraid of death.”

“He despised it.”

“Or he even wanted it.”

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

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

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

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

The doctor was evasive.

“I’ll consult with my colleagues.”

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

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

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

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

“Will it hurt very much?”

His voice was plaintive and timid.

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

“Allah, have mercy on me!”

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

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

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

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

“Have you informed the sultan?”

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

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

Then he dictated:

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

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

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

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

“Bring him to me!”

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

The vizier looked into his face and shuddered.

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

“Why did you want to kill me?”

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

“I was carrying out Sayyiduna’s order.”

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

“Yes, I knew.”

“And you weren’t afraid?”

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

“What madness!” the vizier moaned.

Then he was seized with anger.

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

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

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

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

The vizier smiled indulgently.

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

“That’s a lie!”

Ibn Tahir shook with indignation.

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

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

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

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

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

“So you say you were in paradise?”

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

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

“Yes, death will take me back there.”

The vizier collapsed back onto his pillows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re making that up…”

The officer flushed red with anger.

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

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

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

The men all laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

“O Allah, forgive me!”

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

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

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

“What a crime!” he whispered.

He saw ibn Tahir on his knees before him.

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

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

“I’m dying because of your blindness.”

“O Allah! Allah! What have I done!”

“Are you repentant?”

“I am, Excellency.”

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

“If only I could.”

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

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

“Are you afraid?”

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

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

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

The vizier gave an exhausted wave of his hand.

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

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

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

He dictated an order.

The men present exchanged glances, shaking their heads.

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

“I’ll plant a dagger in his guts.”

Ibn Tahir got up, his eyes glinting with hatred.

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

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

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

“The end is near,” the doctor whispered.

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

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

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

Toward morning his strength had been almost completely sapped. He wasn’t aware of anything. Toward noon his heart stopped beating.

Messengers carried the news to the far corners of the world: “Nizam al-Mulk, Governor of the Empire and the world, Jelal-u-dulah-al-dinh, the honor of the Empire and the faith, the grand vizier of Sultan Alp Arslan Shah and his son Malik, the greatest ruler of Iran, has fallen victim to the master of Alamut!”