Samarkand (3 page)

Did the
qadi
know that with that gesture and those words he was giving birth to one of the best-kept secrets in the history of literature,
and that the world would have to wait eight centuries to discover the sublime poetry of Omar Khayyam, for the
Rubaiyaat
to be revered as one of the most original works of all time even before the strange fate of the Samarkand manuscript was
known?

That night, Omar tried in vain to catch some sleep in a belvedere, a wooden pavilion on a bare hillock in the middle of Abu
Taher’s huge garden. Near him on a low table lay a quill and ink-pot, an unlit lamp and his book – open at the first page
which was still blank.

At first light there was an apparition. A beautiful slave-girl brought him a plate of sliced melon, a new outfit and a winding-scarf
of Zandan silk for his turban. She whispered a message to him.

‘The master will await you after the morning prayer.’

The room was already packed with plaintiffs, beggars, courtiers, friends and visitors of all sorts, and amongst them was Scar-Face
who had doubtless come for news. As soon as Omar stepped through the door the
qadi’s
voice steered everyone’s gaze and comment to him.

‘Welcome to Imam Omar Khayyam, the man without equal in knowledge of the traditions of the Prophet, a reference that none
can contest, a voice that none can contradict.’

One after another, the visitors arose, bowed and muttered a phrase before sitting down again. Out of the corner of his eye,
Omar watched Scar-Face who seemed very subdued in his corner, but still had a timid smirk on his face.

In the most formal manner, Abu Taher bid Omar take his place at his right, making a great show of dismissing those near him.
He then continued, ‘Our eminent visitor had a mishap yesterday evening. This man who is honoured in Khorassan, Fars and Mazandaran,
this man whom every city wishes to receive within its walls and whom every prince hopes to attract to his court, this man
was molested yesterday in the streets of Samarkand.’

Expressions of shock could be heard, followed by a commotion which the
qadi
allowed to grow a little before signalling for quiet and continuing.

‘Worse still, there was almost a riot in the bazaar. A riot on the eve of the visit of our revered sovereign, Nasr Khan, the
Sun of Royalty, who is to arrive this very morning from Bukhara, God willing! I dare not imagine what distress we would be
in today if the crowd had not been contained and dispersed. I tell you that heads would not be resting easy on shoulders!’

He stopped to get his breath, to drive his point home and let fear work its way into the audience’s hearts.

‘Happily one of my old students, who is with us here, recognized our eminent visitor and came to warn me.’

He pointed a finger towards Scar-Face and invited him to rise.

‘How did you recognize Imam Omar?’

He muttered a few syllables in answer.

‘Louder! Our old uncle here cannot hear you!’ shouted the
qadi
, indicating an ancient man with a white beard to his left.

‘I recognized the eminent visitor by his eloquence,’ Scar-Face could hardly get the words out. ‘and I asked him who he was
before bringing him to our
qadi.’

‘You did well. Had the riot continued, there might have been blood-shed. You deserve to come and sit next to our guest.’

As Scar-Face was approaching with an air of false submission, Abu Taher whispered in Omar’s ear, ‘He may not be your friend,
but he will not dare to lay into you in public.’

He continued in a loud voice, ‘Can I hope that in spite of everything that he has been through,
Khawaja
Omar will not have too bad a memory of Samarkand?’

‘I have already forgotten whatever happened yesterday evening,’
replied Khayyam. ‘In the future, when I think of this city, a completely different image will spring to mind, the image of
a wonderful man. I am not speaking of Abu Taher. The highest praise one can give to a
qadi
is not to extol his qualities but the honesty of those for whom he has responsibility. As it happens, on the day I arrived
my mule had struggled up the last slope leading to the Kish Gate, and I myself had hardly put my feet on the ground when a
man accosted me.

‘“Welcome to this town,” he said. ‘Do you have family, or friends here?”

‘I replied that I did not, without stopping, fearing that he might be some sort of crook, or at the very least a beggar or
irksome. But the man went on:

‘“Do not be mistrustful of my insistence, noble visitor. It is my master who has ordered to wait here and offer his hospitality
to all travellers who turn up.”

The man seemed to be of a modest background, but he was dressed in clean clothes and not unaware of the manners of respectable
people. I followed him. A few steps on, he had me enter a heavy door and I crossed a vaulted corridor to find myself in the
courtyard of a caravansary with a well in the centre and men and animals bustling all about. Around the edges, on two floors,
there were rooms for travellers. The man said, “You can stay here as long as you wish, be it one night or the whole season.
You will find a bed and food and fodder for your mule.”

‘When I asked him how much I had to pay, he was offended.

‘“You are my master’s guest.”

‘“Tell me where my generous host is, so that I can address my thanks to him.”

‘“My master died seven years ago, leaving me a sum of money which I must spend to honour visitors to Samarkand.”

‘“What was your master’s name, so that I can tell of his acts of kindness?”

‘“You should give thanks to the Almighty alone. He knows whose acts of kindness are being carried out in His name.”

‘That is how it came about that I stayed with this man for several days. I went out and about, and whenever I came back I
found
plates piled high with delicious dishes and my horse was better cared for than if I myself had been looking after him.’

Omar glanced at this audience, looking for some reaction, but his story had not caused any looks of surprise or mystery. The
qadi
, guessing Omar’s confusion, explained.

‘Many cities like to think that they are the most hospitable in all the lands of Islam, but only the inhabitants of Samarkand
deserve the credit. As far as I know, no traveller has ever had to pay for his lodgings or food. I know whole families who
have been ruined honouring visitors or the needy, but you will never hear them boast of it. The fountains you have seen on
every street corner, filled with sweet water to slake the thirst of passers-by of which there are more than two thousand in
this city made of tile, copper or porcelain have all been provided by the people of Samarkand. But do you think that a single
man has had his name inscribed on one to garner gratitude?’

‘I must confess that I have nowhere met such generosity. Would you allow me to pose a question which has been bothering me?’

The
qadi
took the words out of his mouth, ‘I know what you are going to ask: how can people who so esteem the virtues of hospitality
be capable of violence against a visitor such as yourself?’

‘Or against a poor old man like Jaber the Lanky?’

‘The answer I am going to give you is summed up in one word – fear. All violence here is born of fear. Our faith is being
attacked from all sides by the Qarmatians in Bahrain, the Imamis of Qom, the seventy-two sects, the Rum in Constantinople,
infidels of all denominations and above all the Ismailis in Egypt who have a massive following right in the heart of Baghdad
and even here in Samarkand. Never forget that our cities of Islam – Mecca, Medina, Isfahan, Baghdad, Damascus, Bukhara, Merv,
Cairo, Samarkand – are no more than oases that will revert to being desert if neglected for a moment. They are constantly
at the mercy of a sand-storm!’

Through a window to his left the
qadi
expertly calculated the sun’s passage. He stood up.

‘It is time to go and meet our sovereign,’ he said.

He clapped his hands.

‘Bring us some fortification for the journey.’

It was his practice to supply himself with raisins to munch on his way, a practice much imitated by those around him and those
who came to visit him. Hence the immense copper platter which was brought in to him piled high with a mound of these pale
treats for everyone to stuff their pockets.

When it was Scar-Face’s turn, he grabbed a small handful which he held out to Khayyam with the words, ‘I suppose that you
would prefer me to offer these to you as wine.’

He did not speak in a very loud voice, but as if by magic everyone present fell silent. They stood with bated breath, watching
Omar lips. He spoke.

‘When one wishes to drink wine, one chooses carefully one’s cupbearer and drinking companion.’

Scar-Face’s voice rose a little.

‘For my part, I would not touch a drop. I am hoping for a place in paradise. You do not seem anxious to join me there.’

‘The whole of eternity in the company of sententious
ulema?
No, thank you. God promised us something else.’

The exchange stopped there. Omar hurried to join the
qadi
who was calling him.

‘The townspeople must see you ride next to me. That will dispel their impressions of yesterday evening.’

In the crowd gathered around the residence, Omar thought he could make out the almond-seller concealed in the shadow of a
pear-tree. He slowed down and looked around for her, but Abu Taher badgered him.

‘Faster. Woe betide you should the Khan arrive before us.’

‘Since the dawn of time astrologers have proclaimed that four cities were born under the sign of revolt, Samarkand, Mecca,
Damascus and Palermo, and their words are truth! These cities have only ever submitted to government through force. They follow
the straight path only when it is traced by the sword. The Prophet reduced the arrogance of the Meccans by the sword and it
is by the sword that I will reduce the arrogance of the people of Samarkand!’

Nasr Khan, the master of Transoxania, a bronzed giant in flowing embroidered robes, gesticulated standing in front of his
throne. His voice caused trembling amongst his household and visitors. His eyes sought out amongst those present a victim,
a lip that might dare to tremble, an insufficiently contrite look, the memory of some treachery. By instinct everyone slipped
behind his neighbour, letting his back, neck and shoulders slump, and waited for the storm to pass.

Having found no prey for his claws, Nasr Khan grabbed armfuls of his ceremonial robes and in a fury flung them one after another
into a pile at his feet, yelling insult after insult in the sonorous Turco-Mongol dialect of Kashgar. According to custom,
sovereigns would wear three, four or sometimes seven layers of embroidered robes, which they peeled off during the day, solemnly
placing them on the backs of those whom they wish to honour. Behaving in such
a manner, Nasr Khan showed that day that he had no intention of gratifying any of his numerous visitors.

As with every sovereign’s visit to Samarkand, this was to have been a day of festivities, but any trace of joy was extinguished
in the first minutes. Having climbed the paved road leading up from the River Siab, the Khan effected his solemn entry by
the Bukhara Gate at the north of the city. He smiled with his whole face, making his small eyes seem more deeply set, more
slanting than ever, and making his cheekbones glow in the amber reflection of the sun. Then suddenly he lost his good humour.
He approached a group of some two hundred notables who were gathered around the
qadi
Abu Taher, focusing a worried and almost suspicious gaze upon the group in whose midst was Omar Khayyam. Apparently not having
seen those he sought, he abruptly made his horse rear up, jerked hard on the reins and moved off, grumbling inaudibly. Rigid
on his black mare, he no longer smiled, nor did he respond with the slightest gesture to the repeated cheers of the thousands
of citizens who had been gathering there since dawn to greet him. Some of them held up petitions, composed by some public
scribe. In vain, for no one dared to present his petition to the sovereign, but rather applied to the chamberlain who leaned
over again and again to accept the sheets, mouthing a vague promise to take action.

Preceded by four horsemen, holding aloft the brown standards of the dynasty, followed on foot by a slave naked to the waist
and bearing a huge parasol, the Khan crossed the great thoroughfares lined with twisting mulberry trees without stopping.
He avoided the bazaars and went along the main irrigation canals, called
ariks
, until he came to the district of Asfizar. There he had had set up a temporary palace, directly adjoining Abu Taher’s residence.
In the past, sovereigns would lodge inside the citadel, but since recent battles had left it in a state of extreme dilapidation,
it had had to be abandoned. Now, only the Turkish garrison would periodically erect its yurts there.

Having observed the sovereign’s bad humour, Omar hesitated to go to the palace to give his respects, but the
qadi
urged him, no doubt in the hope that the presence of his eminent friend would provide a favourable distraction. On the way,
Abu Taher took it
upon himself to brief Khayyam on what had just transpired. The religious dignitaries of the city had decided to boycott the
reception, accusing the Khan of having burnt down the Grand Mosque of Bukhara where armed opponents had entrenched themselves.
‘Between the sovereign and the religious establishment,’ explained the
qadi
, ‘the war rages on as ever. Sometimes it is overt and bloody, but most often clandestine and insidious.’

It was even rumoured that the
ulema
had made contact with a number of officers who were exasperated by the behaviour of the prince. His forbears used to eat
with the troops, they said, omitting no occasion to state that their power derived from the bravery of their people’s warriors.
But from one generation to the next, the Turkish khans had acquired the regrettable habits of the Persian monarchs. They thought
of themselves as demi-gods, surrounding themselves with an increasingly complex ceremonial which was incomprehensible and
humiliating for their officers. A number of the latter had thus consulted the religious chiefs. They took pleasure in hearing
the officers vilify Nasr and accuse him of having cast aside the ways of Islam. To intimidate the military, the sovereign
reacted harshly against the
ulema
. Had not his father, a pious man moreover, inaugurated his reign by cutting off an abundantly turbaned head?