by Ian Watson
“I’m here to see Walid al-Areqi,” she told an attendant at the main entrance. “He’s expecting me.” The man nodded and she stepped inside, then he moved noiselessly away to a shadowed interior.
Abigail browsed the notice-board, spotting Walid’s name on several committees and support-groups. If ever there was anyone on a mission to help the whole of humanity, it was Walid. And after fifteen years of dedicated effort towards the Roxbury mosque project, he certainly deserved his position here.
“Abigail… Abigail, it’s good to see you again. Wonderful!”
They hugged warmly, by no means a conventional way for an Islamic man to greet a woman not of his family.
Walid’s deep, mellow tones always seemed in contrast with his slight build and thin, restless features, just as his wrinkled and nut-brown skin contrasted with the silky white of his hair and beard. During their previous meetings, Abigail had occasionally found herself asking him a question just so that she could be enfolded in the downy duvet of his answering voice.
“It’s good to see you,” she responded with feeling. “Are you busy?”
Walid shrugged and smiled. “This place doesn’t run itself. But I always have a little time for a beautiful French lady.”
“French-Canadian,” corrected Abigail, grinning and colouring at the same time. Walid was a star.
“I suppose you need a little help with your research?” Every line of his face showed an intense eagerness to put his substantial knowledge to service.
“I’m afraid so,” Abigail admitted.
“Come in, come in.”
It wasn’t a time of prayer, so they passed through the echoing main hall and under the dome, with its curved web of struts trapping a mysterious globe of gloom, then to a small side-room. The mosque could hold 400 at prayer, with a separate room for 200 women.
“It’s about the fragment,” Abigail said once they were seated. “I think it may be Ismaili, or at least influenced by the Ismailis. But I’m not too familiar with Ismailism and I need to know more, urgently. What it’s really about, why death overflows, the eagle reference?”
“Ah, the famous fragment.” He frowned. “Ismaili, eh? That puts a different light on things.” A mischievous smile leaked out of him. “When is something not urgent for you?”
“Oh, but…”
Walid held up his hand to halt her. “Now, I’m no expert on Ismaili poetry…”
“But?”
Abigail knew his pause was for dramatic effect. Walid always said he wasn’t an expert, yet she had never yet seen him stumped.
“But I do know their works are usually devotional in nature. Take Ibn Hani for instance.” And he quoted in English a couple of verses about salvation, burdens removed, tomorrow bringing forth the day of Resurrection.
“Not an expert, huh? But you can quote the stuff! Presumably that’s Ibn Hani al-Andalusi?”
“Yes. He had to flee anti-Ismaili persecution in Andalusia and was mysteriously murdered, around 970 AD I believe. A great loss.”
She sensed a touch of bitterness in Walid’s voice, as though the poet had died just last month and not a thousand years ago.
“Because of the Spanish connection, I came across Ibn Hani myself,” said Abigail. “Given that Safiyya lived in Granada and it now appears had Ismaili sympathies herself, she probably knew his works backwards. Yet she doesn’t seem to write in the same style.” She passed Walid a copy of her translation from the Provençal, to jog his memory. He searched in vain for his glasses.
“Your poetisa would have cloaked her sympathies, in order to avoid Ibn Hani’s fate! Four centuries separate him and her, but righteous anger at fringe beliefs hadn’t diminished. Andalusia was a stronghold of orthodoxy until the end.”
“Hmmm… I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Perhaps her poem is deliberately obscure for that very reason.”
Glasses discovered, under a mass of draft leaflets, Walid perused the fragment. Abigail had to consciously stop holding her breath. She desperately needed some clues to fend off the ridiculous attention of Jack Turner.
The wrinkles around Walid’s eyes tightened in concern or distaste, or maybe like her he was just puzzled.
“I’m afraid I didn’t pay enough attention before,” he muttered. “Even so I should have realised… Senility setting in, I expect.”
“Realised what?” ventured Abigail.
“About the Ismaili connection.” He took his glasses off and waved them in vague circles. “The Ismailis were rather militantly organised you know, in medieval times.”
The unsavoury association she hadn’t been able to recall burst forth like vinegar of the mind. Of course! Extremists at the mountain fortress of Alamut, just south of the Caspian sea, had once led the Ismaili community. An embarrassing period in the history of the sect.
“The Assassins of Alamut,” she gasped.
“Quite. Though I think Alamut had been in ruins for quite a while when your poetisa was writing… mid-fourteenth you said?”
Abigail nodded.
“Nevertheless, that’s where you’ll find your eagle connection. The place was even called the Eagle’s Nest, ages before a certain deplorable German Führer used that same name for his mountain retreat.”
She made a mental note to check these things out later; she didn’t want to stop Walid in mid-flow.
“Maybe the verses praise a figure or a period historical to Safiyya. But the one who watches down from high, who has the vision to judge, is an Imam of course. It’s a reference to his status of divine appointment. Nizari Quhistani employs the phrase, the one above them all, but Nasir-i-Khusraw is much more explicit in the last verse of his work, The Master and the Disciple. Ahem: The master said, He is the Lord of the time, chosen by God from men and jinns. Unfortunately, none of this poetry works well in English. Come to think of it, I guess Safiyya’s style is reminiscent of Khusraw. He’s another leading light in Ismaili poetry. Eleventh century. You don’t have the fragment in Arabic, do you?” Walid peered hopefully over his lenses.
“Only in Provençal, so we can’t be sure the translation from Arabic is accurate. I’d actually worked out the Imam bit, but the part about death overflowing is a real mystery.”
“Indeed. Our term is ended could be a reference to the end of everything, the Resurrection, when revived bodies of the dead come up from the earth to be reunited with their souls. That isn’t related to the Christian Resurrection of Jesus. No, it’s when the great Judgement takes place.”
“Hmm… I translated de riba sort as overflows, but literally it’s from the bank comes out, as in a river overflowing its banks. Maybe it should’ve been from the earth comes out? And mort could be dead, not death. It’s a pity we haven’t got the words just before mort to set the context.”
Walid frowned. “It doesn’t feel right. I think you’re bending the words to fit my suggestion. Swells is peculiar, despite the dead supposedly regaining their flesh. I’ve never come across such phrasing as this before.” He fell silent, drumming his fingers on the desk. For once maybe he was stumped. Then he gave a sigh of exasperation.
“If only we had a little more material! The Ismailis believe in religious cycles, so maybe our term means one of those cycles. In fact resurrection, qiyama, can also have a special meaning for them, as in the start of a new cycle, like the one announced by Hasan II at Alamut where Shari’ah law was abandoned. Or it could be a personal spiritual renewal. And yet death is rarely mentioned directly, though there’s a reference in that same poem about the master and disciple by Khusraw. Since he made me drink from the water of life, death has become quite insignificant to me.”
“What’s ‘the water of life’?”
“It’s a metaphor. It features in Sufi poetry too, and usually refers to the wellspring of esoteric knowledge – esoteric in the sense of for initiates only. Or it could refer to an Imam who holds the knowledge, or to Ali himself, the Prophet’s son-in-law and the spiritual leader of all Shi’a
sects. Al-Khidr is often a kind of intermediary associated with such quotes.”
“The green one?” ventured Abigail hesitantly.
“In literal translation, yes. He’s the personification of esoteric inspiration, probably adapted from a pre-Islamic figure.”
“Well it’s certainly powerful water, if it makes death insignificant.”
“Esoteric knowledge is a precious treasure, life itself to the Ismailis of old. Khusraw wrote that the esoteric is like pearls for people who are wise. Whereas ordinary wisdom is just brackish water.”
It seemed as if they’d reached a dead end, or at least were wandering off the point, but Abigail was too polite to interrupt Walid.
“Some interpret the water of life theme more literally. The Baha’is say something like… the water of life flows from the pen of the Exalted, and the water of death flows from the pen of Satan, one drop of which is poison. Oh people, do not mistake the waters of life and death.”
“Who on Earth are the Baha’is?”
“A splinter group of a splinter group of Twelver Shi’ites, formed only about 150 years ago. I came across a still more literal interpretation quite recently. Coincidentally it may be a fantasy from the last mad days of Alamut, but…”
Walid stopped abruptly. Abigail hoped her impatience wasn’t showing.
“I’m sorry, I’m rambling. A habit of age.”
She smiled warmly. “There’s always something to learn from your ramblings. I ought to record them!”
“If only we knew what was written immediately before the word death.”
He suddenly frowned, then looked really quite worried. Maybe he wasn’t used to scholarly defeat.
“Time for tea?” suggested Abigail.
“Oh yes. The English way, with cake, as you like it.”
They rose. Walid rubbed his hands on his long robes, as though wiping off something unclean. Maybe he was phobic about cleanliness, something she hadn’t noticed before.
“I’ll work on this, Abigail. There’s a visitor with us here at the moment who may be able to help, a professor. He’s giving some lectures over at Harvard too. I’ll try to introduce you.”
She squeezed his arm. “Thanks. I always seem to be in your debt.”
She knew there’d be no more talk of Ismailis or poetry. Walid liked to process things in background mode. He’d come up with something, hopefully sooner rather than later. Meanwhile there was plenty to catch up on. Eagle’s nest, eagle teacher…
Cairo, the Fatimid Caliphate: May, 1155
In a courtyard drenched with the scent of orange blossom, a cool glass of sherbet by his side to refresh his spirit, Hakim reread pages from a Greek manuscript, the History of the Wars, which he’d paid an Alexandrian living in Cairo to translate scrupulously into Arabic. Doctoring for rich Cairo clients since he graduated had provided Hakim with a healthy income, most of which he saved to finance his visions. In a year all would be ready for him to depart in company with Sadiq, whereupon he must to swap such luxuries as sherbet for hardship, perhaps forever.
The almost forgotten conflicts which the History recorded had been fought six centuries earlier in Persia, Africa and Italy, during the reigns of the Christian emperors of Byzantium, Justinus and Justinian. Its author was a Palestinian Greek named Procopius.
The old wars in themselves were of no interest to Hakim. All that mattered were the dozen or so sheets he held in his hands, along with the distilled idea of war itself.
The pages described a terrible plague that had almost annihilated the whole human race. Procopius claimed that this plague started among Egyptians living in Pelusium at the easternmost mouth of the Nile delta, and then spread westward throughout Egypt and also north-easterly through Palestine. The affliction had travelled remorselessly onward like a voracious fire, burning a vast forest of a myriad people in many lands and reducing those to a barren landscape of fallen corpses. Plague always began at the coast, wrote Procopius, and moved inland.
Surely this flesh-eating sickness couldn’t appear from out of thin air or, as many writers believed, spontaneously due to foul air. Nor could the fire of plague hide unnoticed for decades in such a populated city as Pelusium. Pestilence must arrive like an unwanted traveller from elsewhere more remote and isolated, yet with which nevertheless there was some trade – somewhere where its fire could smoulder unseen, until it put forth a malignant tongue.
Hakim had consulted many sources and wracked his brains. To one Arabic author, the fact that the river Nile reached the Middle Sea at Pelusium was a clue. Surely the plague had arrived from higher up the Nile, which brought goods to Egypt from as far away as the dripping jungles in the heart of Africa. Paradoxically, this fatal fire must have come to Pelusium by way of fire’s contrary, water. In other words, the tongue of plague must have hidden itself in a boat.
Although enormous loads could be carried by the great river, travel was still sedate, taking many weeks from the higher reaches. And never forget about the foaming cataracts of the upper Nile, which must be circumvented by the tedious process of unloading and reloading boats! So if the forked tongue that licked lethally at Pelusium had indeed come by way of the Nile, then plague must already have been raging in Upper Egypt, which wasn’t the case.
Yet the remoter wilds of Africa might hide this terror, and the boat theory explained so much.
Perhaps plague came by the swifter route of the Red Sea to the narrow gulf between Egypt and the Sinai, so finally overland by caravan to Pelusium. At the time of the Plague of Justinian, it was the empire of Axum that controlled the trade routes of the Red Sea. Axum was now a forgotten power, but had once ranked along with Persia, Rome, and China as one of the four great kingdoms of the world, exporting gold and grain, rhino horns, monkeys and animal skins, ivory and frankincense. Only the rise of Islam and the subsequent whirlwind of Arab victories had wrested control of those trade routes which started from…
Ethiopia!
Recessed rills of water cooled the courtyard, bubbling from white marble sources that reminded Hakim momentarily of breasts, liquid overflowing forever from the nipples. He thrust that random thought brusquely aside, purged by the fire of his duty, to God.
His great task drew him irresistibly, yet laid a great burden of responsibility and even fear upon him too. Deeply he inhaled the scent of orange blossom, to fix it indelibly in his memory. What strange jungly smells might assault his nostrils before too long, what strange sights assail his eyes?
Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Studies, Cambridge, Massachusetts: April
Back at her desk after visiting Walid, Abigail was keen to get started. But Terry’s photograph stared hard at her, inducing serious guilt. She hadn’t spoken to him in four days, despite his messages, and couldn’t really put it off again. With a resigned sigh, she reached for the phone.
Just as her fingers touched, it rang.
Damn! She muttered. If that’s him, I’ll have to be even more apologetic.
“Hello Abigail. It’s Jack, Jack Turner.”
Caught by surprise, Abigail struggled to switch her psychological context from Terry to the ICEman snooper.
“Dr. Leclaire,” she managed, acidly.
“Yeah. Okay. I followed your tip, about an Imam.”
Why did she have to talk to this man? Why was the government suspicious of anything and everything Islamic? Why couldn’t she just live her life without burden or interference?
Anger erupted from Abigail. “Did you have me followed?” she yelled.
“What? What are you talking about?” He sounded shocked, even worried.
Abigail’s anger collapsed as quickly as it had flared up. She felt cold, and at a loss.
“Oh, I thought…”
“Why would I do that? Maybe someone at the office got over-zealous. It’s unlikely, but I’ll check.”
“What tip did you say?”
“About the teacher of many lessons being an Imam maybe. Not much luck with anyone modern so far,
but it’s easy enough to find a historic connection. Have you heard of the Assassins of Alamut?”
Damn! He was right on her tail. How could she explain that she was only just aware of a link herself? Would he believe her?
“Dr. Leclaire? Have you heard of them?”
“Yes… yes I have. But…”
He talked over her. “Did you know that their fortress at Alamut, the base of an Imam, was known as the eagle’s nest?”
Even though she should focus on getting control of this call, her brain raced. The link between Alamut and Safiyya couldn’t be a direct one. The fortress was in ruins when Safiyya was writing, not to mention Safiyya was more than two thousand miles away in anti-Ismaili Granada. But where had the Ismaili Imamate passed to? And where had Sinan al-Din come from? Safiyya’s Ismaili lover and a man of rank; what knowledge for initiates might he have shared with his poetisa, which maybe she used to build the poem, knowledge that could be retrievable? Puzzles abounded and maybe Sinan al-Din was a key, yet this was purely a medieval matter, not a modern one. It should not interest ICE! No doubt the word assassin had over-excited them.
“Are you there, Dr. Leclaire?”
She was flustered. Her throat was dry.
Why did Jack Turner make her feel guilty? Why did Terry make her feel guilty?
“No, I mean yes.”
“Yes you’re there? Or yes to the eagle’s nest? Why do I get the feeling that you’re hiding something?”
“Look, this is absurd. Alamut was twelfth and thirteenth century for God’s sake. It’s all just medieval history!”
“Then I need a history lesson. We should meet.”
“Why should we?”
“Do you intend to obstruct my investigation?”
“No… No of course not.”
“Well then, this evening.”
Panic ran unchecked through Abigail’s veins.
“No… No, I’m busy. Make it next week, Monday.”