Omar went up to Jahan. He took her hand tenderly, stroked her face with his palm and whispered:
‘I have just been told about Terken Khatun. You have done well to call me to your side.’
When he caressed her hair, Jahan pushed him away.
‘If I have summoned you, it is not so that you can console me, but to consult you on a serious matter.’
Omar took a step backwards, crossed his arms and listened.
‘Barkiyaruk had been caught in a trap and is a prisoner in the palace. The men are divided over the fate that should be meted out to him. Some demand his death, notably those who set the trap. They want to be certain of never having to answer to him for their actions. Others prefer to come to an understanding with him, place him on the throne and win his favours hoping that he will forget his misadventure. Still others have suggested keeping him hostage in order to negotiate with the besiegers. Which path do you advise me to follow?’
‘You snatched me away from my books to ask me that?’
Jahan stood up. She was furious.
‘Does the matter not appear sufficiently serious? My life depends on it. The fate of thousands of people, this city and this empire may depend on your decision. Yet you, Omar Khayyam, you do not wish to be disturbed for such a trifle!’
He went towards the door, and just as he was about to open it he came back over to Jahan.
‘I am consulted after the crime has been committed. What do you want me to tell your friends now? If I counsel them to release the youth, how could I guarantee that he will not wish to slit their throats tomorrow? If I counsel them to keep him as a hostage, or to kill him, I become their accomplice. Leave me out of these quarrels, Jahan, and you too should leave yourself out.’
He looked at her with compassion.
‘One son of a Turkish Sultan replaces another son, a Vizir dismisses a Vizir. By God, Jahan, how can you spend the best years of your life in this cage of wild animals? Let them rip each other’s throats out, kill and die. Will the sun be any less bright or wine any less smooth?’
‘Lower your voice, Omar. You are frightening the child. And we can be overheard in the adjoining rooms.’
Omar persevered:
‘Did you not call me to ask my opinion? Well I shall not beat around the bush: leave this room, abandon this palace, do not look back, do not say goodbye, do not even collect your belongings. Come, give me your hand and let us go home. You will compose your poems and I shall observe my stars. Every evening you will come and curl up naked next to me. Wine with the aroma of musk will make us sing and the world will cease to exist for us. We shall cross it without seeing or hearing it. Neither its mud nor its blood will cleave to the soles of our feet.’
Jahan’s eyes were misty.
‘If I could return to that age of innocence, do you think that I would hesitate? However, it is too late, I have gone too far. If Nizam al-Mulk’s men take Isfahan tomorrow they will not spare me. I am on their list of outlaws.’
‘I was Nizam’s best friend and I shall protect you. They will not come into my house to make off with my wife.’
‘Open your eyes, Omar. You do not know these men. They think only of vengeance. Yesterday they rebuked you for having saved Hassan Sabbah’s head. Tomorrow they will reproach you for having hidden Jahan and they will kill you at the same time as me.’
‘So we will stay together at home, and if my fate is to die with you, I will resign myself to it.’
She straightened herself up.
‘I will not resign myself! I am here in this palace, surrounded by troops who are faithful to me, in a city which is now mine and I shall fight to the end. If I die, it will be as a Sultana.’
‘And how do Sultana’s die? Poisoned, smothered, strangled! Or in childbirth! Pomp will not help you to escape human misery.’
They looked at each in silence for a long while. Jahan drew close to Omar and placed on his lips a kiss which she wanted to be impassioned and sank into his arms, but he pushed her aside, not able to bear farewells. He begged her one last time:
‘If you still attach the least value to our love, come with me, Jahan. The table is laid on the terrace, a light wind from the Yellow Mountains will blow over us and within two hours we will be drunk and we will go to lie down. I shall tell the servants not to wake us until Isfahan changes master.’
CHAPTER 22
That evening the wind from Isfahan carried a sharp perfume of apricot. But how lifeless were the streets! Khayyam took refuge in his observatory. Usually he only had to enter it, look at the sky, and feel in his fingers the graduated disks of the astrolobe in order for the worries of the world to vanish. Not this time. The stars were taciturn, there was no music, not a sound, no secrets. Omar did not rush them for they had to have good reason for remaining silent. He decided to go home and walked slowly holding a reed which sometimes hit against a tuft of grass or an unruly branch.
He was now stretched out in his bedroom with the lights out; his arms desperately held an imaginary Jahan, his eyes were red from tears and wine. On the floor to his left were a carafe and a silver goblet which he seized from time to time with a weary hand in order to take long pensive drafts of disillusion. His lips held a dialogue with him, with Jahan, with Nizam but above all with God. Who else could hold together this universe which was crumbling?
It was not until dawn that an exhausted Omar, his head clouded, finally gave himself over to sleep. How many hours did he sleep? The sound of footsteps woke him up. The sun was already high, and, pouring through a slit in the tenting, forced him to shield his eyes. He was able to make out in the doorway the man whose noisy arrival had disturbed him. He was big and wore a moustache. His hand was tapping the sheath of his sword with a maternal gesture. His head was bound in a bright green turban and on his shoulders was the short velvet cape of the officers of the Nizamiya.
‘Who are you?’ Khayyam asked with a yawn. ‘Who gave you rights over my sleep?’
‘Has the master never seen me with Nizam al-Mulk? I was his bodyguard, his shadow. They call me Vartan the Armenian.’
Omar remembered now and it hardly reassured him. He felt as if a cord were being knotted from his neck to his gut. However, if he was afraid, he did not want to show it.
‘His bodyguard and shadow you say. So it was up to you to protect him from the assassin?’
‘He had ordered me to stay away. Everyone knows that he wanted to die like that. I could have killed one murderer and another would have sprung up. Who am I to intercede between my master and his fate?’
‘And what do you want?’
‘Last night, our troops slipped into Isfahan. The garrison rallied to us. Sultan Barkiyaruk has been rescued and this city belongs to him from now on.’
Khayyam sat bolt upright.
‘Jahan!’
It was a shout and an anguished question. Vartan said nothing. His worried air jarred with his martial bearing. Omar thought he could read in his eyes a monstrous admission. The officer muttered:
‘I really wanted to try and save her. I would have been so proud to present myself to the illustrious Khayyam, bringing to him his spouse, unharmed! But I arrived too late. All the people of the palace had been massacred by the soldiers.’
Omar went toward the officer and punched him as hard as he could without even succeeding in shaking him.
‘And you have come here to tell me that!’
The officer kept his hand on the sheath of his sword but had not drawn it. He spoke calmly.