Vladimir Bartol - Alamut

“One egg couldn’t be more like another… Just give me some time to pull together everything I’m going to need.”

“All right. Go to it.”

The doctor left. Hasan sent for Jafar.

When he arrived, he told him, “I have a remarkable assignment for you. Once you’ve carried it out, the Ismailis will write your name in the stars. Paradise will be wide open to you.”

Jafar remembered ibn Tahir. He was still being celebrated as a martyr, although he had seen him with his own eyes when he returned to Alamut, and then again when he left, his eyes shining with happiness, as he took back the package he had entrusted to him before his departure for Nehavend. One marvelous and impenetrable mystery after the other.

“At your service, Sayyiduna!”

His face shone with pride.

All this time, Halef was enduring fiendish torments of fear and uncertainty in the antechamber. The executioner stood barely a few steps away from him, his brawny arms crossed on his naked chest. From time to time he cast a mocking glance at the emissary. Now and then his assistants fanned the fire. Otherwise, they played with the rack and provocatively inspected the implements of torture.

The doctor returned with the equipment he needed.

Hasan spoke to Jafar.

“First of all, get a good look at the prisoner in the antechamber. You have to remember exactly his every gesture, the way he speaks and expresses himself, and everything he says about himself while I’m interrogating him. Be careful not to miss a thing! Because you’re going to have to imitate him so well that everyone who comes in contact with you thinks you’re him. In other words, you’re going to become him.”

They followed him into the antechamber. He signaled the executioner to be ready. Then he began questioning the prisoner.

“What is your name and where are you from?”

Halef tried to collect himself again.

“I am a messenger of His Majesty…”

Hasan flew into a rage.

“Executioner, ready your equipment!… I’ll warn you one last time to answer all my questions precisely. I’ll tell you now that I’m going to keep you at Alamut. If any one bit of information you give us turns out to be wrong, I’ll have you drawn and quartered in the courtyard below. Now you know where you stand. Speak!”

“My name is Halef, son of Omar. My family is from Ghazna. That’s where I was born and spent my youth.”

“Remember this, Jafar!… How old are you and how long have you been in the sultan’s army?”

“I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve served in the army since I was sixteen.”

“How did you join the army?”

“My uncle Othman, son of Husein, who’s a captain in the bodyguard, recommended me to His Majesty.”

“The names of the places you’ve been stationed?”

“I went directly to the court at Isfahan. Then I accompanied His Majesty as his messenger throughout the realm.”

He named the cities he had traveled through or had spent any length of time in, then the caravan and military roads they had traveled. As the interrogation continued, he revealed that he had two wives, each of whom had borne him one son. Hasan demanded more and more details. Next came his superior officers, their habits and personal affairs; and then his colleagues, his service and how he spent his time. He described how he got along with one or the other of them, how many times he had spoken to the sultan, and what his relationship to him was like. He told him where his quarters were in Isfahan and Baghdad, and what he had to do if he wanted to be admitted to see His Majesty. He described the precise layout of the sultan’s palace in Baghdad and the approaches to it, and he provided a detailed rundown of court ritual.

In this brief time Jafar discovered an entirely new life and tried to imagine himself leading it.

Finally, Hasan ordered the prisoner to describe his journey to Alamut in detail. He had to list all the stations where he had changed horses or stayed overnight. Then he ordered the executioner to remove the prisoner’s fetters so he could undress.

Halef shuddered.

“What does this mean, sir?”

“Quickly! No dawdling! Don’t force me to use other means. Take off the turban too.”

Halef moaned.

“Anything but that, sir! Don’t shame me like this!”

At a nod from Hasan, the executioner seized him by the neck with one firm hand. One assistant handed over the white-hot poker, which his master slowly brought close to the prisoner’s bare chest. Even before it touched him, the skin sizzled and was scorched.

Halef howled uncontrollably.

“Do whatever you want. Just don’t burn me!”

They took all his clothes off and bound his hands behind his back.

Jafar watched all of this without batting an eye. He was in full command of himself. This fact secretly made him very proud.

“Now it’s time for your skill, doctor,” Hasan said. “Prisoner, how did you get the wounds on your body?”

Still trembling from his recent fright, Halef told about a fight he had had with one of the sultan’s eunuchs. In the meantime the Greek set out a number of thin, sharp blades, a long needle, and various liquids and ointments. Then he told Jafar to bare himself to the waist. He rolled up his sleeves like a true artist. He ordered one of the executioner’s assistants to hold a box that was full of all kinds of remedies. Then he set to work.

First he applied an ointment to the corresponding area of Jafar’s body, onto which he then drew an outline of the scar and a birthmark. He ordered the other assistant to hold the blades and needle in the fire. Then he used these to etch and pierce the skin.

Jafar pressed his lips tight. His face paled slightly from the pain, but when Hasan looked at him, he smiled back, as though it were nothing.

Now Halef slowly began to realize what Hasan’s plan was, and he was horrified. If the transformation was successful, this Ismaili youth would gain unhampered access to the sultan himself! And the murder of the grand vizier was eloquent testimony to what would happen then. I’ll be cursed for having been an accessory to such a crime , he thought. Subdue your fear! something inside him commanded. Think of your duty to the sultan!

His feet were unbound. He waited for the instant when the doctor began to make an incision on Jafar’s face, then he leapt at him and gave him a powerful kick to the gut.

Under the impact of this blow, the Greek dragged the blade halfway across Jafar’s face, which was instantly covered in blood. He himself was thrown to the floor. Halef lost his balance and toppled onto him. His mouth collided with the doctor’s elbow, which he instinctively bit into with all his might. The doctor howled with pain.

Instantly Abu Ali, Jafar and the executioner began to pummel and kick Halef mercilessly to get him to release his victim. But it wasn’t until one of the assistants set a white-hot poker to the prisoner’s back that the latter relented. He howled, writhing on the floor and trying to grab at his injury.

Now Hasan ordered, “Put him on the rack!”

Halef resisted with all his strength, but iron fists soon subdued him. Within a few moments he was bound, spread-eagled, to the rack.

With much groaning, the Greek managed to collect himself in the meantime. He had the wound on his arm washed, treated, and bandaged. Jafar, covered in blood, waited patiently for his transformation to resume.

“The scoundrel has ruined everything,” the Greek moaned when he examined him more closely. “What can I do with this huge wound on his face?”

“Just clean it for now,” Hasan said. “We’ll see what can be done.”

Then he commanded the executioner, “Begin the torture. He’ll be useful again when he’s unconscious.”