Samarkand (7 page)

On the ground, Alp Arslan’s advance was slow. He was weighted down with excess troops, discipline was slipshod and he had
to contend with illness and the swamps as well as occasional outbreaks of fierce resistance. One man in particular was making
the Sultan’s life hard. He was the commander of a fortress not far from the river. The army could have skirted around it and
continued to advance, but its rear would have been less secure, harassments would have continued and in case of difficulty
any retreat would have been turned out to be perilous. Alp Arslan thus had given the order to put the fortress out of action
ten days earlier and they had made numerous assaults on it.

The battle was being followed very closely from Samarkand.
Every three days a pigeon would arrive, released by the defenders. The message was never an appeal for help. It did not describe
the exhaustion of supplies or men, it spoke only of adverse losses and rumours of epidemics rife amongst the besiegers. Overnight
the commander of the site, a certain Yussif, originally from Khwarazm, became the hero of Transoxania.

However, eventually the defenders were overwhelmed, the foundations of the fortress were undermined and the walls scaled.
Yussif fought to the last before being wounded and captured. He was led off to the Sultan, who was curious to see close up
the cause of his troubles. It was a lean little man, hirsute and dusty, who was marched in front of the Sultan. He held himself
upright with his head held high, between two giants who gripped him by the arms. Alp Arslan, for his part, was stretched out
on a wooden dais covered with cushions. The two men looked at each other defiantly, then the victor ordered:

‘Place four posts in the ground, tie him to them and have him quartered.’

Yussif looked at the Sultan condescendingly and scornfully, and shouted: ‘Is that the way to punish someone who has fought
like a man?’

Alp Arslan did not reply. He turned his face away. The prisoner added: ‘You, the Effeminate. I am talking to you!’

The Sultan jumped up, as if stung by a scorpion. He seized his bow which was lying near him, loaded an arrow, and before firing
he ordered the guards to release the prisoner as he could not fire on the man without the risk of wounding his own soldiers.
In any case, he had nothing to worry about for he had never missed a target.

Perhaps it was his extreme annoyance, his hurry or the awkwardness of firing at such a short distance but Yussif was still
unharmed and the Sultan did not have time to load a second arrow before the prisoner attacked him. Alp Arslan, who could not
defend himself while still perched on his pedestal, tried to extricate himself, tripped on a cushion, stumbled and fell to
the ground. Yussif was upon him straight away, grasping the knife which he had kept hidden in the folds of his clothing. He
had time to stab him in the side before
he himself was dispatched by a massive blow. The soldiers set upon his lifeless, mutilated body. His lips, however, still
kept the sardonic smile which death had frozen on them. He was avenged and the Sultan was not to outlast him for long.

Alp Arslan in fact died after four long nights of agony and bitter meditation. His words were recorded in the chronicles of
the time: ‘The other day I reviewed my troops from high on a promontory and I felt the earth tremble under their step. I told
myself, “I am the master of the world! Who can measure up to me?” For my arrogance and vanity God sent out the most wretched
of humans, a prisoner, a condemned man on his way to be executed; he proved himself more powerful than I, he struck me, he
knocked me off my throne, he has removed my life.’

Was it the day after this drama that Omar Khayyam wrote in his book:

Once in a while a man arises boasting;

He shows his wealth and cries out, ‘It is I!’

A day or two his puny matters flourish;

Then Death appears and cries out, ‘It is I!’

It was feast-time in Samarkand and a woman dared to cry – the wife of the triumphant Khan, but she was also above all the
daughter of the assassinated Sultan. Naturally her husband had gone to present his condolences. He had ordered the whole harem
to wear mourning and had a eunuch who had displayed too much good humour flogged in front of her. However, when he was back
in his
diwan
he did not hesitate to tell all and sundry that ‘God has granted the prayers of the people of Samarkand’.

It might be supposed that at that time the inhabitants of a city had no reason for preferring one sovereign over the other.
However, they said their prayers, for what they really feared was a change of master with his string of massacres and ordeals
and the inevitable pillaging and plundering. For the population to wish to be conquered by another, the monarch had to go
beyond the limit in submitting them to exorbitant taxes and continuous harassment. This was not the case with Nasr. If he
was not the best of princes, he certainly was not the worst. They could live with him and they put their faith in the ability
of the Almighty to keep him in check.

Thus in Samarkand they were celebrating being spared from war. The immense square of Ras al-Tak was overflowing with smoke
and noise. Itinerant merchants had erected stalls against every wall, and under every street lamp there was a singing girl
or a lute player
improvising melodies. Myriad groups were forming and dispersing around the story-tellers, the palm-readers and the snake-charmers.
In the centre of the square, on a hastily constructed and shaky rostrum they were holding the traditional contest amongst
popular poets who sang praise to the incomparability and invincibility of Samarkand. The public’s judgement was instant. New
stars arose and others waned. There were wood fires almost everywhere, as it was December and the nights had already turned
cold. In the palace, jars of wine were being emptied and smashed. The Khan was jovial, boisterous and swaggering with drink.

The next day he had the prayer for the dead recited in the great mosque and then received condolences over the death of his
father-in-law. The same people who had rushed over the day before to congratulate him on his victory came back, wearing expressions
of mourning to express their sorrow. The
qadi
, who had recited some appropriate verses and invited Omar to do the same, gave Omar an aside:

‘Do not be astonished at anything. Reality has two faces and so do people.’

That very evening, Abu Taher was summoned by Nasr Khan, who asked him to join the delegation charged with going to pay Samarkand’s
homage to the deceased Sultan. Omar had set off too, albeit with a hundred and twenty other people.

The site of the condolences was an old Seljuk army camp, situated just north of the river. Thousands of tents and yurts were
pitched all around, a veritable improvised city where the solemn representatives of Transoxania rubbed shoulders distrustingly
with the nomad warriors with long plaited hair who had come to renew their clan’s allegiance. Malikshah, at seventeen, a giant
with the face of a child, was wrapped in a flowing
karakul
coat and sat enthroned on the very dais where his father, Alp Arslan, had fallen. Several steps in front of him stood the
Grand Vizir, at fifty-five years old the strongman of the empire, whom Malikshah called ‘father’ as a sign of extreme deference.
Nizam al-Mulk, the Order of the Kingdom. Never had a name been more deserved. Every time a visitor of rank
approached, the young sultan gave the Vizir a questioning look. He then gave an imperceptible signal as to whether to receive
the visitor warmly or reservedly, serenely or distrustingly, attentively or absently.

The whole delegation from Samarkand prostrated themselves at the feet of Malikshah who acknowledged them with a condescending
nod of the head. Then a number of the notables left the group to make their way toward Nizam. The Vizir was impassive. His
colleagues were bustling around him but he looked at them and listened to them without reacting. He should not be thought
of as a master of the palace who shouted out his orders. If his influence was ubiquitous, it was because he worked like a
puppeteer, who with a discreet touch impressed on others the movements which he desired. His silences were proverbial. It
was not rare for a visitor to spend an hour in his presence without any words being exchanged other than the phrases of greeting
and parting. He was not visited for his conversation, but so that allegiances could be renewed, suspicions dispelled and oblivion
avoided.

Twelve people from the Samarkand delegation had obtained the privilege of shaking the hand which held the rudder of the empire.
Omar followed close behind the
qadi
Abu Taher who muttered a formula. Nizam nodded and kept his hand in the
qadi’s
for a few seconds, thereby honouring him. When it was Omar’s turn, the Vizir leant over to his ear and murmured:

‘On this day next year, be at Isfahan and we shall speak.’

Khayyam was not certain that he had heard correctly and he felt a little off-balance. The personage intimidated him, the ceremonies
impressed him, the chaos intoxicated him and the wails of the mourners were deafening him. He could no longer trust his senses.
He wanted some confirmation that he had heard correctly but he was already being swept along by the flow of people. The Vizir
was looking elsewhere and had started to nod his head in silence again.

On his way back, Khayyam could not stop mulling over the incident. Was he the only one to whom the Vizir had uttered those
words? Had he not confused him for someone else, and why was the meeting so distant, both in terms of time and space?

He decided to take the matter up with the
qadi
. Since he had
been just in front of him, he must have heard, felt, seen or guessed something. Abu Taher let him recount the scene, before
admitting mischievously:

‘I noticed that the Vizir whispered some words to you. I did not hear them, but I can assure you that he did not mistake you
for anyone else. Did you see all the people around him. Their job is to obtain information on the composition of each delegation
and to whisper him the name and position of those approaching him. They asked me your name, assured themselves that you were
the Khayyam of Nishapur, the intellectual and the astrologer. There was no confusion over your identity. Anyway, the only
confusion with Nizam al-Mulk is that which he deems fit to create.’

The way was flat and stony. To the right in the distance lay a line of high mountains, the foothills of Pamir. Khayyam and
Abu Taher rode along side by side with their mounts brushing against each other.

‘What can he want of me?’

‘In order to find out, you will have to wait a year. Until that time, I advise you not to bog yourself down in conjecture.
The wait is too long and you will exhaust yourself. Above all, do not mention this to a soul!’

‘Do I usually prattle?’

The tone was that of reproach, but the
qadi
did not allow himself to be flustered:

‘I wish to be clear: do not mention this to that woman!’

Omar should have suspected that Jahan’s repeated visits could not have gone unnoticed. Abu Taher continued:

‘At your first meeting the guards came to inform me. I concocted a complicated story to justify her visits. I ordered them
not to see her and forbade them to wake you up every morning. Have not the slightest doubt, that pavilion is your house, I
want you to know that today and tomorrow. However, I have to speak to you about that woman.’

Omar was embarrassed. He did not appreciate at all the way his friend said ‘that woman’ and he had no desire to discuss his
affairs. Although he was saying nothing to his elder, his face tightened.

‘I know that what I am saying vexes you, but I shall go on saying
it until I have said it all, and if our too-recent friendship does not give me the right, my age and position do. When you
saw that woman for the first time in the palace you looked upon her with desire. She is young and beautiful and you liked
her poetry and her audaciousness warmed your blood. However you had differing attitudes towards the gold. She stuffed her
mouth with what disgusted you. She behaved like a court poetess and you acted as a sage. Have you spoken to her about it since
then?’

The reply was no, and, even though Omar said nothing, Abu Taher heard it clearly. He continued:

‘Often, at the beginning of an affair, the sensitive questions are avoided. There is a fear of destroying this fragile edifice
which has just been erected with a thousand precautions, but as far as I am concerned what sets you apart from this woman
is both serious and fundamental. You do not look at life the same way.’

‘She is a woman and, what is more, a widow. She is trying to fend for herself without depending on a master, and I can only
admire her courage. And how can one reproach her for taking the gold which her verses are worth?’

‘I understand,’ said the
qadi
, satisfied at having finally dragged his friend into that discussion. ‘But you must admit, at least, that this woman would
be unable to envisage any life other than that of the court.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You must also admit that, for you, court life is odious and unbearable and that you will not stay a moment longer than necessary.’

An embarrassed silence followed. Abu Taher finished by stating resolutely:

‘I have told you that you should listen to a true friend. Henceforth I will not bring up the matter unless you raise it first
yourself.’

By the time they reached Samarkand, they were exhausted by the cold, the jolting of their mounts and the disquiet which had
arisen amongst them. Omar retired to his pavilion straight away without taking the time to dine. During the trip he had composed
three quatrains which he started to recite aloud, ten times, twenty times, replacing a word and modifying a turn of phrase
before consigning them to the secrecy of his manuscript.