First he applied an ointment to the corresponding area of Jafar’s body, onto which he then drew an outline of the scar and a birthmark. He ordered the other assistant to hold the blades and needle in the fire. Then he used these to etch and pierce the skin.
Jafar pressed his lips tight. His face paled slightly from the pain, but when Hasan looked at him, he smiled back, as though it were nothing.
Now Halef slowly began to realize what Hasan’s plan was, and he was horrified. If the transformation was successful, this Ismaili youth would gain unhampered access to the sultan himself! And the murder of the grand vizier was eloquent testimony to what would happen then. I’ll be cursed for having been an accessory to such a crime, he thought. Subdue your fear! something inside him commanded. Think of your duty to the sultan!
His feet were unbound. He waited for the instant when the doctor began to make an incision on Jafar’s face, then he leapt at him and gave him a powerful kick to the gut.
Under the impact of this blow, the Greek dragged the blade halfway across Jafar’s face, which was instantly covered in blood. He himself was thrown to the floor. Halef lost his balance and toppled onto him. His mouth collided with the doctor’s elbow, which he instinctively bit into with all his might. The doctor howled with pain.
Instantly Abu Ali, Jafar and the executioner began to pummel and kick Halef mercilessly to get him to release his victim. But it wasn’t until one of the assistants set a white-hot poker to the prisoner’s back that the latter relented. He howled, writhing on the floor and trying to grab at his injury.
Now Hasan ordered, “Put him on the rack!”
Halef resisted with all his strength, but iron fists soon subdued him. Within a few moments he was bound, spread-eagled, to the rack.
With much groaning, the Greek managed to collect himself in the meantime. He had the wound on his arm washed, treated, and bandaged. Jafar, covered in blood, waited patiently for his transformation to resume.
“The scoundrel has ruined everything,” the Greek moaned when he examined him more closely. “What can I do with this huge wound on his face?”
“Just clean it for now,” Hasan said. “We’ll see what can be done.”
Then he commanded the executioner, “Begin the torture. He’ll be useful again when he’s unconscious.”
The machine started stretching the prisoner’s limbs. His joints popped and his bones creaked. Halef howled in agony.
Hakim was shaken. He himself was a surgeon, but he had never before heard such bestial wailing.
He quickly cleaned Jafar’s wound. Hasan inspected it, then spoke.
“Jafar! You’ll say that the commander of the Ismailis inflicted this wound on you at Alamut as His Majesty’s messenger. That the sultan’s letter enraged him so much that he slashed at you with his saber. Do you understand me?”
“I do, Sayyiduna.”
“Doctor, finish your work.”
All this time Halef had been howling at regular intervals. These became progressively shorter, until the howls merged into a continuous mad roar.
The executioner suddenly stopped the rack. The prisoner had lost consciousness.
“Good,” Hasan said. “Finish your work without us.”
He and the grand dais climbed to the top of the tower.
With a skillful hand the doctor transformed Jafar into Halef, His Majesty’s messenger.
A few hours later, transformed and dressed from head to toe in the prisoner’s clothes, Jafar stepped before the supreme commander. Hasan flinched, the similarity was so great. The same beard, same mustache, the same old scar on his cheek, the same broken nose and even the same birthmark next to his ear. Only the long, fresh wound across his face was different.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Halef, son of Omar. My family comes from Ghazna…”
“Good. Have you memorized everything else too?”
“I have, Sayyiduna.”
“Now listen well. You’re going to saddle your horse and ride toward Baghdad along the same road that the sultan’s messenger used to come to Alamut. You’ll be taking His Majesty a verbal reply from the master of Alamut. You know the stations and the inns along the way. Keep your eyes and ears open. Find out if the sultan has already set out against us. Demand at all costs to be admitted to see him. Do not relent in this! Keep insisting that you can only relay the response to the sultan personally. Tell them how poorly treated you were at Alamut. Do you understand me? Here are a few pellets. Do you recognize them? Take them with you on your journey. Swallow one each night and save the last one for the moment before you’re admitted to see the sultan. Here’s an awl. Hide it on your person carefully, because the slightest scratch could mean death. When you’re standing before the sultan, you know what you have to do to earn paradise for yourself and immortality among the Ismailis in this world. Is everything clear?”
“It is, Sayyiduna.”
Jafar’s cheeks burned feverishly.
“Is your faith strong?”
“It is, Sayyiduna.”
“And your determination?”
“Steadfast.”
“I have faith that you won’t fail me. Take this coin purse. I give you my blessing for your journey. Bring glory to yourself and the Ismailis.”
He dismissed him. Alamut had launched yet another living dagger. Hasan left for the gardens.
Ever since Miriam and Halima had so sadly departed this life, the mood of the garden’s inhabitants had been unrelentingly low. Not just the girls, but the eunuchs and even Apama were affected.
Miriam had been buried in a small clearing amid a grove of cypresses. The girls planted tulips, daffodils, violets and primroses on her grave. Out of a piece of rock, Fatima had carved a handsome monument depicting a woman in mourning. But she couldn’t bring herself to inscribe it with anything. Next to her grave they had marked off another parcel of land, onto which they set the stone image of a gazelle, also the work of Fatima. All around they planted flowering shrubs. This they did in memory of Halima. Every morning they visited this spot and mourned for their lost friends.
Now Fatima assumed Miriam’s position, except that she was in contact with Hasan only through Apama. There were no feuds between the two of them. Apama had become quite solitary. She was often seen hurrying eagerly down the paths, gesticulating excitedly and talking aloud to some invisible person. Maybe one or two of the girls smiled at her on these occasions. But when they were standing before her, they still felt the same old fear. Her skill at eliminating the consequences of their nighttime visits had only limited success. Zuleika, Leila and Sara could feel the new life growing inside them, and were eagerly impatient. Jada and Safiya were the most excited of all. They couldn’t wait for the appearance of a new generation in the gardens.
Hasan sent two new companions to replace the two they had lost. They were both quiet and modest, but at least they brought some change to the eternal monotony.
“It’s autumn already and soon winter will be pressing down upon us,” Hasan said to Apama. They were strolling through one of the uninhabited gardens. “We have to make the most of the warm evenings left to us. I’ll need to send some new youths to the gardens. Because the rains will come, and then the snow and cold after that, and at that point there won’t be any time left for heavenly delights.”
“What are the girls going to do then?”
“You have plenty of camel and lambs’ wool. And silk. Have them weave, knit and sew. Have them practice all their arts. Because Alamut requires everything.”
“What about the school?”
“Do you have anything left to teach them?”
“No, except for the art of love, which they’re incapable of learning anyway.”