CHAPTER 13
That day Khayyam was no longer capable of reflecting, weighing up or evaluating. After leaving the diwan, he disappeared into the narrowest alley of the bazaar, meandered past men and beasts and made his way under the stucco vaults between mounds of spices. At each step the alley became a little darker and the crowd seemed to be moving sluggishly and speaking in murmurs. Merchants and customers were masked actors and sleepwalking dancers. Omar groped his way along, now to the left, now to the right, afraid of falling down or fainting. Suddenly he came upon a small square which was flooded with light, a clearing in the jungle. The harsh sun beat down on him. He straightened up and breathed. What was happening to him? He was being offered a paradise which was shackled to a hell. How could he say yes, how could he say no. How could he face the Grand Vizir or leave town with any dignity? To his right, a tavern door was half open. He pushed it and went down a few steps strewn with sand and came out into a dimly lit room with a low ceiling. The floor was damp earth, the benches looked unsteady and the tables unwashed. He ordered a dry wine from Qom. It was brought to him in a chipped jar. He breathed it in for a long while with shut eyes.
The blessed time of my youth passes by,
I pour out the wine of my oblivion.
Bitter it is, and thus it pleases me.
For this bitterness is the zest of my life.
Suddenly, however, an idea occurred to him. He doubtless had had to come to this sordid den to find it; the idea had been waiting for him there, on that table, at the third mouthful of the fourth goblet. He settled his bill, left a generous baksheesh and resurfaced. Night had fallen, the square was already empty, with every alley of the bazaar closed off by a heavy portal and Omar had to make a detour to get back to his caravansary.
Hassan was already asleep, his face severe and pained, as Khayyam tiptoed into his room. Omar contemplated him for a long while. A thousand questions ran through his mind, but he brushed them aside without trying to find answers. His decision was taken and it was irrevocable.
There is a legend common in the books. It speaks of three friends, three Persians who marked, each in his own fashion, the beginnings of our millenium: Omar Khayym who observed the world, Nizam al-Mulk who governed it and Hassan Sabbah who terrorized it. They are said to have studied together at Nishapur, which cannot be correct since Nizam was thirty years older than Omar and Hassan carried on his studies at Rayy, and perhaps a little in his native town of Qom, but certainly not at Nishapur.
Is the truth to be found in the Samarkand Manuscript? The chronicle which runs along the margins asserts that the three men met for the first time in Isfahan, in the diwan of the Grand Vizir, on the initiative of Khayyam — acting as destiny’s blind apprentice.
Nizam had secluded himself in the palace’s small hall and was surrounded by papers. As soon as he saw Omar’s face in the doorway he understood that his response would be negative.
‘So, you are indifferent to my projects.’
Khayyam replied, contritely but firmly:
‘Your dreams are grandiose and I hope that they will be realized, but my contribution cannot be what you have proposed. When it comes to secrets and those who reveal them, I am on the side of the secrets. The first time an agent came to me to report a conversation, I would order him to be silent, state that it was neither my business nor his and I would ban him from my house. My curiosity about people and things is expressed in a different way.’
‘I respect your decision and do not deem it useless for the empire that some men devote themselves completely to science. Naturally, you will still receive everything I promised you — the annual sum of gold, the house, the observatory. I never take back what I have given of my own accord. I would have wished to be able to associate you more closely with my work, but I take consolation in the fact that the chronicles will write for posterity that Omar Khayyam lived in the era of Nizam al-Mulk and that he was honoured, sheltered from bad weather and was able to say no to the Grand Vizir without risking disgrace.’
‘I do not know if I will ever be able to show the gratitude which your magnanimity deserves.’
Omar broke off. He hesitated before continuing:
‘Perhaps I may be able to make you forget my refusal by presenting to you a man I have just met. He is a man of great intelligence, his knowledge is immense and his genius is disarming. He seems just right for the office of sahib-khabar and I am sure that your proposal will delight him. He conceded to me that he had come from Rayy to Isfahan with the firm hope of being employed by you.’
‘An ambitious man,’ Nazim murmured between his teeth. ‘But that is my fate. When I find a trustworthy man, he lacks ambition and scorns the apparatus of power; and when a man appears ready to jump at the first office I offer him, his haste unnerves me.’
He seemed tired and resigned.
‘By what name is this man known?’
‘Hassan, son of Ali Sabbah. I must warn you, however, that he was born in Qom.’
‘A Shiite missionary? That does not worry me, even though I am hostile to all heresies and all deviations. Some of my best collaborators are sectarians of Ali, my best soldiers are Armenians and my treasurers are Jews, but that does not mean that I withhold my trust and protection from them. The only ones I distrust are the Ismailis. I do not suppose that your friend belongs to that sect?’
‘I do not know. However, Hassan has come here with me. He is waiting outside. With your permission I will summon him and you will be able to question him.’
Omar disappeared for a few seconds and came back accompanied by his friend, who did not appear in the least intimidated. However, Khayyam could make out two muscles in Hassan’s beard which were flexing and shaking.
‘I present Hassan Sabbah. Never has such a tightly-wound turban held such knowledge.’
Nizam smiled.
‘Here I am surrounded by the learned. Is it not said that the prince who frequents and keeps the company of scholars is the best of princes?’
It was Hassan who retorted:
‘It is also said that the scholar who keeps the company of princes is the worst of scholars.’
An unaffected but brief laugh drew them together. Nizam was already knitting his brows. He wanted the inevitable series of proverbs which preceded any Persian conversation to be over quickly, in order to make clear to Hassan what he expected of him. Curiously enough, from the very first words they found themselves in collusion. It now only remained for Omar to slip away.
Thus Hassan Sabbah very quickly became the indispensable collaborator of the Grand Vizir. He had succeeded in setting up an elaborate network of agents disguised as merchants, dervishes and pilgrims, who criss-crossed the Seljuk empire, not letting any palace, house or bazaar out of their earshot. Plots, rumours and scandals were all reported, exposed and thwarted in either a discreet or an exemplary manner.
At first, Nizam was overjoyed at having the fearsome machinery under his control. He elicited some satisfaction from the Sultan, who had previously been reticent. Had not his father, Alp Arslan, recommended that he abhor this type of politics? ‘When you have planted spies everywhere,’ he had warned, ‘your true friends will not be on their guard since they know that they are loyal. But the felons will be on the look-out. They will want to bribe the informers. Gradually you will start receiving reports which are unfavourable to your true friends and favourable to your enemies. Good or bad words are like arrows, when you fire many there is always one which hits its target. Your heart will then be hardened against your friends, the felons will take their place at your side, and what will be left of your power?’