Vladimir Bartol - Alamut

Captain Manuchehr had a single wife at the castle, but he had brought along three children from his two former wives. Now he briefly bade farewell to all of them. He was afraid of losing his edge if he lingered with them too long.

And so the men with wives and children in the castle took leave of their families and returned to their manly duties.

Abu Soraka and al-Hakim ran into each other along the way and had a brief conversation.

“Now the castle’s really going to feel empty,” Abu Soraka commented.

“I have to admire the philosophers who claimed that, next to food and drink, the pleasures of women were the only worldly good worth striving for,” the Greek replied.

“But our supreme commanders get by without them,” the dai answered him.

The physician frowned scornfully.

“Come on now, you’re talking like a schoolboy.”

He took Abu Soraka by the sleeve and spoke to him now in the barest whisper.

“What on earth do you think our masters have got hidden behind the castle? A litter of cats? Come on! They’d be stupid not to take advantage of it. You and I have never had such plump geese as they’re raising down there.”

Abu Ali came to an abrupt stop.

“No, I can’t believe that,” he managed to say at last. “I know they’re up to something down there, but I’m convinced it’s for the good of us all, not for their private enjoyment.”

“So don’t believe me if you don’t want to,” the doctor replied, almost offended. “Just keep in mind that the master always saves the best pieces for himself.”

“I’d almost forgotten something,” reis Abul Fazel said when he came to say goodbye to Hasan toward evening. He winked knowingly and continued.

“I have indeed brought you something, though not a cure for madness. I think it might cheer you up. Can you guess?”

Hasan smiled, at a loss. He looked first at the reis, and then at Abu Ali, who was standing to the side.

“I really can’t imagine,” he said.

“Ah, but I won’t hand it over until you’ve guessed,” the reis teased him. “You have riches aplenty, you disdain finery. All of your needs are modest, except one. Can you guess now?”

“You’ve brought me a book.”

“Good shot, Hasan. It’s something written. But by whom?”

“How should I know? Maybe one of the ancients? Ibn Sina? No? Then is it a modern writer? It’s not al-Ghazali, is it?”

“No, that’s not what I’ve brought,” the reis laughed. “He’d be just a little too pious for you. The writer whose work I’ve brought is much closer to you.”

“In Allah’s name, I have no idea who you mean.”

Abu Ali smiled and asked, “May I try too?”

“Go ahead, I’m curious,” Hasan said, his courage flagging.

“I’d wager that the reis has brought you something written by your old friend Omar Khayyam.”

The reis nodded, smiling broadly. Hasan slapped his forehead.

“How could I not remember!” he exclaimed.

“I’ve brought you four poems that an acquaintance of mine copied in Nishapur from Omar Khayyam himself. I thought they’d give you pleasure.”

“You couldn’t have brought me a finer gift,” Hasan said. “I’m enormously grateful to you for your thoughtfulness.”

Abul Fazel took a package out from under his cloak and handed it to Hasan. Hasan unfastened the ribbons and looked inside.

He paused, lost in thought.

“This is odd,” he said after a while. “News on the same day from both of my old schoolmates, Nizam and Khayyam.”

A eunuch came through the doorway and announced the arrival of Abdul Malik and Hasan’s daughters.

“Go now, friend,” Hasan said, putting his arm around the reis’s shoulder. “Take care of our women and our children. Maybe someday you’ll need something. Remember me then and know that I’m in your debt.”

He nodded to Abu Ali and they both left him.

Abdul Malik held the curtain back and Hasan’s daughters Khadija and Fatima timidly stepped in. They stood up against the wall next to the doorway, while the dai proudly approached the supreme commander.

“I’ve brought your daughters, Sayyiduna,” he said.

Hasan cast a fierce glance at the girls.

“What are you perched there for, like two soaked chickens? Come closer!” he shouted at them. “Your mother burdened me with the two of you so that every time I’d look at you I’d think of her and get angry. I’ve taken you in as my sense of fatherly duty required. Now you’ll go along with the rest of the harem chattel to Muzaffar’s in Rai.”

He turned to Abdul Malik.

“And you tell Muzaffar to give them only as much food as they earn with their weaving. The fact that they’re my daughters should be irrelevant. If they’re disobedient, he should sell them as slaves, keep half of the money to cover his expenses, and send the other half to me. That’s all! Now off to prayers with you, and then the open road!”

The girls scurried out the door like two little mice. Hasan kept Abdul Malik behind for a moment.

“Muzaffar will know how to handle them. He’s a wise man and he has a pack of children, himself.”

The girls waited for the dai outside the entrance. They were both crying.

“Did you see how handsome he is?” the younger one asked.

“Why does he hate us so much?” the older one sobbed through her tears.

Abdul Malik led them down from the tower. He tried to comfort them.

“Don’t worry, little quails. Muzaffar has a good heart. He has lots of children, and you’ll get to play and have fun with them.”

A cook brought supper, but Hasan didn’t notice. Lost in thought, he pulled a torch out of its stand by the wall and lit it with a candle. With a practiced, careful gesture he drew aside a carpet hanging on the wall so that it wouldn’t catch fire, and he stepped through an entrance into a narrow passage from which a short stairway led to the top of the tower. Holding the torch over his head, he lit his way and soon reached the upper platform. He drew in the fresh, cool air and stepped up to the battlements. He raised the blazing torch high up in the air and three times drew a circle with it over his head.

Soon, from down below, out of the dark, came a like response. He waved the torch once more in acknowledgment, then returned to his room. He put the torch out by sliding it into a kind of quiver, and then wrapped himself up in a loose-fitting coat. Once more he drew a carpet aside, this time one hanging on the opposite wall, and stepped through a low entrance into a cramped, cage-like space that was completely upholstered with soft rugs. He lifted a mallet up off the floor and used it to strike a metal gong. A sharp sound reverberated down a hidden cord to the foot of the tower. Suddenly, the cage moved and, with Hasan in it, began sinking on a cleverly contrived pulley that was operated from below by unseen hands.

The trip to the bottom was slow. Each time Hasan took it, anxious feelings overcame him. What if part of the mechanism suddenly failed? Or if the rope broke and the cramped cage crashed to the stone floor with him in it? What if one of the Moors he was so dependent on deliberately wrecked his device and sent him to his doom? What if, in a moment of clarity, one of these eunuchs became aware of his humiliated human state and clubbed his master on the head with a mace? One of these terrifying Egyptian guards, whom he tamed like wild animals with his gaze, who were entranced by him, like snakes are by their master’s flute? He had done everything possible to ensure their loyalty. They would obey no one else in the world besides him. Whoever had to walk past them walked in fear, and even Abu Ali would get an eerie feeling when he met them. They were the unquestioning instrument that made him fearsome even to his dais and other commanders. Through them he exerted pressure downward onto his subordinates. And so that he could squeeze them from below as well—this was why he had been preparing his fedayeen. He refused to delude himself; the dais and commanders believed in nothing and for the most part sought only personal gain. Involuntarily he found himself comparing this human mechanism with the pulley that lowered him into the depths. If a single component of it failed, if a single presumption was false, the whole edifice would collapse. A single inaccurate calculation and his life’s work would crumble to dust.