Vladimir Bartol - Alamut

The military route struck him as one continuous army camp. He was constantly meeting up with new units. To keep from being continually stopped, he would shout from a long distance off that he was a messenger of His Majesty. From time to time tents shone white alongside the road. Countless horses, camels, donkeys, cows and whole flocks of smaller livestock picked off the last stalks of greenery from the fields.

He had to ride around Nehavend, since there was so much military there. But after that the road to Baghdad was virtually clear. There was plenty of room in the serais for him to stay overnight. Now is also when he took the first pellet. He felt overcome with tremendous anxiousness. Now and then as he rode, phantoms would attack him. He seemed to be riding through enormous cities teeming with endless masses of people. Then he dreamed he was in the gardens of paradise, surrounded by dark-eyed houris. Day and night merged into one. He succumbed utterly to a passion for these states. He had swallowed all of the pellets but one. It took the utmost force of will for him to keep from taking it.

Suddenly he seemed to have arrived at the outer gate to a large city. In front of him was a contingent of guards armed to the teeth. He started to ride on, taking this for just another disembodied vision. Six spear points were thrust at his face.

Instantly his stupor evaporated. This was the tenth day since his departure from Alamut; he had at last arrived at the Baghdad city gates.

He quickly found his footing.

“I am a messenger of His Majesty,” he said gruffly.

The captain of the guard inspected his identification.

“All right, you can go on,” he said.

He passed through the city walls. All he could do was stare. Palaces of pure marble, one more beautiful than the next, lined the streets. These were interrupted from time to time by mosques with gold and green cupolas. Tall minarets swelled to the sky. Squares and bazaars where everything swarmed like an anthill slowed his progress. He had long since lost his bearings, which his double at Alamut had described to him. He felt minuscule. To bolster his courage, he reminded himself, “Jafar! Places a thousand times more beautiful are waiting for you, once you complete your task.”

He came upon a guard patrol consisting of four men. He pushed his way toward it and asked its leader, “Show me the way to His Majesty’s palace.”

The sergeant gave him an astonished look.

“Well, don’t just gape at me,” Jafar lit into him. “Show me the way to the palace.”

“That’s where we’re headed. Come with us.”

One of the men had his horse by the bridle and was pulling it along behind him. They spent a long time wading through an endless sea of houses and mansions. Finally they reached some magnificently tended gardens, at the far end of which stood an indescribably beautiful, white palace.

“That’s His Majesty’s residence,” the sergeant said.

Jafar recognized it from Halef’s accounts. Men were coming out of barracks constructed along the sides of the gardens. He rode ahead to a great entry gate and called out a password.

The guard on duty looked puzzled.

“That password isn’t valid anymore,” he said.

“I am a messenger of His Majesty!” Jafar shouted. “I’ve been to Alamut, and now I’ve returned with messages from there.”

A sergeant came out and eyed the rider in some perplexity. He was caked in grime from the road and he had a barely healed wound across his cheek. His face was totally sunken.

“Let me call the officer on duty,” he said when he heard what the stranger had asked for.

Jafar began to feel ill. His nerves felt like they had been ground between two millstones. He saw the officer approaching him. What should he do? Should he act as though they knew each other? What if this was a new man?

The officer came right up to the gate. He studied the stranger carefully. Then he called out to him.

“Aren’t you Halef, son of Omar?”

“Who else? Just tell the commander of the bodyguard that I’m here. I have to see him immediately.”

The officer shook his head.

“Just get off the horse and come with me.”

Both of them were silent as they walked. The officer examined him from the side. Yes, this was Halef of Ghazna, even if slightly changed and obviously exhausted.

The commander of the bodyguard received him in the palace immediately.

“How did your assignment go, Halef?”

“Precisely as you ordered, emir. But I was treated horribly. They tortured me to find out as much as they could about His Majesty’s plans. I have some important news for him.”

“Did you bring a letter?”

“No, just an oral message.”

“Tell it to me.”

“The Ismaili commander meant for it to be delivered to His Majesty directly.”

“Have you forgotten how things work at court?”

“No, emir. But the blow that infidel commander dealt me still burns on my cheek, and even my bones still ache from it. I have no time to lose. I bring terrible news.”

“What is Hasan ibn Sabbah like?”

“He’s a real killer, an animal in human guise. It’s high time we obliterated him and his brood from the face of the earth.”

“And that will happen. Wait here. I’ll go ask His Majesty if he’ll receive you.”

When he had gone, Jafar quickly swallowed the pellet. He was so used to the substance that it took effect immediately. His confidence and courage swelled under its influence. The now familiar visions returned to him. He resisted them with an extreme effort of will.

“I have to focus entirely on my task now,” he told himself.

It was just before noon on the eighteenth day of November of the year one thousand and ninety-two by our calendar. Sultan Malik Shah had just returned from a brief visit to the harems of his sister, who was now the sole wife of the caliph. At last, through a combination of persuasion and threats, he had managed to get the leader of the faith to designate Jafar, his son by the sultan’s sister, as his successor, and to disinherit his first-born son Mustazir. For the sultan, this was the culmination of long and bitter battles with his brother-in-law. Only after he had banished him to Basra did Caliph al Muqtadi relent, though he had negotiated an extra ten days to think about it.

That had been five days ago. During his visit, his sister assured him that the caliph had essentially agreed to the demand. Now the sultan was contentedly rubbing his hands as he sat on a dais amid pillows. He was a man in his prime, quick-witted and healthy. He loved wealth and luxury and was a friend of the sciences and arts. Anything that was creative or exceptional gave him pleasure.

He thought to himself, Is there anything more I could want? The boundaries of my empire extend farther than ever before. Kings and princes pay me tribute. My cities rise up out of the desert and my roads gleam in the sun. The peoples of my realm are prosperous and honor me. And now I’ve even subdued the leader of the faith. My own flesh and blood will occupy the seat of the Prophet’s regent. I’ve achieved anything I’ve ever aspired to. I really am at the height of my power .

A scribe announced the commander of the bodyguards. The emir entered and performed the required ceremonial, then spoke.

“Majesty! Halef, son of Omar, has returned from Alamut. He has a wound on his cheek. He says that the Ismaili leader had him tortured to find out your intentions. He has an oral message for you and he humbly requests that Your Majesty receive him.”

The sultan grew pale at first, and then furious.

“What? How dare he torture my messenger? What a vile, inhuman trick! But call Halef in. Let’s hear what he hast to say about what he saw at the castle.”