It was a vast room with brocade-lined walls, and at one end it had a sort of vaulted niche protected by a curtain, which fluttered indicating someone’s presence behind it. Khayyam had hardly entered before the door was shut with a muffled sound. Another minute of waiting and confusion ensued before a woman’s voice was heard. He did not recognise it, but he thought he could identify a certain Turkish dialect. However, the voice was low and the speech was rapid with only a few words emerging like rocks in a flood. The gist of the discourse escaped him and he wanted to interrupt her and ask her to speak in Persian or Arabic, or just more slowly, but it was not so easy to address a woman through a curtain. Suddenly another voice took over:
‘My mistress, Terken Khatun, the wife of the Sultan, thanks you for having come to this meeting.’
This time the language was Persian, and the voice was one that Khayyam would recognize in a bazaar on the Day of Judgement. He was going to shout, but his shout quickly turned into a happy but plaintive murmur:
‘Jahan!’
She pulled aside the edge of the curtain, raised her veil and smiled, but with a gesture prevented him from drawing close to her.
‘The Sultana,’ she said, ‘is worried about the struggle unfolding within the diwan. Disquiet is spreading and blood is going to be spilled. The Sultan himself is very concerned about this and has become irritable. The harem resounds with his bursts of anger. This situation cannot last. The Sultana knows that you are attempting to do the impossible and reconcile the two protagonists, and she desires to see you succeed, but such success seems distant.’
Khayyam concurred with a resigned nod of his head. Jahan continued:
‘Things having come so far, Terken Khatun considers that it would be preferable to dismiss the two adversaries and to confer the vizirate upon a decent man who can calm spirits down. Her spouse, our master, is surrounded, according to her, with schemers, but he just needs a wise man who is devoid of base ambition, a man of sound judgement and excellent counsel. As the Sultan holds you in high esteem, she would like to suggest to him that he name you Grand Vizir. Your nomination would relieve the whole court. Nevertheless, before putting forward such a suggestion, she would like to be assured of your agreement.’
Omar took some time to digest what was being asked of him, but he called out:
‘By God, Jahan! Are you after my downfall? Can you see me commanding the armies of the empire, decapitating people or quelling a slave revolt? Leave me to my stars!’
‘Listen to me, Omar. I know that you have no desire to conduct affairs of state, your role will be simply to be there! The decisions will be taken and carried out by others!’
‘In other words, you will be the real Vizir, and your mistress the real Sultan. Isn’t that what you are after?’
‘And how would that upset you? You would have the honours with none of the worries. What better could you wish for?’
Terken Khatun intervened to qualify her proposal. Jahan translated:
‘My mistress says it is because men like you turn away from politics that we are so badly governed. She considers you to have all the qualities of an excellent vizir.’
‘Tell her that the qualities needed to govern are not those which are needed in order to accede to power. In order to run things smoothly, one must forget oneself and only be interested in others — particularly the most unfortunate; to get into power, one must be the greediest of men, think only of oneself and be ready to crush one’s closest friends. I, however, will not crush anyone!’
For the moment, the two women’s projects were at a standstill. Omar refused to bend to their demands. Anyway, it would have served no use as the confrontation between Nizam and Hassan had become unavoidable.
That same day, the audience hall was a peaceful arena, and the fifteen people there were content to watch in silence. Malikshah himself, usually so exuberant, was conversing in hushed tones with his chamberlain while idiosyncratically twiddling with the ends of his moustache. From time to time he shot a glance at the two gladiators. Hassan was standing up, wearing a creased black robe and a black turban and wearing his beard lower than usual. His face was furrowed and his searing eyes were ready to meet those of Nizam, although they were red with fatigue and lack of sleep. Behind him a secretary carried a bundle of papers tied up with a wide band of Cordovan.
As a privilege that comes with age, the Grand Vizir was seated, or more correctly slumped, in a chair. His robe was grey, his beard flecked with white and his forehead wizened. Only his glance was young and alert, one might even say sparkling. Two of his sons accompanied him, flashing looks of hatred or defiance.
Right next to the Sultan was Omar, as dour as he was overwhelmed. He was drawing up in his mind various conciliatory words which he would doubtless not have occasion to utter.
‘Today is the day that we were promised a detailed report on the state of our Treasury. Is it ready?’ asked Malikshah.
Hassan leaned over.
‘My promise has been kept. Here is the report.’
He turned towards his secretary who came forward to meet him and carefully untied the leather band holding together the pile of papers. Sabbah started to read them out. The first pages were, as custom would have it, expressions of thanks, pious discourses, erudite quotations and well-turned eloquent pages, but the audience was waiting for more. Then it came:
‘I have been able to calculate precisely,’ he declared,’ what the tax office of every province and known town has sent in to the royal Treasury. In the same way, I have evaluated the booty won from the enemy and I now know how this gold has been spent …’
With great ceremony, he cleared his throat, handed to his secretary the page he had just read, and fixed his eyes on the next one. His lips opened a little and then shut tight. Silence fell again. He threw aside the leaf of paper and then set that one aside with a furious gesture. There was still silence.
The Sultan was becoming a little anxious and impatient:
‘What is going on? We are listening to you.’
‘Master, I cannot find the continuation. I had arranged my papers in order. The sheet I am looking for must have fallen out. I shall find it.’
He leafed through them again, rather pathetically. Nizam made the most of the situation by intervening, in a tone which tried to sound magnanimous:
‘Anyone can lose a piece of paper. We should not hold that against our young friend. Instead of waiting around, I propose that we go on with the rest of the report.’
‘You are right, ata, let us go on with the report.’
Everyone noticed that the Sultan had called his Vizir ‘father’ anew. Did this mean that he was back in favour? While Hassan was still caught up in the most pathetic state of confusion, the Vizir pushed his advantage:
‘Let us forget this lost page. Instead of making the Sultan wait, I suggest that our brother Hassan presents to us the figures on some important cities or provinces.’
The Sultan was eager to agree. Nizam carried on:
‘Let us take the city of Nishapur, for example, the birthplace of Omar Khayyam, who is here with us. Could we be informed how much that city and its province have contributed to the Treasury?’
‘Immediately,’ responded Hassan, who had been trying to land on his feet.
He had ploughed expertly through his pile of papers, trying to extract page thirty-four where he had written everything about Nishapur, but it was in vain.
‘The page is not there,’ he said. ‘It has disappeared, I have been robbed of it … Someone has messed up my papers …’