“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!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The day after ibn Tahir rode out from Alamut, one of the scouts came racing into the castle and announced that units of the emir Arslan Tash were on the march and approaching quickly. The drums beat and the trumpets sounded. With tremendous speed the men assumed their positions at the battlements. The guard outside the canyon received the order to hold out until the first horsemen appeared on the horizon. Then they were to withdraw, leaving previously prepared obstacles in the canyon behind them as they went.
From then on, scouts returned one after the other almost every hour and reported on the movements of the enemy army. As dawn came on the following day, Hasan and his grand dais came out on the platform of his tower. There they waited for the enemy to appear on the horizon.
“Did you foresee all of this?” Abu Ali asked, casting a wary look at Hasan.
“Everything is taking place as I expected. For every blow I’ve prepared a counterblow.”
“Did you send ibn Tahir to Nehavend, by any chance?”
Buzurg Ummid was shocked by his own boldness.
Hasan furrowed his brow. His eyes sought something out on the horizon, as though he’d not heard the question.
“Everything I’ve done,” he said after a while, “I’ve done for the victory of our common cause.”
The grand dais exchanged brief glances. They had a good idea of the counterblow that Hasan had prepared. They shuddered. And on top of everything, success or failure was dependent on a thousand small coincidences. There had to be something wrong with him, that he relied on his calculations so stubbornly.
“Let’s suppose,” Buzurg Ummid ventured again, “that the emir’s army stays outside of Alamut until winter.”
“You can’t be thinking we’ll die of thirst?” Hasan laughed. “Our defense is sturdy and we have enough provisions to last a year.”
“This army could be replaced by another, and that one by yet another. What then?”
“I really don’t know, old boy. I’m only used to thinking in terms of longer or shorter periods of time.”
“It’s damned tricky,” Abu Ali commented, “that we don’t have a way out on any side.”
“Over the mountains, old boy. I’d herd you all up over the mountains.”
Hasan laughed softly. Then, as if to offer them some consolation, he said, “I don’t give this siege much staying power.”
Then Buzurg Ummid pointed at the flag over the guardhouse outside the canyon. It fluttered and then disappeared.
“The guard is withdrawing,” he said, holding his breath. “The enemy is approaching.”
Soon a whirlwind of horsemen appeared on the horizon, with black flags fluttering in the wind. The riders galloped up the hill where the guardhouse stood. Momentarily, an enormous black Sunni flag unfurled above it.
New units were constantly arriving. The entire plateau outside of the canyon was covered with tents, which began spreading into the surrounding hills as well.
Toward evening, military vehicles with siege equipment and assault ladders came speeding into the camp. There were about a hundred of them. The three commanders watched them from the top of the tower.
“They’re not joking about this,” Abu Ali said.
“A serious victory needs a serious opponent,” Hasan replied.
“They could be finished with their preparations in two or three days,” Buzurg Ummid observed. “Then they’ll attack.”
“They won’t approach us from the canyon,” Abu Ali said. “It’s such a confined space that we’d pick them off one by one before any of them even managed to reach our walls. They’re more likely to occupy the surrounding heights and climb down the rock faces to get at the castle. But that won’t be much of a threat either, as long as we stay on our guard.”
“Their leader would have to be an incredibly inventive strategist,” Hasan observed, “if he plans to take the fortress any other way than by starving us out. But someone like that would be famous throughout the world, not just in Iran, and so far I haven’t heard of anybody like that.”
“Time is their greatest ally,” Buzurg Ummid said.
“Ours is my paradise,” Hasan replied, smiling.
The castle was as busy as a beehive. The two forward towers and the walls around them were thick with soldiers. Winches pulled up rocks and heavy logs. Everywhere there were cauldrons for boiling lead, pitch and oil suspended over simple stone fireplaces. The equipment for pouring the white-hot liquids onto the enemy was set up in short order. Commanders in battle helmets and light chain mail ran from one installation to the next, making sure the equipment was ready. Manuchehr and two aides on horseback oversaw all this activity. An almost horrible feeling came over the men. They knew they were surrounded by a huge army, but no one in the castle could see it. Only the three commanders somewhere on the backmost tower had a view of the entire battlefield.
Their faces pale, the novices who were now in the school for fedayeen waited for further orders. Instruction had been temporarily suspended. Suleiman and Yusuf were assigned as their leaders. Over and over, they told them the story of the battle with the Turkish cavalry in all its detail. Their broad gestures encouraged them and filled them with trust. They were already sufficiently trained to offer a picture of exemplary discipline. The greater their fear, the more they longed for the laurels of battle. They were conscious of being an elite unit, and they behaved in accordance with that knowledge.
In the afternoon the order came for them to take up positions on top of the tower where the dovecotes were located. They were armed with bows and spears. A unit of six soldiers who had set up the pitch and oil cauldrons was assigned to them.
After the third prayer the novices brought Suleiman and Yusuf their lunch. They were sitting apart from the others on top of a battlement. Their battle helmets were unfastened at the chin, so they wouldn’t swelter in the humidity. Even so, sweat poured down their faces. Anyone who had seen them six months before would scarcely have recognized the bright youths from then. Their features were hard, almost harsh—testimony to the determination that filled their students—and others—with fear.
“We’ve let ourselves get trapped in the castle like a mouse in its hole,” Suleiman said. “It was different the first time. Hit the enemy on the head with your naked sword! That’s more to my taste.”
“Let’s wait. Maybe Sayyiduna has something really special up his sleeve. Apparently there are more than thirty thousand of the infidels.”