“Once, though, he surprised me with a really strange statement. And what was particularly unusual was that he laughed slyly and ambiguously as he made it, like he always did when he was making a fool of someone. Of course I assumed he was joking and figured it would be appropriate for me to laugh with him. Here’s what he said: ‘Dear friend, I need just two or three men on whom I can depend unconditionally, and in less than a year I can bring down the sultan and his empire.’ I laughed so hard I practically burst my gut. But he suddenly became deadly serious, seized me by the shoulder, and gazed deep into my eyes. That look sent shivers down my spine. Then he said, ‘I am absolutely serious, reis Abul Fazel Lumbani.’ I jumped back and stared at him as though he were from some other world. Who wouldn’t gape if somebody, and a nobody at that, told him that he and two or three men were going to topple a state that stretches from Antioch to India and from Baghdad all the way up to the Caspian Sea? It immediately occurred to me that he’d gone mad from his long exile and fear of being pursued. I said a few reassuring words and cautiously slipped out of his room. I ran to see a doctor and asked him to give me something to cure madness. After giving it a lot of thought, I offered Hasan that medicine. He turned it down, and at that point I felt he didn’t trust me anymore.”
The commanders laughed heartily at this story.
“That’s really a good one!” the Greek exclaimed. “It suits him perfectly.”
“And what do you think of Hasan’s statement today, honorable sheikh?” Abu Soraka asked.
“I’m afraid, really afraid, that he was dead serious.”
He looked at each one of them, shaking his head in complete bafflement.
Abu Ali returned and announced to their guest, “Let’s go! Ibn Sabbah is waiting for you.”
The reis slowly lifted himself off the pillows, excused himself with a slight bow, and followed the grand dai.
They traversed a long corridor, at each end of which a black giant stood supported by a heavy mace. They came to a narrow, winding staircase that led steeply up to the top of the tower, and they started to climb.
“Leave it to ibn Sabbah to choose the top of a tower for his quarters,” the reis complained after a while and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“As you say, respected friend.”
The stairway narrowed as it got steeper. The grand dai climbed it as though he were twenty years old. The former reis, on the other hand, puffed and wheezed fiercely.
“Let’s rest for a minute,” he said at last. “I’m out of breath. I’m not young anymore.”
They stood for a moment while the reis caught his breath. Then they continued their ascent.
But after a while Abul Fazel blustered again.
“By my father’s beard! Is there no end to this damned stairway? Has that old fox made his den so high up so he can keep making fools of the rest of us?”
Abu Ali quietly chuckled. As they approached the top of the stairway the former reis was barely able to breathe. He had his head lowered, so right up to the end he didn’t notice the guard standing at the top. As he negotiated the last steps, he nearly collided with two bare black legs. Startled, he lifted his head then practically jumped back in fright. In front of him, like a bronze statue, stood a half-naked Moor, as big as a mountain and as powerful as a bull. At his feet rested a mace so heavy that the reis could barely have budged it using both hands.
Abu Ali laughed as he supported the old man to keep him from falling back down the stairs. Abul Fazel carefully stepped around the guard, who remained in place, silent and motionless. As the reis proceeded farther down the corridor, he turned to look behind him one more time. He caught sight of the gaze that was following him. The Moor’s eyes shifted to track his progress, their huge whites showing.
“I’ve never seen a sultan or a shah with a guard like this,” the guest grumbled. “Not pleasant company, an African armed with a mace like that.”
“The caliph in Cairo sent Hasan a whole detachment of these eunuchs as a gift,” Abu Ali said. “They’re the most dependable guards you can imagine.”
“No, this Alamut of yours is not much to my liking,” the reis commented. “No conveniences or comforts that I can see.”
They reached a door outside of which stood a guard similar to the previous one. Abu Ali uttered a few words and the Moor raised the curtain.
They entered a sparsely appointed antechamber. The grand dai cleared his throat and something moved on the other side of one of the rugs hanging on the wall. An invisible hand lifted it, and out from beneath it appeared the supreme commander of the Ismailis, Hasan ibn Sabbah. His eyes shone cheerfully as he hurried over to his old acquaintance and firmly shook his hand.
“Look who’s here! My host from Isfahan! Don’t tell me you’ve brought me another cure for madness?”
He laughed jovially and invited both of the old men into his room.
The reis found himself in a comfortably decorated room that was reminiscent in every respect of a scholar’s quarters. Along the perimeter, several shelves were covered with books and documents. The floor was covered with rugs, over which were strewn various astronomical instruments, measuring and calculating equipment, slates and writing implements, and an ink pot and several goose quills, also for writing.
The visitor took all this in with astonishment. He couldn’t reconcile what he had seen in the fortress below with what was now before him.
“So you’re not bringing me a cure for madness?” Hasan continued to jest, smirking and stroking his handsome beard, which was still almost completely black. “If not, then what philanthropic cause has brought you to this end of the earth?”
“I most definitely haven’t brought you any cure for madness, dear Hasan,” the reis finally said. “What I do have for you is a message from Muzaffar: The sultan has issued an order and the emir Arslan Tash has set out from Hamadan with an army of thirty thousand men to take Alamut. Its vanguard, the Turkish cavalry, could reach Rudbar today or tomorrow and will be outside your castle within a few days.”
Hasan and Abu Ali exchanged quick glances.
“So soon?” Hasan asked and thought for a moment. “I didn’t count on such quick action. Something must have changed recently at the court.”
He invited his friends to have a seat amid the pillows and then dropped down beside them, shaking his head pensively.
“I’ll tell you everything I know,” Abul Fazel said. “Just be sure you make ready to evacuate the castle.”
Hasan was silent. The reis discreetly looked him over. He wouldn’t have thought he was already sixty years old. He was still youthfully agile. His skin was fresh and his large, intelligent eyes were lively and penetrating. He was more average height than tall. He was neither thin nor fat. His nose was long and straight, his lips full and distinct. He spoke loudly and directly and almost always with a tinge of facetiousness or concealed mockery. But whenever he grew thoughtful, his face underwent a painful transformation. The smile vanished and something dark and almost hard appeared in his features. Or he would seem absent, focused on something invisible, as people endowed with a powerful imagination sometimes are—an aspect that would arouse fear in those who were dependent on him. Overall it could be said that he was a handsome man. It bothered many that he often seemed to be conscious of his own virtues.
“Speak, I’m listening,” he told the visitor, knitting his brow.
“In case you don’t yet know,” the reis began slowly, “I can tell you that your old enemy Nizam al-Mulk is no longer grand vizier.”