Vladimir Bartol - Alamut

“You came here to make fun of me.”

Large tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Not at all, old girl. Let’s be wise. I sent for you because I need your skills and experience. You just said yourself that I rescued you from poverty by inviting you to my castle. I give you everything you want. I’ve only ever valued the things in people that make them stand out from others. That’s why I deeply admire your knowledge of the arts of love. I’m declaring my complete confidence in you. What more would you want?”

She felt touched and no longer cried. Hasan silently laughed to himself. He bent toward her and whispered in her ear.

“Do you still really want to …?”

She looked at him abruptly.

“I can’t help it,” she said and clasped onto him. “That’s how I am.”

“Then I’ll send you a healthy Moor.”

Offended, she pulled away from him.

“You’re right. I’m too ugly and too old. It’s just so incredibly painful that so much beauty is gone forever.”

Hasan rose and spoke dispassionately.

“Get the pavilions ready for their guests. Clean and scrub everything. Make sure the girls don’t blather or poke around into things. School is over now. Great things are about to happen. Expect me again tomorrow. I’ll give you precise instructions. Is there anything you’d like?”

“No, my master. Thank you. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try some other one?”

“No, thanks. Good night!”

Miriam returned to her room with a heavy heart. What Hasan had told her that evening had been too much for her to absorb so quickly. She sensed that a terrible intellect was at work here, one for which everything around it—people, animals, inanimate nature—was just a means for fulfilling some grim vision. She loved that spirit, was afraid of it, and little by little was beginning to despise it. She felt a powerful need to unburden herself, to exchange a few words at least with a creature devoid of evil. She approached Halima’s bed and watched her through the murk. She had the sense she was only pretending to sleep.

“Halima!” she whispered and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I know you’re pretending. Look at me.”

Halima opened her eyes and pushed the blanket off her chest.

“What is it?” she asked timidly.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course I can, Miriam.”

“Like a tomb?”

“Like a tomb.”

“If they found out I’d told you, they’d have both our heads. The sultan’s forces are besieging the castle…”

Halima shrieked.

“What’s going to happen to us?”

“Shh. Be quiet. Sayyiduna is looking after us. From now on every act of disobedience means a death sentence. There are difficult trials ahead of us. So you know: no matter who asks, you mustn’t tell anyone where we are or who we are.”

She kissed her on both cheeks and climbed into her own bed.

That night neither one of them closed her eyes. Miriam felt as though mountains were revolving inside her head. The whole world was perched on a knife’s edge. Which direction would it tip in the days to come?

Halima shivered with delight… What a marvelous adventure this whole life was! The Turks besieged the castle and Sayyiduna defended it from them without anyone ever seeing or hearing a thing. And still they were in the grips of great danger. How mysteriously beautiful it all was!

Early the next morning the youths mounted their horses and with their instructors flew out of the fortress. Two by two they thundered across the bridge in perfect order and then raced through the canyon in unbroken formation. Those riding closest to the river’s edge were no more than a few inches away from a steep escarpment. Yet no one slid into the stream.

On the plateau Manuchehr brought them to a halt at the foot of a low-lying, gently sloped hill. The novices shivered with feverish tension. Their disquiet communicated itself to the horses, which began neighing impatiently beneath them. Finally, Abu Ali came riding up, accompanied by dai Ibrahim. He spoke briefly with the captain and then rode with the other dais to the top of the hill.

Manuchehr gave an order and the two battle lines went flying off in different directions. Both of them made difficult and complex turns, then attacked and evaded each other, all in a highly coordinated way and without any mishaps.

From the hilltop, sitting on his shaggy white Arabian horse, Abu Ali observed the maneuvers taking place below and gave instructions to the dais.

“Manuchehr has done a fine job of training them,” he said, “I can’t deny that. But I’m not sure if this Turkish approach is suited to mountainous terrain. In the old days we used to attack individually and take down whatever came under our swords, then scatter again in a heartbeat. We’d repeat that kind of assault two or three times until there was no enemy left.”

During the next exercise, when the boys changed their method of attack by breaking the lines and going at each other individually, his eyes shone with satisfaction. He stroked his straggly beard and nodded in recognition. He dismounted, led his horse down the shady side of the hill, stopped and spread a carpet out over the ground, and lowered himself down onto it so that he sat resting on his heels. The dais, who had followed him, gathered around.

The captain had given another order. The novices leapt off their horses and took off their cloaks to reveal light, scaly armor. In place their of turbans they pulled on tight battle helmets. They let down their lances and reached for their shields and spears instead.

As foot soldiers they proved themselves just as capable. The captain shot a discreet glance at the grand dai and caught him quietly smiling.

Next came the individual military arts. They set up targets at a suitable distance and archery practice began. Out of ten shots, ibn Tahir and Suleiman missed only one each. The others fared almost as well.

Then they competed in spear throwing. Just as they had all been sitting on pins and needles at first in the grand dai’s presence, wordlessly carrying out their commands, now that he had begun nodding approval, they gradually relaxed and grew more enthusiastic. They began to gibe and encourage each other. Each of them wanted to stand out and give his very best. Yusuf outdid them all with his powerful throwing arm. Suleiman refused to be defeated. His whole body was taut with exertion.

“Leave some strength for all the other oxen you’re going to have to kill,” Yusuf taunted him.

Suleiman compressed his lips, drew the spear back and sprinted forward. The weapon went darting through the air. But he didn’t outthrow Yusuf who, at his next throw, surpassed himself.

“Outstanding,” Abu Ali praised him.

But no one was a match for Suleiman at sword fighting. They were matched up in pairs, and whichever of the two was defeated dropped out of the competition. Ibn Tahir defeated Obeida and ibn Vakas, but then succumbed to Yusuf’s more powerful assault. Suleiman forced his competitors out, one after the other. Finally, he and Yusuf had to square off. He hid behind his shield, with his eyes looking out over it, mocking his opponent.

“Now show you’re a hero,” he taunted him.

“Don’t rejoice too soon, my fleet-footed grasshopper,” Yusuf replied. “You didn’t do so well at spear throwing.”

They faced off. Yusuf knew that weight was his advantage, so he lunged at his competitor with all his might. But Suleiman, with his long legs, had planted his feet far apart and was able to evade the attacks by shifting his torso without losing his footing. With a sudden feint he was able to trick his opponent into moving his shield to the wrong side, at which point he dealt an elegant blow to his rib cage.