Tabriz lay in the basin of Lake Urmiah, dominated by the volcano Mount Sehend, surrounded by miles of gardens and fields. The town had once been known as Kandsag, but that was long, long ago.
My arrival at the hospice brought a stir of excitement. The Arab stable boys rushed to help me from the saddle as if I were barrel fat and helpless.
A familiar voice sounded at my elbow. “O Mighty One! I, Khatib the preacher, would serve you! I, a student of the Koran, but knowing in all the ways of evil! Trust me, O Mighty One, and you shall be guided safely!”
It was he…it was Khatib!
“Bismillah!” I exclaimed. “What manner of man is this who doth crawl with fleas! Thou hive of vermin, how could such a one serve me, ibn-Ibrahim, scholar and physician?”
He followed me to the door of the caravanserai, his wicked old eyes twinkling. “I knew if I waited, you must come sooner or later to this place, and surely, you have come.”
“And the Comtesse?”
“Safe enough, by the will of Allah! And like to remain so, for Lucca has recruited men for her, including some thirty of those who escaped from the Cumans. She will do well enough, that one!”
“Do you know what it is that I do?”
“You are a fool to even think of it, but I am a fool who has found his master, and will help you. It has been written.”
“My chances are not good.”
“Who speaks of chance or chances? We have neither one nor the other, ibn-Ibrahim!” He used the name with a sly grin. “We shall be food for jackals.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “But I have lived much, and who is to say that I should die otherwise?”
“Ibn-Ibrahim, being a scholar and a physician, might be invited…I say might…to the fortress of Alamut.”
“As Allah wills. Truly,” he added, “you are the most learned of men, and there is no trick in that. I have heard wise men speak of you so, even the great Averroës. Do you have a plan?”
“Only to become known quickly as a scholar and physician. Sinan, I hear, is one to appreciate such things, and there might be an invitation. If not, I shall find another way.”
Khatib shrugged. “What you wish has been done. Even before you arrived I informed all who listened that I awaited my master, who was a wise man before Allah.” He grinned again, evil twinkling from his eyes. “Besides, I had no money, and men would not allow the servant of a learned man to starve in their presence.”
“But the name, Khatib! Who did you tell them I was?”
“How could I know? I told them nothing as to name, just that my master was a great scholar who did not wish to become known, but who traveled in search of wisdom.”
“What of the way, Khatib? Do you know it?”
“Aye…it is far into the mountains near Qazvin, where each village is a nest of spies. You cannot proceed one step they will not know.
“Another thing, and beware! There is a man named al-Zawila…do you know such a one?”
“No.”
“He is of great power among the Isma’ili, but lately come to Alamut. Some say he is powerful as Sinan and is his strong right hand, his defender, his master of spies.
“There is a whisper, and not even walls may stop a whisper, that since his coming there has been grief and trouble for the slave named Kerbouchard. This slave had won a place for himself by diligence, but since the coming of al-Zawila he is marked for every demeaning task. It is as if al-Zawila wished to force him to anger so he could be tortured and killed!”
“Then we must move swiftly, for my father’s patience is as limited as his strength is great.”
We talked long, and I listened much, for Khatib knew all the gossip of the bazaars and nothing escaped him. First, I must establish myself, for what was needed was official recognition of my presence. Knowing the ways of power, I doubted I should long be kept waiting.
Al-Zawila? I knew no such name. Why, then, did he hate my father? For surely there must be hatred for such a man to even notice my father.
And but recently arrived? Could he be an enemy of mine?
I knew no such man, nor had any memory of one.
Tabriz, Khatib told me, was noted for the splendor of its rugs as well as its books, and a rug was needed for my prayers.
Finding Khatib gave me hope, for doubts assailed me. How could I succeed where kings and emperors had failed? Yet Khatib was a man of a thousand gifts, listening well, and possessing devious ways of acquiring knowledge hidden from all.
Scarcely an hour passed before there came a fat eunuch, puffing from his exertions. “O Auspicious One! I come from the Emir! From the mighty and learned Mas’ud Khan! If you would condescend to honor him with your presence!”
“Tell your master, his wish is an honor. His nobility, his splendor, his riches and power are known to all! If he wishes this humble one to come, come I shall!”
Such are the amenities of social life, which oft makes a liar of the best of men. Never had I heard of Mas’ud Khan, nor had I any idea whether he was noble, splendid, or rich, but considering my problems, I hoped he was all three. Yet if he was an emir—and seeing the wealth of the city as well as the poverty of the poor, I had no doubt someone was squeezing the juice from the orange—rich he might well be.
Yet there were other things to consider. It was in my mind to show myself in the bazaars, for what was whispered there would echo inside the walls of Alamut. Moreover, as I was now to become a Moslem, I wished to have a prayer rug. Women and the very rich had begun to use such rugs, and as I wished to establish myself as one of the very rich and very eminent, the prayer rug was essential.
To breach the walls of Alamut with power had failed many; to enter by stealth with the network of spies was impossible. Every stranger was suspect. Hence, the solution seemed to be to herald my presence widely and hope for an invitation. Plotters and connivers were searched for in hidden places, so I would let myself be seen, heard, and talked with. Sinan was a man of varied interests, and it might be that a stranger would interest him.
The rugs woven in Tabriz were of several kinds, but the Ghiordes or Turkish knot was beginning to displace the Sehna or Persian knot in the Tabriz area. The city had long been noted for its weavers, although the industry had been damaged by Turkish invasions. Now Turks had settled in or around Tabriz and introduced their own methods of weaving. The tufted style had been suitable for a people whose rugs covered the floors of tents. The Turks invaded the country at least a hundred years before my time, but their methods of weaving had been slow to replace the Persian.
The idea of the prayer rug was new, although Moslems had marked off small areas when in the field or traveling, to keep intruders at a distance when praying. These were often marked off by sticks or stones. Despite the fact that the Moslem religion has many elements similar to Christian or Jewish practice, and all are People of the Book, the true Moslem will not pray where the footsteps of Jews or Christians have made the ground unclean.
The worshiper will, if water is unavailable, wash his hands with sand or soil, for he must bathe before praying. He will have with him his kibleh, a small compass to ascertain the direction of Mecca, and his tesbeth, or rosary.
The devout Moslem will pray five times a day, his devotions preceded by washing of the face, hands, and feet. Ears that have heard evil are touched with water. Eyes and mouth that have seen or spoken evil are washed: When washing the hands, the Moslem cups the water in his hands and lifts them, allowing the water to run down to his elbows.
It was from this habit of washing our hands before prayer that we physicians adopted the habit of bathing our hands in this manner, as it was the custom to pray before each operation.
After bathing, the worshiper would kneel upon his marked-off space or rug, prostrating himself, touching the rug with his forehead. During the years when Mohammed lived, it was the custom to pray
toward Jerusalem, but following his death, the direction of Mecca was adopted.
Mats and rugs had been used by various religions since earliest times, so the idea was not new to Arab, Turk, or Persian.
The prayer rugs offered for sale in Tabriz were rectangular rugs with an elaborate border of delicate floral design. At the top of the rug and inside the border was a panel some four inches wide and at least two feet long containing a stylized quotation from the Koran in Arabic. Beneath the panel and outlining the prayer arch was the spandrel with a field of sapphire blue worked with an intricate design.
The Ghiordes prayer arch or niche possessed a high central spire and well-defined shoulders. Two pillars supported the arch on the sides, and from the center of the arch was suspended a representation of the sacred lamp of the temple.
The coloring of the Ghiordes rugs I saw in Tabriz was delicate but beautifully defined. The rug I purchased had just been completed and was woven from silk with a few designs in wool. Had the rug been woven entirely of silk or wool, it would have been perfect, and nothing is perfect but Allah, so the addition of a few designs in other materials indicated the humility of the weaver. The blue, light-green, and yellow were beautiful in the extreme, and when held in different lights the rug possessed a shimmer like a mirage in the desert.
The pile of the rug was woven in such a way that the nap lay in the direction of Mecca.
The rugs fascinated me, and I wandered through the bazaars studying the various ideas and motifs expressed in the weaving. The influence of the Chinese was quite obvious in some of the rugs. Contacts with the Chinese had begun long before. For several hundred years ships from Cathay had been coming to the Persian Gulf, and in Constantinople as well as here I had seen bronze articles as well as ceramic from China.
Rugs from Samarkand were displayed in the markets, some worked with a pomegranate design, a Hittite symbol of eternal life and fertility. In others the pine cone was the basic motif, a Chinese symbol of longevity, and the cypress tree, often planted in Moslem cemeteries, was often seen. In ancient times it had been believed that cypress boughs left upon the tombs of the dead would continue to mourn. The cypress had long been sacred in Persia, sacred to the fire worshipers who gave Persia its name, for the tall, slender shape of the cypress symbolized the flame.
In Córdoba I had seen many rugs from the East, fabulous in beauty and texture. It was incredible that such rugs could be woven, with hundreds of knots to the square inch. The one I finally decided upon for myself numbered five hundred and forty knots to the square inch, although this was nothing to such palace rugs as the great rug woven for the audience hall at Ctesiphon, representing a garden. Some such rugs numbered two thousand five hundred knots to the square inch, an incredible number.
The garden idea was quite common in Persian rugs, and the word paradise is Persian and means a “walled garden.”
Khatib found me in the bazaar, worried by my absence, and reminding me of my meeting with the Emir. It was with rugs as with pottery and books. I have been fascinated by the ideas expressed and the symbolism woven into the texture of their work.
An hour after leaving the bazaar I appeared at the palace of the Emir, Mas’ud Khan. Upon a dais at the far end of the audience hall a low table had been spread with all manner of fruit and viands. Scarcely had I been shown into the room than Mas’ud Khan himself appeared, and my expectations were shattered.
Instead of the corpulent emir I expected, round of cheek before and behind, I found myself meeting a lean, hawk-faced man with black penetrating eyes that measured me coldly. This was no idle official, fattening upon the deeds of other men, but a warrior, lean and fierce. He carried the smell of blood and the saddle about him, and I realized I must proceed with the greatest caution.
“It is an honor to meet a scholar of such great knowledge.” He spoke smoothly, then abruptly. “You are truly a physician?”
“Truly,” I replied, then added, “and you are truly the Emir?”
49
HE SMILED WITH genuine humor, albeit a wolfish humor that had more than a hint of the sardonic. “Well said!” He seated himself at a table and handed me a piece of fruit. “I think we shall be friends!”
“A scholar is always a friend to an emir,” I said, “or he is not wise enough to deserve the name of scholar!”
“You must forgive my ignorance,” Mas’ud Khan said, “but I believed I knew the names of the most eminent scholars. What a pity that I know so little of what you have done!”
Suspicious of me, was he? Suspicious, and therefore dangerous, for this man would act upon what he believed. Was he an Isma’ili? Perhaps an ally and friend to Sinan?
“How could you know of me? I, who am but the least of Allah’s servants? My home was Córdoba, and in Córdoba one must be a great scholar indeed to be known. Yet I knew Averroës there, and John of Seville was my friend.”
“What did you there? Were you a teacher?”
“A translator of books from Greek and Latin to Arabic, and sometimes from the Persian, also.”
“And your plans?” Mas’ud’s hard black eyes measured me.
“To study at Jundi Shapur,” I said. “I have heard it is the greatest medical school in the world. Is it true the teaching there is in Sanskrit?”
“No more, but it was once so. For more than one thousand years it has been the greatest of schools, although each year it becomes more difficult to maintain the university and the hospital because Baghdad hires its teachers.”
“There is a thing you could do for me, Emir. Long since, word came to me of a book of several thousand pages, the Ayennamagh. Can this be found?”
“Truly, you are a scholar! How few even know of this book!” Regretfully, he shook his head. “No, it cannot be had. I have never seen a copy, and if such could be found, it would be my head if it left our hands.”
Yet his suspicions remained, and artfully, I guided the conversation through talk of medicine, law, and poetry to the art of war.
He had not heard of Sun Tzu and was fascinated to learn of his theories, and we passed from that to talk of Vegetius and the Roman legions. “We had them here, you know, and our Parthians defeated them. One captured legion was sold to slavery in China and marched there intact.”
Artfully, I guided the talk to libraries and alchemy, knowing that in the fortress at Alamut a great library existed, and Sinan himself was interested in alchemy.
Suddenly, without warning he said, “There is a man here from your land. You must meet him.”
“His name?”
“Ibn-Haram.”
Had he suddenly leaned across and struck me, I could have been no more startled. Yet I believe it did not show in my face.
“Ah, yes. A good man to have for a friend, and a dangerous enemy. I know of him…he plotted long to seize power in Córdoba, even from Yusuf, his benefactor.”
He was one man I must not meet, for I had no greater enemy, and he would use all the power he could muster to have me beheaded. Yet what I had said apparently caused Mas’ud Khan to think, for he was silent, musing for a long time.
“Yusuf was his benefactor, you said?”
For what it was worth, I would try. “As one scholar to another”—I spoke softly, not to be overheard—“trust him not. He is a man hungry for power, and not to be satisfied with anything less than all the power.”
“Yusuf? He was your friend?”
“He knew nothing of me, and I knew little of him, yet toward the end of my stay I met his son, Abu-Yusuf Ya’kub. We did become friends, very good friends, I believe. We met at the house of Valaba.”
“Valaba? Of her I had heard much. She is very beautiful, I think?”
“Very!” I spoke with regret. “Very beautiful, indeed.”
“But thin?” He spoke sadly. “I have heard it said.”
“Not for m
y taste, but Turks, I hear, like their women well rounded, on all sides. Is it true?”
“A Turk likes a woman with a belly,” he said emphatically. “Those Persian women…bah! They are thin, too thin! Breasts, buttocks, and belly, all fat! That is the way a Turk likes his women! And thighs! She must have thighs! Allah!” He shook his head. “I cannot see what you Moors and Persians see in those women who are thin as herons!
“Would you believe it, ibn-Ibrahim? In the last three Persian towns we took, there was not a single woman taken by force? It was unbelievable! Were it not for the fact that I understand their distaste for thin women, I would believe our army had lost its manhood!”
He filled a glass and pushed it toward me. “Kumiss. If you have not tasted kumiss you have not lived.” He refilled his own glass. “It is our custom,” he explained, “when capturing a town to treat all captured women to a taste of Turkish victory. It has done much for the generations that follow.” Then he scowled. “But if it continues, we shall be fighting our own sons.”
“At least you will be assured of a good fight.”
He glanced at me. “I did not know that scholars were warriors.”
“And until I met you, Mas’ud Khan,” I said quickly, “I did not know warriors were scholars!”
My reply pleased him. He was pleased by the compliment; I, because I had evaded what might have been a trap.
He changed the subject. “You mentioned alchemy? You can make gold?”
My smile was sardonic. “Is it so easy, then, to make gold? Many try…it is whispered some have succeeded. But other things are more precious than gold. Life, for example, or the means to take life.
“It is true,” I added, “that I have delved into the elements of things, into all aspects and combinations of minerals, and I seek when I can the company of others who learn, for who knows when my knowledge combined with theirs might prove the answer? Each man learns a little, but the sum of their knowledge can be great.”
The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 38