Omar Khayyam - a life

by Harold Lamb

  Except for the basin, the alcove was deserted, its walls covered with hangings. Then the voice ceased, the eyes closed, the face became rigid and the dervish jerked-to the carpet that shut the alcove from the spectators.

  "Karamat" exclaimed the mullah beside him, "A miracle!'!

  "A sign! A portent of great happenings." Others gave reverent assent. Men stirred and breathed freely again. But several were silent and Omar caught whispers of bewilderment. In a moment subdued argument began—the credulous affirming that they had heard the voice of the dead, while the doubters demanded proof that it was not the head of a living man.

  The dervish surveyed them with a mocking smile.

  "Proof!" cried a soldier at last. "Wallahi, if it be truly a miracle, give proof."

  "Be still!" the dervish retorted. "Proof ye shall have."

  He waited a moment, as if to make certain that all eyes were on him, then swung the carpet back again. Stooping down he grasped the head by both ears and lifted it high—turned slowly so that all should see, and replaced it in its basin of blood.

  The mullah was the first to throw himself on his face, and a sigh went through the room. This was the head that had spoken to them, and it had no body.

  "We believe! We have seen!"

  Omar rose and stepped before the carpet and raised his hand.

  "O my companions," his clear voice rang out. "This is no miracle but the trickery of a street juggler. The dead did not speak—he who spoke is now dead. Look!"

  He had seen no slightest evidence of the trick, but only one thing could have happened. Thrusting back the carpet, he stepped toward the motionless head, and picked up the massive basin. Where it had lain he beheld a hole in the stone flooring, a foot square.

  The dervish hissed angrily, and the men of Isfahan sprang up to stare in bewilderment. But Omar caught up a lamp and pulled down the hangings of the alcove. In one wall there was an open door. He ran through it, shielding the flame of the lamp against the wind. A few yards down the passage he slipped, and found the stones dark and moist with blood.

  "By" my soul, thou hast seen the truth, Arab." The soldier spoke at his elbow. "Something was slain here, and—that head is still warm. But the body has vanished."

  Others pressed after them, fearfully as they searched the chambers in the rear. They found the sleeping quarters of several men, and a door open to the right. But at the foot of a stair leading to the cellars the lamp light shone upon the headless trunk of a man clad in the white robe of a Fidai.

  "It was thrown down here," cried the soldier. "Look, brothers, if the dogs be not skulking below."

  As he passed a closed door in the cellar, the warrior stopped with a grimace, smelling what was stronger than the scent of incense. "There was more than one body shortened of its head," he said. "Oh, the accursed dogs."

  Kicking at the door, he broke it down, and thrust the lamp inside. "One, two . . . five. But they do not look like that other."

  "Nay," echoed the mullah who had pushed to the front. "Mashallah! Here is the body of Anim Beg. And over there— that one was the merchant Shir Afghan who came often to the mosque. Verily these be the five who vanished from Isfahan. Hunt down the dogs who took their lives!"

  But the dervish had slipped away in the confusion, and the now infuriated crowd found only the blind man, beating the darkness with his staff and crying to his vanished companions not to desert him.

  Omar did not sleep that night, with the memory of Jafarak's mutilated body haunting him. He cared little for the murder of the five rich men, but the jester had shared the bitter and sweet of life with him, and the jester had been struck down as if he had been a stray dog. And unrequited rage burned in the Tentmaker like a fever.

  While the hue and cry after the Assassins filled the streets the next morning—and Tutush galloped about with great show of zeal—Nizam al Mulk crept from his retirement, and had himself carried before Malikshah.

  "Give command, my Sultan, that the Seveners who are Assassins be hunted down," he pleaded, "throughout the lands. See how their master defies thee, levying tribute in thy very shadow."

  Malikshah had looked upon the Seveners as one of the numberless sects of Islam, too insignificant to notice. But the old Nizam urged that the real purpose of the Assassins was to overthrow the throne and cast the empire into disorder.

  "Nay," the Sultan smiled, "am I to chase every dog that nips at the hoofs of my horse? These heretics have not arms or men enough to stand against a single hazara of my swordsmen."

  Nizam pointed out that they had already fortified a strong castle called Alamut somewhere in the northern mountains, where they kept their treasure. Moreover the mysterious Hassan ibn Sabah had prophesied the downfall of the Sultan, and the coming of a new day for the people of Islam.

  "If I were to crucify every prophet who proclaims a new day," the Sultan retorted, "I would have no time for hunting or other matters. Let this Hassan come out into the open and I will have him hewn into five pieces with swords."

  "But what of his castle?"

  Malikhah frowned irritably. "How can I tell which spy's tale to believe? Tutush swears upon his head and beard that the Assassins have neither head nor stronghold. If this Hassan seeks power, he is like many others in my realm. Thou hast leave to go."

  As he made his salaam of farewell, the aged Nizam realized that since Malikshah had once looked upon him with suspicion, his influence was lost.

  "It would be well," he pleaded, "to inspect the ruins on the Dizh mountain, overlooking Isfahan. For it is the policy of the Assassins to settle themselves in a fortified point commanding each one of thy great cities, and they have been seen on the Dizh."

  During his hunts Malikshah had noticed the bare steep hill, upon which stood an ancient stone foundation—some said of the giants, and others maintained, of the fire worshipers.

  "Yes," he assented, "that I will do, because it is in my mind to build a castle there for my men."

  Instead of sending an officer, or even Tutush, Malikshah ordered Omar to ride from Isfahan with a troop of swordsmen to inspect the isolated ruin. Whatever Omar did, the Sultan believed, would be fortunate, and, besides, he had heard rumors that Omar himself had unearthed a nest of these strange heretics, overcoming their magic by his arts. He could trust whatever Omar said.

  The Dizh hilltop proved to be inhabited only by shepherds and wandering families which had taken refuge in the ruins. Although the Sultan's guards searched every corner of the ruins and thrust their spears down the dark well-mouths, they came upon no trace of the Assassins.

  No weapons were hidden in the cellars, and the frightened people swore that they had never heard of Alamut or a false prophet Hassan ibn Sabah.

  Still Omar was troubled by a vague doubt. Here was an altar of the fire worshipers, as at Alamut. And the rendezvous of the Assassins in Isfahan had been the house of Ibn Atash (Son of the Fire). In an echoing cleft between rock walls a stream took its rise.

  The whole place reminded him of Alamut. And he thought that there were overmany young men among the families of the shepherds. So he scanned every face closely, without recognizing one.

  "If the Khwaja please," one of the soldiers told him, "there are strange figures carved in the round tower. Belike they are pagan gods or portents of magic."

  When Omar dismounted, and entered the base of the tower, the soldier pointed to a ring of carvings at the height of a man's head. They ran all the way around the circular wall, apparently without beginning or end. And Omar saw what they were at a glance.

  A giant Scorpion, an Archer, a Goat—here were the twelve signs of the zodiac hewn in the stone by unknown hands. Beneath each sign was a bronze point projecting upwards, as if something had been hung from it.

  "They are signs of the stars," he assured his men, "but they were made before Islam."

  "Then, master," observed the one who had found them, "they must be pagan and evil. Shall we shatter them with a battle-hammer?"

&n
bsp; "Nay—they can do no harm."

  What purpose had they served? Surely they had not been carved so carefully in a single frieze upon the otherwise blank wall just as an ornament. They had been placed there for some reason, perhaps by the fire worshipers who had built the tower. No doubt they had played a part in some ceremonial, now forgotten.

  Going to the center of the tower, he turned slowly on his heel, keeping his eyes on the zodiac figures. Yes, they began with the Ram, and ended with the Fish. Perhaps through an opening in the tower, the sun had shone upon them in a certain way, marking the seasons. . . . still he turned slowly, while his men watched, breathing heavily—thinking that the Master of the Stars was invoking some supernatural power. Suddenly, Omar laughed.

  "What hath come upon thee, Khwaja?" demanded the one who had made the discovery. "Is this a message? Is a treasure buried beneath our feet?"

  "The message," Omar said, "is from God. And it is not to be spoken now."

  With reverent "Aman—aman!" they gave back, and Omar strode from the tower. He had seen how he could convince even a dogmatic mullah that the earth revolved.

  From that moment he ceased to brood upon the death of Jafarak, or the Assassins. And he labored to one end—to be dismissed by Malikshah to return to the House of the Stars, where he could experiment with his new idea.

  Slowly the Wheel of Fate turned. The lives of men who had reached their appointed hour were snuffed out like candles in the wind. Other human mites came wailing into the world.

  The Sultan was journeying toward Nisapur. Each evening the imperial ferrashes raised the pavilion wherein he was to sleep, and each morning struck it, and bound it up for the journey.

  Nizam was writing new pages for his book. Slowly the Wheel turned, but in every hour struggling men achieved fortune, or disgrace; they found fleeting happiness, or they were plunged into pain. ... A comet appeared in the sky over the Sultan's camp, and Malikshah sent in haste for Omar to explain its portent.

  It was, the astronomer answered, a sign of peril. Fiery red, it came from the west into the Sign of the Dragon. Malikshah saw that this was so. And, pondering it, he ordered an amir to set forth with a division of the army to find and destroy the castle of Alamut, the eyrie of the Assassins in the northern mountains behind Kasvin.

  It seemed to Malikshah that this was the only danger close at hand. And without doubt Hassan had come from Egypt in the west. Because, for a moment, the hardy Turk felt afraid, he kept his great camp in the plain under pretense of hunting, and would not go to Nisapur. Nor would he allow Omar to depart.

  That moon waned and before a new moon stood like a silver scimitar in the sky, the daggers of the Assassins were drawn in the camp.

  It happened at the hour of midnight. A youth dressed as a Dailamite came to the pavilions of the nobles crying out as a suppliant. He sought Nizam al Mulk, and before any one could prevent, stabbed the old man. He was seized by guards and hacked to pieces, crying out deliriously something about paradise.

  "Verily," Malikshah marveled, "calamity came to us, and the omen is fulfilled."

  He mourned Nizam sincerely, and sent couriers to his army in the hills—already besieging the mountain on which Alamut stood—with orders to spare no effort to tear down the nest of the murderers. He had read the sealed chapters of Nizam's book, and had satisfied himself that the new religion was an actual menace to his reign.

  "Nizam al Mulk," he confessed to Omar, "was a faithful servant. For a month I will hold mourning for him, here."

  And he released Omar from his attendance upon him, for that month, knowing his eagerness to visit Nisapur.

  Riding toward his home with Ayesha beside him, Omar, reflecting on the power that Sultan after Sultan had held, wrote:

  This world of ours, this caravanserai

  Wherein night enters on the heels of day—

  It is no more than Jamshid's banquet hall

  Above the grave where Jamshid's bones decay.

  On the hillside beneath Alamut siege engines reared their massive arms. Great stones flew up and crashed against the walls, falling in fragments in a cloud of dust, rolling down to the river. Iron pots of flaming oil soared into the air, falling upon roofs and courtyard.

  From the walls the men of Alamut cast down javelins, flights of arrows and stones that dismantled the engines below. The garrison was hemmed in by the Sultan's army; but the besiegers could make little impression on the mountain stronghold.

  At times Hassan ibn Sabah showed himself within the walls. By some secret way he was able to come and go as he pleased, and he made his presence felt outside. His emissaries rode at night toward Ray and Nisapur and distant Balkh, preaching to restless crowds that calamity, heralded by the flaming comet was at hand. In such an hour the invisible and long-awaited Mahdi would appear to those who sought him.

  Along the great Khorasan road dervishes whispered to peasants that the appointed day was at hand.

  In mosque, gateway, and caravanserai, men talked of the murder of Nizam al Mulk. Some believed that Nizam had been slain by Malikshah's order, and others insisted that he had been struck down by a supernatural agency. For two lifetimes the aged Minister had governed the empire, and now he was in his grave.

  Uncertainty and dread as subtle as poison seized the cities and spread into the open country. No one knew the exact cause of this unrest, but it spread as swiftly as the plague. If Malikshah had shown himself with his Court at Isfahan or Ray, the fear of the multitudes might have been appeased.

  Malikshah, however, would not give up his hunting. And at times he refused to mount his horse, staying instead within his tent. His officers believed he was grieving for Nizam, but they did not understand his moodiness.

  In the House of the Stars Omar Khayyam worked at a new device. His mathematicians who had been engaged on a geometrical treatise rejoiced at the arrival of their long-absent master. They found that Omar was intent upon this new experiment which appeared to them to be so simple that only a child could find amusement in it.

  It was nothing more than a Chinese shadow-lantern effect. Only it was visible from within the lantern, instead of outside.

  Omar had removed everything from the first story of the round observatory tower. At the height of a man he had built a shelf around the wall and had placed a hundred small oil lamps upon the shelf. Then he had covered shelf and lights with a shade made of parchment, so at night the only light in the chamber came from this circular band of parchment, which he had a painter ornament with the figures of the zodiac

  When the mathematicians inspected it gravely the first evening it was lighted up, they could make nothing of it. True, it enabled one to see the twelve divisions of the great ring of the zodiac, but every child knew that much.

  "Ay, a child!" Omar assented, smiling. "A child can see what we are too blind to see."

  Although the mathematicians looked at it again carefully, turning slowly on their heels, they beheld nothing they had not seen before. They talked it over among themselves and agreed it was nothing but a crude representation of the heavenly band of the zodiac—which every one knew was the pathway of the sun and the moon and the planets across the inverted bowl of the sky. Why Omar had taken such trouble to light it up, so it could be seen at night, they did not understand.

  He went to greater trouble. Under his direction workmen labored in the chamber of the zodiac—as they called it now —taking some stones from the floor. Then Omar barred everyone except the artisans from the tower. Boards and a great wooden pillar were carried in. The carpenters bored some holes in the round pillar near one end, and made handles to fit into these holes—long handles like those used to turn the massive grindstone of a gristmill. All of the artisans went away except two who seemed to find plenty to do in the callar below the chamber of the zodiac.

  Then to the stupefaction of his assistants, Omar invited Ghazali the mystic, who was now the foremost teacher of the Nisapur academy to visit the House of the Stars, to watch a new C
hinese lantern show.

  The guests did not arrive until after full starlight, and they came with great expectancy. For, whatever whimsical displays Omar gave, no one had ever found the Master of the Stars dull

  Ceremoniously his assistants greeted the dignitaries from the academy, and they salaamed low before Ghazali, who wore only his inevitable gray wool. Years had added poise and authority to the mystic, and he was now called Hujjrat ul Islam—The Proof of Islam. It seemed incredible to the assistants of the House of the Stars that Omar would dare bid Ghazali come to look at a lighted zodiac.

  Omar greeted the mystic with frank delight, and offered him sherbet and fruit with his own hand. The young leader of Islam answered with constraint.

  "I have heard," he said, "how your Excellency departed from the guidance of Nizam al Mulk—upon whom be blessings—and how at Isfahan you practised magic after the manner of infidels."

  "Of late," Omar answered gravely, "many tales have been told. But tonight in my house I wish the Proof of Islam to tell me in his kindness only one thing that he beholds. Will you come with me?"

  "Bismallah," assented Ghazali. "In the name of Allah."

  When they entered the first chamber of the tower the disciples of the astronomer and of the mystic gazed about them curiously. There was no light except from the great band of illuminated parchment with its crude drawings. At a word from Omar the others seated themselves against the wall, leaving the two leaders together in the center of the room.

  "What is this?" Omar asked. "Will you turn once from left to right and tell me?"

  "Verily it is the zodiac. Ay, here the Ram and there the Bull . . . and the Fish. I see no more than the twelve signs, ranged in order."

  Omar nodded agreement. "Now will the Proof of Islam stand here, in the center—nay, upon that round piece of wood. Ay, so—facing the first sign."

  The disciples, stirred into expectancy by what seemed to be a new ceremonial, leaned forward to watch the better. They were half-concealed in the shadow under the lighted band. Ghazali was reserved, almost indifferent.