‘Do you remember the man who was nicknamed “Scar-Face?”’
‘How could I forget that he debated my own death in front of my eyes?’
‘You remember how he lost his temper at the slightest suspicion of a smell of heresy? Well, three years ago he joined the Ismailis and today he is proclaiming their errors with the same zeal with which he used to defend the True Faith. Hundreds and thousands of citizens are following him. He is master of the street and imposes his law on the merchants in the bazaar. On several occasions I have been to see the Khan. You knew Nasr Khan and his sudden outbursts of anger which subsided just as quickly, his fits of violence or prodigality, may God save his soul. I mention his name in every prayer. Today power is in the hands of his nephew, Ahmed, a smooth-chinned young man who is irresolute and unpredictable. I never know how to approach him. On many occasions I have complained to him about the machinations of the heretics. I have explained to him the dangers of the situation but he was distracted and bored and only half listened to me. Seeing that he had not taken any decision to act, I gathered the commanders of the militia as well as several officials whose loyalty I had acquired and requested them to place the Ismailis’ meetings under surveillance. Three trusty men took it in turn to follow Scar-Face, my aim being to present to the Khan a detailed report in order to open his eyes to their activities, until my men informed me that the chief of the heretics had arrived in Samarkand.’
‘Hassan Sabbah?’
‘In person. My men had positioned themselves at both ends of Abdack Street, in the district of Ghatfar, where an Ismaili meeting was being held. When Sabbah came out, disguised as a Sufi, they jumped him, placed a sack over his head and brought him to me.
‘Immediately I led him to the palace to announce news of his capture to the sovereign. Then, for the first time, he appeared interested and asked to see the man. Except that when Sabbah was brought before him, he ordered his cords to be untied and for them to be left alone together. In vain I tried to warn him against this dangerous heretic, recalling the misdeeds of which he was guilty, but to no avail. He wanted, he claimed, to convince the man to return to the straight path. Their conversation went on and on. From time to time one of his courtiers would half-open the door, but the two men were still talking. At first dawn they were both seen suddenly prostrating themselves in prayer, murmuring the same words. The counsellors jostled with each other to try and observe them.’
After taking a mouthful of orgeat syrup, Abu Taher uttered a formula of gratitude before carrying on:
‘Going by the evidence, it was certain that the master of Samarkand, the sovereign of Transoxania and heir to the dynasty of the Black Khans had gone over to the heresy. Naturally he avoided proclaiming this fact and continued to affect attachment to the True Faith, but nothing was the same any more. The Prince’s counsellors were replaced by Ismailis. The chiefs of the militia, who had effected Sabbah’s capture, died brutally one after another. My own guard was replaced by Scar-Face’s men. What choice did I have left except to leave with the first pilgrim caravan and to come and make the situation known to those who carry the sword of Islam, Nizam al-Mulk and Malikshah.’
That evening Khayyam took Abu Taher to the Vizir. He introduced him and then left them to talk in private. As Nizam listened reverently to his visitor his face took on a worried expression. When the qadi stopped speaking, he spoke up:
‘Do you know who is really responsible for Samarkand’s misfortunes, and for all of ours too? It is the man who brought you here!’
‘Omar Khayyam?’
‘Who else? It was khawaja Omar who interceded for Hassan Sabbah on the day I could have obtained his death. He prevented us from killing him. Can he now prevent him from killing us?’
The qadi did not know what to say. Nizam sighed. A short embarrassed silence ensued.
‘What do you suggest doing?’
It was Nizam who was asking the question. Abu Taher already had his idea formulated and he spoke it in the tones of a solemn proclamation:
‘It is time for the Seljuk flag to fly over Samarkand.’
The Vizir’s face lit up and then darkened again.
‘Your words are worth their weight in gold. I have been telling the Sultan for years that the empire should extend to Transoxania and that cities as prestigious and prosperous as Samarkand and Bukhara cannot remain outside the realm of our authority, but it was wasted effort. Malikshah would not listen.’
‘The Khan’s army, mind you, is greatly weakened. Its emirs are no longer paid and its forts are falling into ruin.’
‘We are aware of that.’
‘Is Malikshah afraid of undergoing the same fate as his father Alp Arslan if, as his father did, he crosses the river?’
‘Not at all.’
The qadi asked no more questions, but awaited further elucidation.
‘The Sultan is afraid neither of the river nor of the enemy army,’ stated Nizam. ‘He is afraid of a woman!’
‘Terken Khatun?’
‘She has sworn that, if Malikshah crosses the river, she will ban him from her couch and transform her harem into Gehenna. Let us not forget that Samarkand is her city. Nasr Khan was her brother and Ahmed Khan is her nephew. It is to her family that Transoxania belongs. If the kingdom built up by her ancestors were to collapse she would lose the position she occupies amongst the palace women and the chances of her son one day succeeding Malikshah would be compromised.’
‘But her son is only two years old!’
‘Precisely. The younger he is, the more his mother must fight to keep his trump cards.’
‘If I have understood correctly,’ concluded the qadi, ‘the Sultan will never agree to take Samarkand.’
‘I have not said that, but we must make him change his mind and it will not be easy to find more persuasive arms than those of Khatun.’
The qadi blushed. He smiled politely, without letting himself be deflected from his mission.
‘Would it not suffice for me to repeat to the Sultan what I have just told you and to inform him of the plot hatched by Hassan Sabbah?’
‘No,’ Nizam replied drily.
For a moment he was too absorbed to argue. He was formulating a plan. His visitor waited for him to make up his mind.
‘Now,’ the Vizir pronounced with authority, ‘you will go tomorrow morning and present yourself at the door of the Sultan’s harem and ask to see the chief of the eunuchs. You will tell him that you have come from Samarkand and that you wish to convey news of her family to Terken Khatun. As you are the qadi of her city and an old servant of her dynasty, she will have to receive you.’
The qadi had only to nod his head for Nizam to continue:
‘Once in the tentwork room, you will tell her about the misery Samarkand is in because of the heretics, but you will omit to mention Ahmed’s conversion. On the contrary, you will make sure to tell her that Hassan Sabbah covets her throne, that her life is in danger and that only providence can still save her. You will add that you have been to see me but that I was hardly inclined to listen to you, nay I even dissuaded you from speaking about it to the Sultan.’
The next day the plan worked without the slightest hitch. While Terken Khatun took it upon herself to convince the Sultan of the need to save the Khan of Samarkand, Nizam al-Mulk, who was pretending to be against this, threw himself into making preparations for the expedition. By this make-believe war Nizam was not just trying to annexe Transoxania, and even less was he trying to save Samarkand, but above all to re-establish his prestige which had been slighted by Ismaili subversion. For that, he needed a clear and stunning victory. For years his spies had been swearing to him, every day, that Hassan had been pinned down, and that he was on the point of being apprehended, but the rebel was not up for capture and his troops vanished at the first contact. Nizam was thus seeking a chance to confront him face to face, army to army. Samarkand was just the perfect place.