Omar was happy for two years and he worked feverishly. We are told that he carried out astonishing experiments in weather forecasting, his knowledge of the sky allowing him to note exactly the changes of climate over five successive days. He also developed his mathematical theories which were way ahead of his time. It was not until the nineteenth century that European researchers recognized him to be the brilliant precursor of non-Euclidean geometry. He also wrote rubaiyaat, stimulated, we must believe, by the outstanding quality of Merv’s vineyards.
For all that, there was evidently a negative side. Omar was obliged to be present at endless palace ceremonies and to pay homage solemnly to the sovereign at each feast, whenever a prince was circumcised, upon the sovereign’s return from the hunt or the country, and to be in frequent attendance at the diwan, ready to utter a witticism, a quotation or a fitting verse. These sessions exhausted Omar. As well as the impression of having put on the skin of a performing bear, he was always aware of losing precious time at the palace which he could have turned to better use at his work table, not to mention the risk of unpleasant encounters.
Like the one which took place that cold February day, when someone picked a memorable quarrel with him over a youthful quatrain which had fallen into jealous ears. That day the diwan was packed with beturbaned intellectuals and the monarch was overjoyed as he blissfully contemplated his court.
When Omar arrived, debate was already raging on a subject which fascinated the men of religion: ‘Could the universe have been created better?’ Those who replied ‘yes’ laid themselves open to accusation of impiety since they implied that God had not taken sufficient care over his work.
Those who replied ‘no’ were also open to accusation of impiety, as they were giving to understand that the Almighty was incapable of doing better.
They were in hot discussion, with much gesticulating. Khayyam was happy absent-mindedly to watch everyone’s expressions. However a speaker called him, heaped praise upon his erudition and asked for his opinion. Omar cleared his throat. He had not yet uttered a single syllable when the grand qadi of Merv, who had never appreciated Khayyam’s presence in his city, nor the considerations constantly shown to him, jumped up from his place and pointed an accusing finger at him.
‘I did not know that an atheist could express opinions on the questions of our faith!’
Omar gave a tired but worried smile.
‘Who gives you permission to treat me as an atheist? At least wait until you have heard me out!’
‘I have no need to hear you. Is it not to you that this verse has been attributed: “If You punish with evil the evil I have done, tell, what is the difference between You and me?” Is not the man who puts forward such words an atheist?’
Omar shrugged.
‘If I did not believe that God existed, I would not address Him!’
‘But you would address him in that tone?’ sniggered the qadi.
‘It is to sultans and qadis that one must speak with circumlocution — not to the Creator. God is great, he has nothing to do with our airs and graces. He made me a thinker and so I think, and I give over to him the undiluted fruits of my thought.’
To murmurs of approval from those present, the qadi withdrew, uttering dire threats. When he had stopped laughing, the sovereign was beset with worry, fearing the consequences in certain quarters. As his expression became gloomy his visitors hurried to take their leave.
As he returned home accompanied by Vartan, Omar inveighed against court life with its snares and time-wasting, promising himself that he would leave Merv as soon as possible; his disciple was not too concerned as it was the seventh time that his master had threatened to leave; as a rule, he was much calmer the next day having taken up his research again, and that was the appropriate time to console him.
That evening, back in his room, Omar wrote in his book a vexed quatrain which ended as follows:
Swap your turban for some wine
And without regrets, put on a woollen hat!
Then he slipped the manuscript into its usual hiding place, between the bed and the wall. When he woke up, he wanted to re-read his rubai since one word seemed to him out of place. He groped about and grasped the book. It was as he opened it that he discovered the letter from Hassan Sabbah which had been slipped between the two pages as he slept.
In an instant Omar recognized the writing and the nomenclature agreed upon between them forty years earlier: The friend from the caravansary at Kashan.’ As he read it he could not help bursting out laughing. Vartan, who was just waking up in his adjoining room came in to see what was amusing his master so much after his ill feelings of the night before.
‘We have just received a generous invitation. We can be lodged, protected and have all our expenses looked after until the end of our lives.’
‘By which great prince?’
‘The prince of Alamut.’
Vartan jumped. He felt guilty.
‘How could the letter have got here? I checked all the doors and windows before I went to lie down!’
‘Do not try to find out. Sultans and Caliphs themselves have given up protecting themselves. When Hassan decides to send you a message or a dagger’s blade, you can be certain of receiving it whether your doors are wide open or padlocked.’
The disciple held the letter to his moustache, sniffed it noisily and then read and re-read it.
‘That demon may well have a point,’ he concluded. ‘It is indeed at Alamut that your safety would be best assured. After all, Hassan is your oldest friend.’
‘For the moment, my oldest friend is the new wine of Merv!’
With childish glee, Omar set to tearing up the sheet of paper into a multitude of little pieces which he threw up in the air. As he watched them flutter down, he started to speak again:
‘What do we have in common, this man and I? I worship life and he worships death. I write: “If you cannot love, what use is the rising and the setting of the sun?” Hassan demands his men to give no heed to love, music, poetry, wine or the sun. He despises the most beautiful things in all creation, yet he dares pronounce the name of the Creator — and to promise people paradise! Believe you me, if his fortress were the gateway of paradise, I would renounce paradise! I shall never set foot in that den of pious shams.’
Vartan sat down and had a good scratch of his neck before saying, in the most exhausted of voices:
‘If that is your response then the time has come for me to reveal to you a secret which has been kept too long. Have you never wondered why the soldiers let us pass through so easily when we fled from Isfahan?’
‘It has always intrigued me, but since I have seen nothing but loyalty, devotion and filial affection from you for years, I have not wished to stir up the past.’
‘That day, the officers of the Nizamiya knew that I was going to save you and leave with you. That was part of a strategy which I had drawn up.’
Before carrying on, he served his master, and himself, a useful glass of grenadine wine.
‘You do know that the list of outlaws set up by Nizam al-Mulk contained the name of one man whom we had never managed to reach — Hassan Sabbah. Was he not the man principally responsible for the assassination? My plan was simple: to leave with you in the hope that you would take refuge in Alamut. I would have accompanied you, asking you not to reveal my identity and I would have found an occasion to rid the Muslims and the entire world of that demon. However, you have stubbornly refused to set foot in the dark fortress.’