by Harold Lamb
When Omar entered the divan a glance showed him that the whole council of the academy was ranged upon the seat about the wall, with the heads of the departments of philosophy and theology. Facing him sat the kadis in their white turbans, with Ghazali the mystic, and a mufti or maker-of-decisions from the Ulema itself. So crowded was the room that only a small space had been left for him to kneel before the judges.
He had often come there to lecture to the professors, or to advise the council, and most of the faces were familiar. Now, however, they gave no sign of recognition, and Omar understood that he was to be tried, even before the oldest of the judges spoke the first words— "Bismallah ar rahman ar rahim—in the name of Allah the Merciful, the Pitying."
While he listened, his mind became alert, weighing not the formal words but the feelings of this council of judgment. Had Malikshah been alive they would not have dared call him to judgment. Now in the eyes of mullahs and professors of the Law he read an old hatred, no longer concealed.
One of the mullahs recited the charges against Omar the Tentmaker, son of Ibrahim, once astronomer to the King, upon whom be blessings.
The mullah said that first the books of Omar must be judged, since those books had been taken into the schools throughout Islam.
It was charged against the books—which had been written without question according to teachings of the infidel Greeks—that their author was mulhid—an unbeliever.
He was manifestly a heretic, on many counts. First, he had prevailed upon the late Sultan to set aside the proper calendar of Islam and to measure time anew in accordance with infidel ideas.
Then, he had established his work-place near a cemetery, so that he could walk among the graves and hold unhallowed commerce with the dead.
Also, he had blasphemed against the word of God, saying that the earth was not the center of the universe, and that the stars which Muhammad had declared to rise and set in fact did not move. Most of those who were present—faithful followers of the road of God—had heard this mulhid speak these very words. That, in itself, was sufficient cause for a judgment. In fact, the mullah concluded, there could be no argument. All these circumstances were known beyond doubt. Hundreds of witnesses could testify to every point. The only question for the council to decide was—what punishment should be measured out to the books of Omar Khayyam, and what to the author of the books.
When the mullah was silent, a doctor of the academy spoke. He agreed that the facts already related were beyond need of testimony. The hand of Omar Khayyam had, however, committed another offense not so generally known.
From time to time Omar Khayyam had written rubais which, although never gathered together in a book, were repeated in all quarters. The Sufis, especially, quoted these quatrains, and impious souls voiced them in challenge to the Koran and the Traditions of Islam. The speaker, a humble servant of the Ulema had collected several of these quatrains written down by various hands in Persia, yet composed by Omar Khayyam.
If the doctors and learned kadis would permit he, the speaker, would read aloud these impious verses, asking their forgiveness for uttering words so evil in meaning.
There was a stir of interest, and heads craned forward. Not every one had known of the quatrains. And here the maker of the verses would be condemned by his own words.
"Read, and fear not," said the oldest judge.
Slowly, the doctor of the Law read the verses, and Omar smiled faintly in recollection . . . with Yasmi beside him, how could he spare a thought to paradise . . . indeed, wine had eased his grieving ... a hawk uptossed, to seize the book of human Fate. . . .
"That is sacrilege," the doctor said, "but here is one clear line of blasphemy. 'O Thou to Whom we cry, "Forgive!"—Say, where wilt Thou forgiveness find?'"
Omar looked up, surprised. "I did not write that."
No one answered. The bearded faces beneath the white turbans were stern. Ghazali rose, avoiding Omar's eyes, and made his way to the nearest door. As clearly as if written on paper before him, Omar could read their judgment—that he was condemned.
He also rose to his feet and as he did so something relaxed in his mind. He did not want to struggle any more with these intent doctors and judges.
"Wilt thou speak to us, Omar Khayyam?" the mufti asked.
"Yes. That verse is not mine. But here is one that has not been read:
If at the dawn of the last Judgment day
We will arise with what beside us lay.
Within the tomb—O put by me a jug
Of wine of Shiraz and a mistress gay.
"That verse was not written before," Omar added, "but it came into my mind as something appropriate to the moment."
A murmur of anger answered him, and the mufti lifted his hand.
"Go thou, and await the decision of the judges."
As he was led through the door that Ghazali had left, a pockmarked dervish leaned toward him to whisper under his breath. "Sanctuary is in Alamut."
When Omar made no response the dervish slipped away, and the guards led him to an alcove of the mosque where the shadow of the minaret lay upon the stones. With a sigh Omar seated himself comfortably.
He was no longer the son of Ibrahim, and no longer Khwaja Imam Omar, the favored of the Sultan, the bestower of favors, For long years he had heard great argument, and here he was at the courtyard of the mosque wherein he had studied at the feet of the learned, and now he was not Khwaja Omar but a prisoner being judged.
The mufti himself came to tell him of the verdict.
"All thy books are pronounced contrary to the Law, as being the work of an unbeliever. They will be forbidden in the schools, and those that are here will be burned.
"The House of the Stars is confiscated; henceforth it will belong to the council of Nisapur. Thou art forbidden to set foot within its walls, or to speak in public within the government of Nisapur."
"I hear," Omar replied. "But what of me?"
The mufti considered, stroking his beard. "Some of the judges hold that thou art mad, being afflicted of Allah. As to that, I do not know. Thou art free, but thou must depart from Nisapur, and the academies of Islam."
"For how long?"
"For ever."
When the guards had gone away, Omar went from the gate. Taking no heed of the whispering crowd that gathered to watch him, he turned instinctively down the familiar Street of the Booksellers.
"O unbeliever!" a voice mocked him. A band of students trooping down toward the park fell silent at his approach. Faces appeared in the bookstalls as he went by. At the turn in the street, he stopped by the fountain. The water trinkled from it just as it had done twenty-five years before, and women sat gossiping on the rocks. One of them uttered an exclamation, and a girl who was filling a clay jar at the basin turned, startled, to find him standing behind her. The jar, half lifted, fell and broke upon the stones.
"Thy forgiveness!" he said impulsively, and turned to go on.
Twenty-five years ago when he had waited at the fountain for Yasmi, he had been real and all those other people only shadows that came and went like shapes on a Chinese lantern. Now. they were real, and he had become a shadow moving without purpose. That had happened when they had taken the House of the Stars away from him.
Ayesha, weeping, besought him that evening to take what followers remained, and the chest of gold and her belongings and flee to Kasr Kuchik with her. Here in Nisapur, she was afraid. The talk she had heard in the alleys, the jeering of the crowd at the mosque! There was time to go—she had horses ready at hand, and camels for the baggage—before fresh misfortune came upon their heads.
But Omar felt no desire to go from Nisapur. He had not finished the commentary on Euclid—all his work was waiting at the House of the Stars.
"Nay," he said, and went to sit on the roof, to think of what he must do. Nothing occurred to him, however, except to watch the glow of late afternoon change into sunset.
It was nearly dark when Ishak came running up.
"Ai, master, a great crowd is going toward the House of the Stars. They are soldiers, mullahs, worthless ones. They make outcry against thee, and perhaps they will loot the tower. Let us hasten and take what we can and ride to Kasr Kuchik before the gates are closed. Wallahi, there is no safety here."
"Saddle one horse," said Omar, rising.
When he had mounted, he rode from the courtyard, after ordering Ishak to keep the household within doors. Crossing the park, he trotted through the river gate of the city and whipped the horse into a gallop.
At that hour the road was almost deserted. When he came out from under the trees, his eyes fastened on the height of the observatory. Instead of a dark line against the stars, he saw a red glow rising and sinking.
As he drew closer, he made out flames beneath clouds of smoke. Digging his stirrups into the horse's flanks, he plunged up the slope, through scattered groups of men. At the garden entrance he flung himself from the saddle and ran in. Smoke eddied about him, and flames licked in and out of the embrasures of the tower. A breath of hot air scorched his face, and he was pulled back by hands that grasped his arms.
"Y'allah! Art blind, O man! The fire is in there."
"It rages, now."
"Ay, 'tis well lighted. See, how it eats the tower."
The men who had pulled him away from the observatory door were talking, elated by the spectacle. Some of them had bundles of hangings in their arms, and two of them were quarreling about the screen with the dragon embroidered on it— arguing whether it was worth carrying to the bazaar to sell.
Omar was only half-conscious of the shouting and running about as the crowd made off with its loot. The first story of the observatory was a roaring furnace, and the fire was eating upward.
All his books and papers were there, on the third floor—the star tables, the records of the years of observation, the half-finished Euclid.
"The books—what of the books?" he cried, shaking the nearest man.
"Eh, what? The books made good food for the flames. Ay we piled them below there."
A boy ran past holding something under his shirt. The soldiers hacked the dragon from the screen with their knives. It would be easier to carry off, without the frame. They looked up with interest when the first floor of the tower fell in, and sparks whirled up.
When the roof of the tower fell, the thing became no more than a chimney of fire, above a bed of glowing embers. The glare diminished and the air grew cooler. The voices quieted down as the crowd departed, hastening to get back before the city gates should be closed.
A party of horsemen entered the garden and reined in to look at the scene. They went over to inspect the great bronze globe of Avicenna which had been carried out of the tower and stood in safety, with the astrolabe lying by it. The globe, then, would serve other watchers of the stars.
"Will your Excellency compose an ode upon this burning?"
Omar glanced up, startled. But the speaker was one of the newcomers and he addressed a man who wore a court robe and bestrode a fine white horse. Something about the rider was familiar to Omar, and after a moment he recognized Mu'izzi, the Glorifier, the King's poet.
Mu'izzi pretended to take no notice of the astronomer. Instead he made some jest about the fire and turned his horse away, reminding his companions that they were late. After their hoof beats passed down the road Omar was left alone.
It did not occur to him to go away. His work had been there, and it was smoldering now among those blackened stones. He wondered what had happened to his assistants, and decided that they had fled from the mob.
The bed of embers was like a mass of roses lighted from within, growing bright and then dim, as the night air stirred. Still, in his mind the flames roared, and he felt a desolating heat. This had happened to him before, when the tent burned on the bank of the Euphrates just a little while ago. It had never been extinguished, that fire, and he felt again its warmth, watching the smoke make a veil across the sky.
But here a round moon looked down from a clear sky. Omar paced up and down the ruined garden. Some of the rose bushes had scattered their petals along the walk, and a white lily bloomed in the shadow. Omar felt that he must be careful not to step on the flowers, which were growing indistinct. It would be better to mount his horse and go away from this ruined place.
His horse, however, had been stolen or had wandered off. So he walked back along the road with the moon above him, and his shadow keeping him company, stride for stride. . . .
The city gate was closed, and the guards warned him away. So he wandered through an outlying village until he came to a light in a doorway. When he heard a subdued burst of laughter and the tinkle of a guitar, he stopped.
Within the open shop he saw only a potters wheel, with dried clay upon it, and a rug with a jar or two. Yet the place was fragrant with the scent of wine. Omar entered, and pushed aside the curtain at the rear.
Jars upon jars were ranged along the walls. A peasant girl, unveiled, smiled at a man who was plucking the guitar with clumsy fingers. An old man held a jar in his arms, as if embracing it, while he poured wine from it into a bowl.
"Take care," cried Omar. "Spill it not."
When he took the bowl in his hand the cool red wine rolled cheerfully, and he sipped it while the three stared at him.
"Mashallah," the white beard said, bowing low, "hath his Honor lost his way?"
Omar glanced down at his robe covered with dust and ashes. Then with a sigh he emptied the bowl. Here in the wine shop it was cool, and the old potter with the crooked hands was an angelic shape. Seating himself beside the jar, Omar considered.
"Today," he answered, "I have divorced religion and learning from my bed, and taken the daughter of the grape to bride."
"What strange names," the girl laughed.
"Sing," Omar demanded, "and you with the open mouth, play. Such a divorce happens not every day."
He did not say anything more for a long time. The wine gurgled musically from the jar, and Omar felt inclined to call attention to it. He put his hand upon its cool side, and turned to the potter. "What if this clay like me a sighing lover was—its lip to the lip of the lovely sweetheart was, and its arm about her throat?"
"Who knows?" responded the old man drowsily.
Omar listened then for the girl's singing but it had ceased. The place was dark, and he had been asleep. He sat up and shook the jar, but it was empty. So he turned over to sleep again in the dark.
When someone touched his shoulder he opened his eyes and found the room filled with gray light. The old man looked troubled and afraid. "Wake, my lord," he urged, "for the muezzin calls to prayer from the tower."
"Heed him not," Omar said, "for he calls to you from ambush, hidden in his tower. Beware of him."
And he turned over again beside the empty jar. Why should he get up when the gates of Nisapur were closed to him? And the House of the Stars, that lay in ashes——
"Listen, master," begged the old man.
". . . Come to prayer, come to prayer . . . to the house of praise. . . "
The distant call echoed within the potter's room, and Omar got to his feet, swaying a little. In the entrance he stopped to think for a moment. It was dawn, and here he was in a tavern door—so he called to the muezzin:
"At dawn a voice cried from the tavern door,
'Come sots and little fools, fill one cup more.
Awake and come, before your cup is filled
By Fate, and all your drinking days are o'er.' "
Then he went back to sleep.
By day the potter's wheel whirled, scattering cool drops of water. The potter's crooked hands molded the wet clay into fantastic shapes. By night Omar cooled the fire within him with wine, until the rows of jars so motionless in the sunlight became human faces that could talk with him. When he tired of talking, he slept, and he did not try to count the days.
"They trouble me not," he explained shrewdly to the potter, "the days that have gone by,
and the days that have not come."
One day, however, brought a disturbance. Ayesha and Ishak stood by him, and Ayesha's voice was shrill with anger.
"What new madness is this? Knowest not that we have sought thee for weeks? Aiwallah!. She wrung her hands. "Is it not enough that they burned the House of the Stars, and the moneylenders of the bazaar took the city house for thy debts?"
But all that must have been yesterday. Surely the fire had died down to cool ashes by now.
"Ay, they have taken Kasr Kuchik. Now thy name is a mockery in the Court of the new Sultan, who hath done away with thy calendar and restored the lawful months of the moon—— "
"My calendar?"
"Ay, they will have no more to do with it. Is it not enough that women point at me in the bath, saying 'Behold the slave of Omar Khayyam? Is it not enough that Mu'izzi's harlots ride in palanquins with black slaves to clear the way, when I have only a horse and Ishak, and thou art wallowing in wine with a potter's girl——"
"It is enough," said Omar, sitting up. "Ayesha, I promise thee that women will no longer mock thee with the name of Omar Khayyam, and Mu'izzi's peacocks will not have brighter plumage than thine henceforth. Ishak, thou hast store of silver put by?"
"Allah alone knows how much!" said Ayesha.
"And Ayesha hath the chest of gold with other things?"
The slave girl and the gatekeeper exchanged eloquent glances. Long ago they had convinced themselves that Omar could read their minds, but still they were surprised.
"Jewels she hath," assented Ishak promptly, "and the case of thy coins."
"Then be witness, O Potter, that all this property of mine I give to my slave girl who is here, and my servant. Go and testify before the mufti of Nisapur that I do so."