“I will, if you’ll like me.”
She tried to press close, but Halima pushed her away.
“Don’t bother me now. I have to hear this.”
After the lesson they stayed in the classroom. Each one took up her own work. Some sewed or wove, or headed over to a huge, half-finished rug and resumed work on it. Others dragged several beautifully carved spinning wheels into the hall, sat down at them, and started spinning. They chatted about ordinary things, about their former lives, about men and about love. Miriam oversaw them, walking through their midst with her hands behind her back.
Halima thought about her. She didn’t yet have any work of her own. She listened to one conversation, then another, until finally her thoughts focused on Miriam. If she and Sayyiduna were “close,” what was it that took place between them? When she was in the harem, did she also do the things that Apama had described? She couldn’t believe that. She tried to shake off such ugly thoughts and convince herself that it couldn’t be true.
They had supper right before sunset, then they went for a walk. Suddenly darkness settled on the gardens and the first stars came out above them.
Halima walked down a path hand in hand with Sara and Zainab, conversing with them in half-whispers. The sound of the rapids grew steadily closer as the alien and eerie landscape stretched boundlessly before them. Halima felt a twinge of emotion, bitter and sweet at the same time, as though she were a tiny creature who had gotten lost in a strange, magical world. Everything struck her as mysterious, almost too much so for her to grasp.
A light flickered through the thickets. The small flame started moving, and Halima timidly clung to her companions. The flame got closer and closer, until at last a man carrying a burning torch stepped before her.
“That’s Mustafa,” Sara said, “the garden keeper.”
Mustafa was a big, round-faced Moor dressed in a colorful cloak reaching almost to his feet and tied at the waist with a thick cord. When he saw the girls, he gave a good-natured grin.
“So this is the new little bird that the wind blew in yesterday,” he said amiably, looking at Halima. “What a tiny, fragile creature.”
A dark shadow danced around the flickering torch. A huge moth had started circling around the fire. They all watched as it nearly grazed the flame, then darted in a broad upward arc and vanished in the darkness. But then it would come back, and each time its dance became wilder. Its circuits around the flame grew narrower and narrower, until finally the fire caught its wings. They crackled, and, like a shooting star, the moth hit the ground.
“Poor thing,” Halima exclaimed. “But why was it so stupid?”
“Allah gave it a passion to attack fire,” Mustafa said. “Good night.”
“That’s strange,” Halima mused, half to herself.
They returned and went to their bedchambers, undressed, and lay on their beds. Halima’s head spun from the day’s events. That ridiculous Adi with his rhyming sentences, the agile dance master Asad, tarted-up Apama with her shameless learning, mysterious Miriam, the girls, and the eunuchs. And here she was in the midst of all this, Halima, who for as long as she could remember had dreamt of far-off lands and longed for miraculous adventures.
“It’s fine,” she told herself and tried to go to sleep.
Just then someone touched her lightly. Before she had a chance to scream, she heard Sara’s voice speaking right into her ear.
“Stay completely quiet, Halima, so that Zainab doesn’t wake up.”
She climbed under the blanket and snuggled up against her.
“I told you I don’t want this,” Halima said just as quietly. But Sara showered her with kisses and she felt powerless.
Finally she managed to break free. Sara started to coax her and whisper lovesick words in her ear. Halima turned her back, stuck her fingers in her ears, and fell asleep instantly.
Sara was unsure what was happening with her. Feeling disoriented, she returned to her bed and climbed in.
CHAPTER TWO
At about the same time that Halima arrived by such curious circumstances in the strange, new gardens, a young man on a small, black donkey was also riding along the broad military trail toward the same destination, only from the opposite direction, from the west. It couldn’t have been long since he’d removed his childhood amulets and wrapped a man’s turban around his head. A downy first growth of beard barely showed on his chin, and his clear, lively eyes had an almost childish look to them. He came from the town of Sava, more or less halfway between Hamadan and the old capital, Rai. Years before, in Sava, his grandfather Tahir had established a circle of the Ismaili brotherhood whose ostensible purpose was to proclaim a renewed veneration of the martyr Ali, but which was in fact dedicated to the subversion of Seljuk rule. At one point the society also inducted a former muezzin from Isfahan as a member. Soon afterwards the authorities raided a secret meeting of the group and imprisoned some of its members. Suspicions centered on the muezzin as a likely informer. He was tracked down and the group’s conjecture was proven correct. They secretly condemned him to death and carried out the sentence. Subsequently, the authorities seized the brotherhood’s leader, Tahir, and, at the command of the grand vizier Nizam al-Mulk, ordered him beheaded. The brotherhood disbanded in panic, and at that point it appeared that the Ismailis had been banished from Sava forever.
When Tahir’s grandson reached the age of twenty, his father told him the entire story. He bade him saddle his donkey and get ready for a journey. He took him to the top of a local tower and pointed out the conical peak of Demavend as it shone snow-covered above the clouds in the infinite distance.
He said, “Avani, my son, grandson of Tahir. Go straight along the road that leads toward the peak of Demavend. When you reach the town of Rai, ask for directions to Shah Rud, the King’s River. Follow it upstream until you reach its source, which is nestled at the foot of several steep slopes. There you’ll see a fortified castle called Alamut, the Eagle’s Nest. That is where an old friend of Tahir, your grandfather and my father, has gathered all who profess the Ismaili teachings. Tell him who you are and offer yourself in service. This way you will be given the chance to avenge your grandfather’s death. My blessing be with you.”
The grandson of Tahir put on a crescent saber, bowed respectfully to his father, and mounted the donkey. His ride to Rai was uneventful. At a caravanserai he asked after the easiest route to Shah Rud.
The innkeeper said, “What on earth takes you to Shah Rud? If you didn’t have such an innocent face, I’d suspect you wanted to join the chief of the mountain, who gathers all those infidel dogs around him.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the grandson of Tahir dissembled. “I come from Sava to meet a caravan that my father dispatched to Bukhara, but which seems to have been held up on the way back.”
“When you leave town, keep Demavend to your right. You’ll come to a well-worn road which is used by caravans coming from the east. Stay on that and it will lead you to the river.”
The grandson of Tahir thanked him and remounted his donkey. After two days of riding, he heard the roar of water in the distance. He turned off the path and rode straight toward the river, alongside which a footpath led alternately through sandy open spaces and thick stands of shrubs. The incline of the river grew steadily steeper and the water more thunderous.
When he had thus half-ridden and half-walked his way through a good part of the day, a detachment of horsemen suddenly surrounded him. The attack came so unexpectedly that the grandson of Tahir forgot to draw his saber. When he remembered and reached for its handle, it was of no use to him. Seven sharp spear points were aimed at him. It’s shameful to be afraid, he thought, but what could he do against such superior power?
The commander of the horsemen addressed him. “What are you prying around in these parts for, greenhorn? Maybe you’ve come trout fishing? Be careful your hook doesn’t get caught in your own throat!”
The grandson of Tahir was at a to
tal loss. If these were the sultan’s horsemen and he told the truth, he’d be finished. If they were Ismailis and he kept silent, they’d take him for a spy. He let go of his sword handle and desperately searched the soldiers’ mute faces for an answer.
The commander winked at his men.
“It looks to me like you’re searching for something you haven’t lost, my underaged Pahlavan,” he said, and then grabbed something from between his saddle and stirrup. A white flag, the symbol of the followers of Ali, fluttered on the short stick which he held in his hand.
What if it’s a trap? Avani thought. “No matter, I’ll risk it,” he declared to himself. He jumped off the donkey and reached his hand toward the flag, which the commander had thrust in his direction, and he reverently pressed it to his forehead.
“There you go!” the commander called out. “You’re looking for the castle of Alamut. Come with us, then.”
He drove his horse forward up the path alongside Shah Rud. The grandson of Tahir remounted his donkey and followed him. The soldiers poured after them.
They drew closer and closer to the mountain range, and the roar of Shah Rud grew worse and worse, until they reached a rocky cliff at the summit of which was a watchtower bearing the white flag. At the foot of this cliff the riverbed veered into a steep canyon.
The commander of the detachment held back his horse and ordered the others to come to a halt too. He waved a flag toward the tower and received a reply that the way was clear.
They rode into the canyon, which was chilly and dark. The path here was narrow but well constructed. In places it had been hewn into the living rock. The river roared far beneath them. At a bend in the path the commander stopped and raised his arm to point ahead of them.
Not far off, the grandson of Tahir saw two high towers which shone white over the dark mountains like a vision from a dream. The way the sun shone on them, they glimmered in its rays.
“That is Alamut,” the leader said and pressed onward.
Steep mountainsides concealed the two towers once again. The path continued to wind alongside the river until the canyon suddenly opened up. The grandson of Tahir gazed in astonishment. He saw before him a mighty cliff with a fortification whose foundations had been hewn out of the cliff itself. Shah Rud forked into two branches which embraced the cliff as though holding it in a cleft stick. The fortress was an entire small settlement which gradually rose in height from front to back. Its four corners were marked by four towers, the rearmost of which were much higher than the foremost. The fortress and river together were slung between two steep, impassable slopes and formed a formidable barrier blocking the exit from the canyon.
This was Alamut, the most powerful fortress of the fifty or so that existed in the Rudbar district. It had been built by the kings of Daylam, and it was said to be impregnable.
The commander of the detachment gave a sign, and from the wall opposite a heavy bridge was lowered on iron chains to span the river. The riders rumbled across it, through an imposing arched gateway and into the fort.
They entered a spacious courtyard which rose gradually over three terraces, linked at the center by stone stairways. Alongside the walls to the right and left grew tall poplars and plane trees, beneath which there were real pastures with herds of horses, donkeys and mules grazing on them. In a separate fold there were several dozen camels, peacefully ruminating. To the sides there were barns and barracks, harems and other buildings.
A hustle and bustle reminiscent of a beehive greeted the grandson of Tahir. He looked around in astonishment. Several military units were exercising on the central terrace. He heard the sharp commands, the clanking of shields and lances, the rattle of sabers. In the midst of it a horse would neigh or a donkey bray.
Other men were reinforcing the walls. Donkeys were hauling heavy rocks which the workers then lifted into place with pulleys. Shouts boomed out from all directions, drowning out the sound of the rapids completely.
They dismounted, and the commander asked a soldier walking by, “Is Captain Manuchehr in the guardhouse?”
The soldier came to an abrupt halt and replied, “Yes, he is, Sergeant Abuna.”
The commander signaled to the young man to follow him. They turned toward one of the two lower towers. From somewhere came the sound of short, sudden blows accompanied by groans of pain. The grandson of Tahir turned in the direction of the groans. A man, his back bared down to the waist, stood tied to a stone pillar. A huge Moor dressed in short striped trousers and a red fez stood lashing the man’s bare skin with a whip woven together from short straps. With each blow his skin broke in a new place and blood dripped from the wounds. A soldier stood by with a bucket of water in hand and every now and then doused the victim.
Seeing the horror in the eyes of Tahir’s grandson, Sergeant Abuna laughed scornfully.
“We don’t sleep in featherbeds here, and we don’t anoint ourselves with amber,” he said. “If that’s what you were expecting, you were seriously mistaken.”
The grandson of Tahir walked silently alongside him. As much as he would have liked to know what the poor man had done to be punished so harshly, a strange anxiety had stolen his courage to ask.
They passed into the tower entrance. Beneath its vaults the grandson of Tahir realized just how mighty the fortress walls were. Whole strata of rock lay one on top of the other. A dark, damp stairway led them upstairs. They passed through a long corridor and from there into a spacious room whose floor was covered with a simple carpet. Several pillows were strewn about in the corner, and on them half sat and half lay a man of about fifty. He was well fed and had a short, curled beard shot here and there with filaments of silver. He wore a large white turban, and his coat was embroidered in silver and gold. Sergeant Abuna bowed and waited for the man on the pillows to speak.
“What’s this you bring me, Abuna?”
“We caught this boy on reconnaissance, Captain Manuchehr. He says he was coming to Alamut.”
At these words the captain slowly rose, and the grandson of Tahir saw rising up before him a man as big as a mountain. He planted his fists at his sides, fixed his gaze on the boy, and shouted in a booming voice, “Who are you, wretch?”
The grandson of Tahir flinched, but he quickly recalled his father’s words and remembered that he had come to the castle of his own free will to offer himself in service. Regaining his composure, he replied calmly, “My name is Avani and I’m the grandson of Tahir of Sava, whom the grand vizier ordered beheaded many years ago.”
The captain looked at him half in surprise and half in disbelief.
“Are you telling the truth?”
“Why should I lie, sir?”
“If this is so, then know that your grandfather’s name is written in gold letters in the hearts of all Ismailis. Our Master will be pleased to count you among his warriors. That is why you’ve come to the castle?”
“Yes, to serve the supreme commander of the Ismailis and to avenge my grandfather.”
“Good. What have you learned?”
“Reading and writing, sir. Also grammar and verse making. I know almost half the Koran by heart.”
The captain smiled.
“Not bad. How about the military arts?”
The grandson of Tahir felt at a loss.
“I can ride horseback, shoot with a bow, and I can manage with a sword and spear.”
“Do you have a wife?”
The young man blushed deeply.
“No, sir.”
“Have you indulged in debauchery?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.”
Captain Manuchehr turned to the sergeant.
“Abuna! Take ibn Tahir to dai Abu Soraka. Tell him that I’ve sent him. Unless I’m completely mistaken, he’ll be glad to have him.”
They both bowed and left the captain’s chamber, and shortly they were back in the courtyard. The pillar to which the man being flogged had been bound was now free. Only a few drops of blood testified to w
hat had happened there. Ibn Tahir still felt a faint shudder, but now he was filled with a sense of his own safety, since clearly it meant something to be the grandson of the martyr Tahir.
They turned up the steps leading to the center terrace. To their right was a low building, perhaps a barrack. The sergeant stopped in front of it and glanced around, as if looking for someone.
A dark-skinned youth in a white cloak, white trousers and white fez came hurrying past. The sergeant stopped him and said politely, “The captain has sent me with this young fellow to his worship dai Abu Soraka.”
“Come with me,” the dark-skinned youth grinned broadly. “His worship the dai is just now teaching us poetry. We’re on the roof.” And, turning to ibn Tahir, he said, “Are you here to become a feday? There are quite a few surprises in store for you. I’m novice Obeida.”
Ibn Tahir followed him and the sergeant without having quite understood.
They came out onto the rooftop, the floor of which was covered with coarsely woven rugs. Some twenty youths, each of them dressed in white just like Obeida, sat on the rugs, knees and feet to the floor. At their knees they each held a tablet on which they wrote down whatever was dictated by an old man in a white cloak sitting in front of them with a book in hand.
The teacher rose when he saw the newcomers. His face knitted into ill-tempered wrinkles, he asked the sergeant, “What do you want from us at this hour? Can’t you see a lesson is underway?”
The sergeant coughed nervously while novice Obeida imperceptibly blended in among his companions, who were curiously inspecting the stranger.
Abuna said, “Forgive me for bothering you during instruction, reverend dai. The captain has sent me with this young man, whom he wants you to have.”
The old missionary and teacher studied ibn Tahir from head to toe.
“Who are you and what do you want, boy?”
Ibn Tahir bowed respectfully.
“My name is Avani and I’m the grandson of Tahir, whom the grand vizier had beheaded in Sava. My father has sent me to Alamut to serve the Ismaili cause and to avenge the death of my grandfather.”