Alamut

CHAPTER SIX

A cook brought supper, but Hasan didn’t notice. Lost in thought, he pulled a torch out of its stand by the wall and lit it with a candle. With a practiced, careful gesture he drew aside a carpet hanging on the wall so that it wouldn’t catch fire, and he stepped through an entrance into a narrow passage from which a short stairway led to the top of the tower. Holding the torch over his head, he lit his way and soon reached the upper platform. He drew in the fresh, cool air and stepped up to the battlements. He raised the blazing torch high up in the air and three times drew a circle with it over his head.

Soon, from down below, out of the dark, came a like response. He waved the torch once more in acknowledgment, then returned to his room. He put the torch out by sliding it into a kind of quiver, and then wrapped himself up in a loose-fitting coat. Once more he drew a carpet aside, this time one hanging on the opposite wall, and stepped through a low entrance into a cramped, cage-like space that was completely upholstered with soft rugs. He lifted a mallet up off the floor and used it to strike a metal gong. A sharp sound reverberated down a hidden cord to the foot of the tower. Suddenly, the cage moved and, with Hasan in it, began sinking on a cleverly contrived pulley that was operated from below by unseen hands.

The trip to the bottom was slow. Each time Hasan took it, anxious feelings overcame him. What if part of the mechanism suddenly failed? Or if the rope broke and the cramped cage crashed to the stone floor with him in it? What if one of the Moors he was so dependent on deliberately wrecked his device and sent him to his doom? What if, in a moment of clarity, one of these eunuchs became aware of his humiliated human state and clubbed his master on the head with a mace? One of these terrifying Egyptian guards, whom he tamed like wild animals with his gaze, who were entranced by him, like snakes are by their master’s flute? He had done everything possible to ensure their loyalty. They would obey no one else in the world besides him. Whoever had to walk past them walked in fear, and even Abu Ali would get an eerie feeling when he met them. They were the unquestioning instrument that made him fearsome even to his dais and other commanders. Through them he exerted pressure downward onto his subordinates. And so that he could squeeze them from below as well—this was why he had been preparing his fedayeen. He refused to delude himself; the dais and commanders believed in nothing and for the most part sought only personal gain. Involuntarily he found himself comparing this human mechanism with the pulley that lowered him into the depths. If a single component of it failed, if a single presumption was false, the whole edifice would collapse. A single inaccurate calculation and his life’s work would crumble to dust.

The machine stopped and the cage came to rest at the bottom of the tower. The Moor who had just been operating the pulley lifted the curtain. Hasan stepped out into a chilly vestibule where the flame of a torch fluttered in the silent breeze. He fixed the eunuch with his gaze. He felt completely relaxed again.

“Let the bridge down!” he ordered gruffly.

“As you command, Sayyiduna.”

The Moor reached for a lever and threw his whole weight into it. One of the walls began to descend, and the sound of gurgling water could be heard. Light shone through the opening. A segment of star-strewn sky appeared. The bridge had been let down over the river, and a man with a torch was waiting on the other side.

Hasan hurried toward him. The bridge lifted up after him and the entrance to the castle closed.

“What’s the word, Adi?” he asked.

“Everything is going well, Sayyiduna.”

“Bring Miriam to the left-hand pavilion, where I’ll wait for her. Then you can go get Apama and deliver her to the right-hand one. But don’t say a word to either of them about the other.”

“As you command, Sayyiduna.”

They both smiled.

At the end of a sandy path they came to a transverse canal. They climbed into a boat, which Adi started rowing. Soon they turned into an arm of the canal and finally came to a stop alongside a sandy bank. A path led them slightly uphill and then over level ground past gardens in bloom to a glass pavilion that shimmered in the night like a crystal palace.

Adi unlocked the door. He went inside and lit the resin in the lamps that were set out in each corner. In the middle of the pavilion, water glistened in a circular pond. Hasan turned on a pipe and a jet of water shot up practically to the ceiling.

“So I don’t get bored while I’m waiting,” he said and lay down on some pillows next to the wall. “Now go get Miriam.”

He listened to the rippling of the fountain and the trickle of the water. He was so absorbed in listening to it that he didn’t notice when Miriam entered.

“Peace be with you, grandson of Sabbah,” she greeted him.

He started, then cheerfully motioned to her to join him.

She set down a basket of food and drink, unfastened her cloak so that it slipped off her shoulders, and dropped to her knees beside him. She kissed his hand, which he pulled away in mild embarrassment.

“What progress are the girls making?” he asked.

“Just as you’ve prescribed, ibn Sabbah.”

“Good. School’s over now. The sultan has dispatched his army after us. We’ll be able to see them from the castle within a few days.”

Miriam’s eyes opened wide. She looked at Hasan, who was faintly smiling.

“And you can be so calm about this?”

“What else can I do? Whatever is fated to happen will happen. So I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t pour me some wine, if you brought any.”

She stood up and poured two cups. She was wearing the pink silken gown in which she slept. Hasan inspected her. Her white, translucent hands tipped the jug over the cups. She was like perfection itself. Hasan suppressed the sigh of some unwonted ache that had suddenly crept over him. He knew he was old and that all things come too late in life.

She offered him a cup. They toasted. For an instant she discerned a moist glistening in his eyes, and she had a vague sense of what it meant. Then the old, roguish smile appeared around his lips and he spoke.

“You must have wondered what I need these lush gardens and the glass pavilions for, or what I plan to do with all the young girls that I’ve had educated in such a… unique way. But you’ve never asked me about these things. Believe me, I have great respect for your discretion.”

Miriam took hold of his soft but strong right hand, inspected it, and spoke.

“It’s true, grandson of Sabbah, I haven’t asked those questions, but privately I’ve thought a great deal about your intentions.”

“I’ll give you a kingdom if you’ve guessed.”

Hasan’s smile was half mocking, half kind.

“And if I do know?”

“Go ahead.”

“Don’t you intend for these gardens to be your followers’ highest reward for their devotion and self-sacrifice?”

“Far from it, my dear.”

“That was what I thought. Otherwise I don’t have any idea.”

Miriam felt discouraged.

Hasan was enjoying himself. He continued.

“Once you complained to me—do you remember?—that you were horribly bored with the world and that there was nothing that interested or entertained you anymore. That’s when I began telling you about the Greek and Islamic philosophers, when I introduced you to the science of nature and of man’s secret drives, and described, as best I could, the nature of the universe. I told you about my journeys, about my failed exploits, about the princes, shahs, sultans and caliphs. Several times I mentioned that there were some other things I needed to tell you, but that the time for that hadn’t arrived yet. Once I asked you if you would like to help me bring down Sultan Malik Shah. You smiled and answered, ‘Why not?’ I gave you my hand then to show I accepted your offer. Perhaps you thought I was joking. Tonight I’ve come to take you up on your word.”

Miriam looked at him with inquiring eyes. She didn’t know what to make of these strange words.

“There’s one other thing I’d like to remind you of, my dear. There’ve been many times when you’ve sworn to me that after all that life has dealt you, it was no longer possible for you to believe in anything. I replied that both life and my studies had led me to the same conclusion. I asked you, ‘What is a person permitted, once he’s realized that truth is unattainable and consequently doesn’t exist for him?’ Do you remember your answer?”

“I do, ibn Sabbah. I said something like this: ‘If a person realized that everything people call happiness, love and joy was just a miscalculation based on a false premise, he’d feel a horrible emptiness inside. The only thing that could rouse him from his paralysis would be to gamble with his own fate and the fate of others. The person capable of that would be permitted anything.’”

Hasan whistled in delight.

“Very nice, my dear. Tonight I’m giving you a chance to amuse yourself with your own fate and the fate of others. Does that please you?”

Miriam drew her head back slightly and looked at him seriously.

“Have you come to ask me riddles?”

“No, I’ve just brought you some poems of Omar Khayyam’s to read to me. As it happens, tonight I need to think about my old friend. That mayor of Isfahan whom I told you about, the one who thought I was crazy, gave them to me as a present today—quite a coincidence. He’s the one who’s told me to expect a less than friendly visit.”

He untied the package and handed it to Miriam.

“You’re always thinking of things to please me, ibn Sabbah.”

“Not at all. I just wanted to give myself the pleasure of hearing your voice. You know I’m not much good at these things.”

“So shall I read?”

“Please do.”

She leaned her head against his knee and read:

“How wise,” Hasan observed when she’d finished. “All of us think too much about ‘later,’ and as a result the ‘now’ continually recedes from us. A whole view of the world in four lines… But go on. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Miriam read:

Hasan laughed, but his eyes were moist.

“My old friend knows what’s pleasant in the world,” he said. “A slight dizziness in the morning from wine, a beautiful girl at your feet, and then you really are like a king.”

Miriam continued:

“The universe is in you and you’re in the universe. Yes, Omar once said that.”

Hasan grew pensive.

“How I love him! How I love him!” he whispered, half to himself.

Miriam concluded:

“What a simple truth!” Hasan exclaimed. “Spring in bloom and a girl pouring wine in your cup. Who needs paradise after that! But our fate is to struggle with the sultan and forge our dark plans.”

Both of them were silent for a while.

“Earlier you were going to tell me something, ibn Sabbah,” Miriam finally said.

Hasan smiled.

“That’s right, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I don’t know how best to go at it so you’ll understand. For twenty years I’ve carried around a secret inside me and hidden it from the world, and now that the time has come for me to share it with someone for the first time, I can’t find the words.”

“You’re becoming more and more difficult to understand. You say you’ve been carrying a secret around for twenty years? And this secret has to do with these gardens? With overthrowing the kingdom of Iran? This is all very murky.”

“I know. It has to be, until I explain it. These gardens, those girls, Apama and her school, and ultimately you and I, the castle of Alamut and what’s behind it—all these things are elements of a long-range plan that I’ve transformed from fantasy into reality. Now we’ll see if my assumptions have been right. I need you. We’re on the verge of a great experiment. There’s no going back for me. It’s hard for me to express this.”

“You always amaze me, Hasan. Speak. I’m listening carefully.”

“To help you understand me better, I’ll reach far back into my youth. As you know, I was born in Tus and my father’s name was Ali. He was an opponent of Baghdad and the Sunna, and I often heard discussions of these things at home. All these confessional disputes about the Prophet and his heirs seemed vastly mysterious and attracted me with an uncanny force. Of all the warriors for the Muslim faith, Ali was closest to my heart. Everything about him and his descendants was full of mystery. But the thing I found most moving was the promise that Allah would send someone from his line into the world as the Mahdi, to be the last and greatest of the prophets. I would ask my father, I would ask his relatives and friends to tell me what would be the signs of al-Mahdi and how we were to recognize him. They weren’t able to tell me anything specific. My imagination was fired up. One moment I saw the Mahdi in this or that dai or believer, in this or that peer, and on lonely nights I would even wonder if I weren’t the awaited savior myself. I burned, I practically burned to learn more about this teaching.

“Then I heard that a certain dai by the name of Amireh Zarab was hiding in our town, and that he was fully initiated into all of the mysteries of the coming of the Mahdi. I asked around about him, and one older cousin of mine who wasn’t particularly fond of the Shia told me that the dai belonged to the Ismaili sect, and that the adherents of that sect were secretly sophists and godless freethinkers. Now I was really interested. Not yet twelve years old, I sought him out and immediately leapt at him with my questions. I wanted to hear from his mouth whether the Ismaili doctrine was really just a cover for freethinking and, if so, what that meant for the coming of the Mahdi. In a tone of the utmost derision, Amireh Zarab began explaining the Ismailis’ external doctrine: that Ali was the Prophet’s sole legitimate heir, and that Ismail’s son Mohammed, the eighth in the line of Ali, would some day return to earth as al-Mahdi. Then he split hairs about the other Shiite sects and blasted the ones that held that the twelfth imam, who wouldn’t be from the line of Ali, would appear to the faithful as al-Mahdi. All of this squabbling over individuals struck me as trivial and pathetic. There wasn’t the slightest hint of a mystery about it. I returned home, dissatisfied. I decided that from then on I wouldn’t worry about these doctrinal disputes and that, like my peers, I would enjoy more readily attainable things. And I probably would have succeeded, if only another Ismaili refiq by the name of Abu Nedjm Saradj hadn’t passed through our town about a year later. Still furious at his predecessor for not being able to reveal any mysteries to me, I searched him out and began deriding him for the pedantry of his doctrine, which I said was every bit as ridiculous as Sunnism. I said that neither he nor his adherents knew anything definite about the Mahdi’s coming and that they were just leading poor, truth-seeking believers on.

“The whole time I was raining this abuse down on him, I expected him to leap at me and throw me out the door. But the refiq listened to me patiently. I noticed a sort of satisfied smile playing around his mouth. When I finally ran out of words, he said, ‘You’ve passed the test with honors, my young friend. I predict that one day you will become a great and powerful dai. You’ve reached the point where I can reveal the true Ismaili doctrine to you. But first you have to promise me that you won’t share it with anyone until you’ve been initiated.’ His words struck me to the quick. So my hunch had been right after all, and there was a mystery? I made the promise with my voice shaking, and he told me, ‘The doctrine of Ali and Mahdi is just bait for the masses of believers who hate Baghdad and venerate the name of the Prophet’s son-in-law. However, to those who can understand, we explain, as Caliph al-Hakim established, that the Koran is the product of a muddled brain. The truth is unknowable. Therefore we believe in nothing and have no limits on what we can do.’ It was as though I’d been struck by lightning. The Prophet a man with a muddled brain? His son-in-law Ali an idiot for believing him? And the teaching of the coming of the Mahdi, that glorious, mystery-laden teaching of the coming of a savior, just a fairy tale dreamt up for the common masses? I shouted at him, ‘What is the point of deceiving people?!’ He looked at me sternly. ‘Don’t you see we’ve become slaves of the Turks?’ he said. ‘And that Baghdad is in league with them, and the masses are discontented? To them the name of Ali is sacred. We’ve used it to unite them against the sultan and the caliph.’ My tongue felt paralyzed. I ran home as if I were out of my mind. I threw myself down on my bed and cried. For the last time in my life. My magical world had been dashed to pieces. I got sick. For forty days and nights I hovered between life and death. Finally the fever broke. My strength came back. But it was an entirely new person reawakening to life.”

Hasan stopped speaking and grew pensive. Miriam, who hadn’t moved her gaze away from his mouth the whole time, asked him, “How is it, ibn Sabbah, that you believed that godless doctrine right away, when the previous teacher had completely disillusioned you?”

“Let me try to explain it to you. It’s true that the first dai had proclaimed a number of very definite ‘truths,’ but behind them I sensed something that aroused my suspicion. They didn’t fulfill my curiosity, my longing for truth, for some higher knowledge. I tried to accept them as the real truth, but my heart rejected them. It’s true, I didn’t immediately grasp what the second teacher told me, either. But his doctrine settled on my soul like a vague premonition of something dark and awful that would someday open up to my understanding. My reason tried to reject it, but my heart welcomed it in. When I recovered from the illness, I decided to order my whole life in such a way that when I matured I would reach a state where the refiq’s assertion would go without saying—or else that I would clearly recognize its fallacy. ‘You have to test whether the refiq’s claims hold,’ I told myself, ‘in real life.’ I decided to study everything, not leaving out anything that people knew. The opportunity soon came. Youth being what it is, I couldn’t keep quiet about it. I started discussing the issues troubling my spirit with anyone who cared to listen. My father already had the reputation of secretly being a Shiite and got frightened. To dispel suspicions that he was an infidel, he sent me away to a school in Nishapur, run by Muafiq Edin, a man known widely as a learned lawyer and a Sunni dogmatist. That’s where I got to know Omar Khayyam and the eventual grand vizier, Nizam al-Mulk.

“There’s not much to say about our teacher. He quoted a lot of authors and he knew the Koran from the first sura to the last by heart. But he wasn’t able to satisfy my passion for knowledge one whit. So the encounter with my two classmates was all the more powerful. The eventual vizier was from Tus, just like me, and we both shared the same name: Hasan ibn Ali. He was eight to ten years older than I was and his knowledge, especially of astronomy and mathematics, was already quite extensive. But issues of faith, the search for truth in its own right—none of this mattered to him. That’s when it first dawned on me what huge gaps there are between individuals. He had never heard of Ismaili teachers passing through Tus, and he had never gone through any kind of intellectual crisis that practically cost him his life, as I had. And yet he had a powerful intellect, superior to most others.

“Omar, on the other hand, was completely different. He was from Nishapur and he seemed to be quiet and meek. But when we were alone he’d make fun of everything and be skeptical of everybody. He was totally unpredictable, sometimes so amazingly clever that you could listen to him for days on end, then he’d become introspective and moody. We grew very fond of him. We would get together in his father’s garden every evening and make great plans for the future. The scent of jasmine wafted over us while the evening butterflies sucked the nectar from its flowers. We would sit in an arbor, shaping our fate. Once—I remember it as though it were last night—in the grips of some desire to show off to them, I told them I was a member of a secret Ismaili brotherhood. I told them about my encounters with the two teachers, and I explained Ismaili doctrine to them. I identified the struggle against the Seljuk rulers and their lackey, the caliph of Baghdad, as being at its heart. When I saw how astonished they were, I cried out, ‘Do you want us, the descendants of the Khosrows, of the kings of Iran, of Rustam, Farhad and Firdausi, to be the hirelings of those horse thieves from Turkestan? If their flag is black, then let ours be white. Because the only shame is in groveling before foreigners and bowing down to barbarians!’ I had hit a sore spot. ‘What should we do?’ Omar asked. I replied, ‘We have to try to climb up the social ladder as quickly as possible. The first one to succeed should help the other two.’ They agreed. All three of us swore allegiance to each other.”

He fell silent and Miriam drew closer to him.

“It’s true, life is like a fairy tale,” she said in a thoughtful voice.

“But somewhere,” Hasan continued, “at the bottom of my heart, I still missed those fairy tales from my earliest youth, my tenacious faith in the coming of the Mahdi and the great mysteries of the Prophet’s succession. That wound still bled secretly, my first great disillusionment still stung. But the evidence was mounting in support of the thesis that nothing was true! Because just as much as the Shiites defended their claims, the Sunnis defended theirs. What’s more, Christians of all sects, Jews, Brahmans, Buddhists, fire worshippers and pagans were just as passionate about their teachings. Philosophers of all persuasions made their claims and refuted each other, one claiming there was only one god, another that there were many of them, and a third claiming there was no god and that everything happened by pure coincidence. More and more I began to see the supreme wisdom of the Ismaili dais. Truth is unattainable to us, it doesn’t exist for us. What then is the proper response? If you’ve concluded that you can know nothing, if you don’t believe in anything, then everything is permitted, then follow your passions. Is that really the ultimate possible knowledge? Studying, learning about everything, this was my first passion. I was in Baghdad, Basra, Alexandria, Cairo. I studied all the sciences—mathematics, astronomy, philosophy, chemistry, physics, biology. I delved into foreign languages, other peoples, other ways of thinking. And the Ismaili doctrine kept making more and more sense. But I was still young and it began to bother me that the vast majority of humanity was entangled in ignorance and subject to stupid fabrications and lies. It occurred to me that my mission on earth was to sow the truth, to open mankind’s eyes, to liberate it from its false assumptions and especially from the frauds who were responsible for them. Ismaili doctrine became my flag in the struggle against lies and illusions, and I saw myself as the great torchbearer who would light the way for mankind out of its ignorance. How sadly mistaken I turned out to be again! All of our brotherhoods accepted me as a great warrior for the Ismaili cause, but when I explained my plan to enlighten the masses to the leaders, they shook their heads and warned me against it. At every step they undermined me, and it was then I realized that the leadership was intentionally withholding the truth from the people and keeping them ignorant for selfish reasons. So then I started addressing the masses directly during my travels. At bazaars, in caravanserais and on pilgrimages I told them that everything they believed in was illusory, and that if they didn’t shake off the fairy tales and the lies, they would die thirsting for and bereft of the truth. The result was that I had to flee from a hail of stones and ugly curses. Then I tried to open just the brighter individuals’ eyes. Many of them listened to me carefully. But when I would finish, they would reply that they had had similar doubts themselves, but that it seemed more practical to them to hold onto something solid than to grope their way through eternal uncertainty and endless negation. Not just simple folk from the masses, even the more exalted minds preferred a tangible lie to an ungraspable truth. All my attempts to enlighten individuals or groups came to nothing. Because truth, which for me stood at the summit of all values, was worthless to the rest of humanity. I abandoned my would-be mission and gave up. I had wasted many years with those efforts. I went to see what my two classmates had achieved in the meantime, and I found out that I’d lagged far behind them. My namesake from Tus had entered into the service of a Seljuk prince, and just then, in recognition of his statesmanship, the sultan at that time, Alp Arslan Shah, had invited him to serve as vizier at his court. Omar had gained a reputation as a mathematician and an astronomer and, true to his youthful promise, Nizam al-Mulk was providing him with a government annuity of twelve hundred gold pieces. I felt a desire to visit Omar on his estate in Nishapur. I set out on the journey—it will have been a good twenty years ago now—and surprised my old classmate amidst his wine, girls and books. My appearance must not have been particularly reassuring, because as imperturbable as he was, he looked startled when he saw me. ‘What’s happened to you!’ he exclaimed once he recognized me. ‘A person would think you were coming straight from hell, you look so parched and sunburnt …’ He hugged me and invited me to stay with him as his guest. I made myself right at home too, finally enjoying witty and wise conversations over wine after so many years. We told each other about everything that had happened to us. We also confided our life experiences and intellectual theories to each other, and to our mutual surprise we determined that both of us had come to surprisingly similar conclusions, though each in his own way. And he had barely moved an inch away from home, while I had wandered through practically half the world. He said, ‘If I needed confirmation that I was on the right track in my search, I heard it from your mouth today.’ I replied, ‘Now that I’m talking with you and we’re in such complete agreement, I feel like Pythagoras when he heard the stars humming in the universe and merging with the harmony of the spheres.’ We talked about the possibility of knowledge. He said, ‘Ultimate knowledge is impossible, because our senses lie to us. But they’re the only mediator between the things that surround us and our thoughts, our intellect.’ ‘That’s exactly what Democritus and Protagoras claim,’ I agreed. ‘That’s why people condemned them as atheists and praised Plato to high heavens, because he fed them fairy tales.’ ‘The masses have always been like that,’ Omar continued. ‘They’re afraid of uncertainty, which is why they prefer a lie that promises something tangible to even the most exalted truth if it doesn’t give them anything to hold on to. There’s nothing you can do about it. Whoever wants to be a prophet to the masses has to treat them like children and feed them fairy tales and falsehoods. That’s why a wise man always keeps his distance from them.’ ‘But Christ and Mohammed wanted good for the masses.’ ‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘They wanted good for them, but they also recognized all their utter hopelessness. Pity moved them to conjure up fairy tales about an otherworldly paradise that would be theirs as a reward for their suffering in this world.’ ‘Why do you think Mohammed would have let thousands die for his teachings if he knew they were based on a fairy tale?’ ‘Probably,’ he answered, ‘because he knew that otherwise they would have slaughtered each other for even baser reasons. He wanted to create a kingdom of happiness on earth for them. To do that, he invented his dialogues with the archangel Gabriel, otherwise they wouldn’t have believed him. He promised them heavenly delights after death, and in so doing made them brave and invincible.’ I thought for a while and then told him, ‘It seems to me that there’s no longer anyone who would joyfully go to his death just for the promise of getting into heaven.’ ‘Nations age too,’ he replied. ‘The thought of paradise has atrophied in people and isn’t a source of joy anymore like it used to be. People only keep believing in it because they’re too lazy to seize onto anything new.’ ‘So do you think,’ I asked him, ‘that a prophet preaching paradise to win over the masses today would fail?’ Omar laughed. ‘No question. Because the same torch doesn’t burn twice and a wilted tulip won’t bloom again. People are contented with their little comforts. If you don’t have the key to open the gates to paradise before their eyes, you might as well give up any thought of becoming a prophet.’ I grabbed at my head as though I were thunderstruck. Omar had jokingly articulated a thought that began spreading through my soul like wildfire. Yes, people wanted fairy tales and fabrications and they were fond of the blindness they blundered through. Omar sat drinking wine. But at that moment a powerful and immutable plan was born in me, the likes of which the world had never seen. To test human blindness to its utmost limits! To use it to attain absolute power and independence from the whole world! To embody the fairy tale! To turn it into such reality that our remotest descendants would talk about it! To conduct a great experiment on man!”

Hasan pushed Miriam away from himself and jumped to his feet. Agitated like she had never seen him before, he began pacing furiously around the pool. There was something almost monstrous about him. It occurred to her that he might be mad. She had a vague intimation of the meaning of his words. She asked him in a timid voice, “So what did you do then?”

Hasan came to a sudden stop. He regained his composure and a smile, part teasing, part mocking, played over his lips.

“What did I do then?” he repeated after her. “I looked for a chance to make the fairy tale come true. I came here, to Alamut. The fairy tale has come to life, paradise has been created and awaits its first visitors.”

Miriam stared fixedly at him. Looking him in the eye, she said slowly, “You could be the one I once dreamt you might be.”

Hasan smirked in amusement.

“So who am I, then?”

“If you’ll permit me to express myself allegorically, the horrible dreamer from hell.”

Hasan burst out in a strange laugh.

“Quite charming,” he said. “Now you know my intentions and it’s time for me to give you specific instructions. Any resident of these gardens who gives anything away to the visitors will be put to death. You will remain silent about everything. I will make no exceptions. I hope you’ve understood me. You must impress upon the girls that for greater reasons they have to behave as though they were really in paradise. This is your assignment for now. Get ready for it. Expect me again tomorrow evening. Good night!”

He kissed her gently, then strode off quickly.

At the river bank Adi was waiting for him with the boat. He got down into it and quietly ordered, “To Apama!”

His old friend was waiting for him in a pavilion very similar to the previous one. One minute she was sprawled luxuriously on the pillows, but by the next, already overcome with impatience, she had gotten up and begun roaming about the room. She kept looking toward the door, talking to herself, growing angry and cursing in a half-whisper, gesticulating as she tried to make some point to her invisible interlocutor. When she heard footsteps, she straightened up proudly and moved a few paces toward the entrance.

When Hasan caught sight of her he could barely suppress a sarcastic smile. She was dressed in her finest silk. The entire contents of her jewelry chest were hanging around her neck, from her ears, on her wrists, hands and feet. On her head she was wearing a magnificent gold diadem studded with glinting gemstones. This was almost precisely the way she had been dressed when he first met her at a dinner given by some Indian prince in Kabul thirty years before. But what a difference between that Apama and this one! Instead of taut, supple limbs, a bony framework covered with faded, darkish, wrinkled skin. She had painted her sunken cheeks a screaming red, and her lips as well. She had daubed black dye on her hair, eyebrows and lashes. She struck Hasan as a living image of the impermanence of everything made of flesh and bones.

She hastily kissed his right hand and invited him to sit down on the pillows with her. Then she scolded him.

“You’ve been with her. There was a time when you wouldn’t leave me waiting long enough to sit down.”

“Rubbish,” Hasan said, his eyes flashing in annoyance. “I’ve called you here on important business. Let’s drop the past. What’s done is done.”

“So you have regrets?”

“Did I say that?”

“No, but…”

“No buts! I’m asking you if everything is ready.”

“Everything is as you’ve instructed.”

“The gardens will be having visitors. I need to depend on you completely.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me, rescuing me from poverty at my age.”

“Fine. How is the school coming along?”

“As well as can be expected with a flock of silly geese sitting in it.”

“Good.”

“I feel I have to warn you about something. Those eunuchs of yours don’t seem dependable to me.”

Hasan laughed.

“The same old story. Don’t you know any others?”

“I don’t mean that you can’t depend on them. They’re too scared for that. But I suspect some of them still have some remnants of manhood left in them.”

Hasan’s mood brightened.

“So have you tried any of them?”

Indignantly she drew away from him.

“What do you think I am? With beasts like that?”

“Then what gave you this curious idea?”

“They’ve been flirting with the girls and it’s very suspicious. They can’t hide anything from me. And there’s something else…”

“Well?”

“Recently Mustafa showed me something from a long way off.”

Hasan shook in silent laughter.

“Don’t be crazy. You’re old and bleary-eyed. It was something else he was shoving your way, just to make fun of you. You don’t really think he’d get hard from just looking at you?”

“You insult me. But just wait until they ruin your girls.”

“That’s what they’re there for.”

“But maybe there’s just one you might feel badly about?”

“Oh, cut it out. Don’t you see I’m old?”

“Not so old you couldn’t fall head over heels in love.”

Privately Hasan was supremely amused.

“If that were true, you’d have to congratulate me. Unfortunately I feel like an extinct volcano.”

“Don’t pretend. But it’s true, at your age something more mature would be more suitable.”

“Maybe Apama? Come on, old girl. Love is like a roast. The older the teeth, the younger the lamb needs to be.”

Tears welled up in Apama’s eyes, but finally she swallowed the barb.

“Why do you stick to just one? Haven’t you heard that a frequent change keeps a man fresh and active? The Prophet himself set the example. Recently I was looking at one young quail in the bath. Everything about her is firm and taut. Immediately I thought of you. She’s barely fourteen…”

“And her name is Halima. I know, I know. I held her in my arms before even you saw her. It was I who handed her to Adi. But let me tell you, for a wise man even one is too many.”

“But why does it have to be her? Haven’t you had your fill of her yet?”

Hasan chuckled inaudibly.

“It’s been wisely said, ‘Be modest and oat cakes every day will taste better to you than heavenly foods.”

“I don’t see how you don’t get tired of her self-important ignorance!”

“In these matters milky skin and pink lips outweigh even the profoundest erudition.”

“Once you told me, and I remember it perfectly, that you learned more in those three months that we were together than in the previous ten years.”

“Learning suits youth, the pleasure of teaching—old age.”

“But tell me, what is it about her precisely that attracts you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some vague affinity of hearts.”

“You say that to hurt me.”

“It didn’t even occur to me.”

“Even worse!”

“Oh, cut it out. Spending your old age being jealous?”

“What did you say? Me, jealous? Apama, the priestess of love, before whom three princes, seven heirs apparent, a future caliph and more than two hundred knights and noblemen fell on their knees? Apama is jealous? And of a bumpkin, of a christened slut like that?!”

Her voice shook in fury.

Hasan spoke to her.

“My dear, those times are gone. That was thirty years ago, and now your mouth has no teeth, your bones have no flesh, your skin has no succulence…”

She began to sob.

“Do you think you’re any better off than me?”

“Allah forbid that I think anything of the sort! The only difference between us is this: I’m old and I’ve reconciled myself with it. You’re also old, but you hide the fact from yourself.”

“You came here to make fun of me.”

Large tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Not at all, old girl. Let’s be wise. I sent for you because I need your skills and experience. You just said yourself that I rescued you from poverty by inviting you to my castle. I give you everything you want. I’ve only ever valued the things in people that make them stand out from others. That’s why I deeply admire your knowledge of the arts of love. I’m declaring my complete confidence in you. What more would you want?”

She felt touched and no longer cried. Hasan silently laughed to himself. He bent toward her and whispered in her ear.

“Do you still really want to …?”

She looked at him abruptly.

“I can’t help it,” she said and clasped onto him. “That’s how I am.”

“Then I’ll send you a healthy Moor.”

Offended, she pulled away from him.

“You’re right. I’m too ugly and too old. It’s just so incredibly painful that so much beauty is gone forever.”

Hasan rose and spoke dispassionately.

“Get the pavilions ready for their guests. Clean and scrub everything. Make sure the girls don’t blather or poke around into things. School is over now. Great things are about to happen. Expect me again tomorrow. I’ll give you precise instructions. Is there anything you’d like?”

“No, my master. Thank you. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try some other one?”

“No, thanks. Good night!”

Miriam returned to her room with a heavy heart. What Hasan had told her that evening had been too much for her to absorb so quickly. She sensed that a terrible intellect was at work here, one for which everything around it—people, animals, inanimate nature—was just a means for fulfilling some grim vision. She loved that spirit, was afraid of it, and little by little was beginning to despise it. She felt a powerful need to unburden herself, to exchange a few words at least with a creature devoid of evil. She approached Halima’s bed and watched her through the murk. She had the sense she was only pretending to sleep.

“Halima!” she whispered and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I know you’re pretending. Look at me.”

Halima opened her eyes and pushed the blanket off her chest.

“What is it?” she asked timidly.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course I can, Miriam.”

“Like a tomb?”

“Like a tomb.”

“If they found out I’d told you, they’d have both our heads. The sultan’s forces are besieging the castle…”

Halima shrieked.

“What’s going to happen to us?”

“Shh. Be quiet. Sayyiduna is looking after us. From now on every act of disobedience means a death sentence. There are difficult trials ahead of us. So you know: no matter who asks, you mustn’t tell anyone where we are or who we are.”

She kissed her on both cheeks and climbed into her own bed.

That night neither one of them closed her eyes. Miriam felt as though mountains were revolving inside her head. The whole world was perched on a knife’s edge. Which direction would it tip in the days to come?

Halima shivered with delight… What a marvelous adventure this whole life was! The Turks besieged the castle and Sayyiduna defended it from them without anyone ever seeing or hearing a thing. And still they were in the grips of great danger. How mysteriously beautiful it all was!