“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.