Omar Khayyam - a life Page 17

  "Well?"

  "All women are the better for watching. Surely no one would dream of letting so young a woman wander in so large a garden. Since Zambal Agha was not far off, I thought——"

  "One of you," Omar directed the troopers behind him, "find that eunuch. Take a horse from the stable and escort him in to Nisapur. Turn him loose in the bazaar, and then see that he never sets foot within this gate again."

  He did not wish to go away leaving Ayesha under the eyes of a jailer in her garden.

  For three days he pushed steadily west along the caravan road, stopping to sleep at the serais. To avoid losing time, he did not enter Nisapur, where crowds would have gathered to greet the King's astronomer. Since Malikshah spent most of his time at the frontiers, and the aged Nizam was closeted with his papers, the people of Khorasan had come to look upon the splendid figure of the astronomer royal as the representative of power.

  When they halted for the third night, a rider with a hawk on his wrist approached Omar and salaamed respecfully.

  "May thy journey be pleasant, Khwaja! Behold, here is an omen." The stranger drew a small silver tube from his girdle—a tube no larger than a penpoint. "An hour ago I loosed my falcon in the plain yonder. I meant to fly him at a heron going toward the river, but he chose instead a pigeon flying west. Behold—I meant no harm—it was a messenger pigeon and upon its leg I found this tube with the paper that is in it. Read!"

  The paper was no larger than a man's thumb, with a single line of writing upon it.

  "Omar the Tentmaker is upon the road to Ray."

  Instead of a signature there was a number.

  "There is no harm," Omar assured the anxious falconer. "The pigeon was flying west?"

  "Like an arrow, into the setting sun. And then I heard of the Khwaja's arrival here, in this very spot, and I said to my companions, 'Verily, nothing happens save by Allah's will.'"

  Turning the slender tube in his fingers Omar reflected that he could not know who had sent this message, or for whom it was meant. The pigeon had known whence it came and whither it was bound, but the pigeon could not tell. The tube smelled faintly of musk. Only the people of Kasr Kuchik had been aware of his departure for Ray, and he had taken some pains not to be seen near Nisapur.

  Perhaps one of Nizam's spies had sent the pigeon. Either the sender expected the writing to be recognized, or the number beneath it identified him. There was not one chance in a hundred that Omar could discover the truth.

  But on an impulse he tucked the tube and paper away in his wallet. It had been only one chance in a hundred that the falcon had brought down this message to him.

  The Place of the Books in the ancient city of Ray.

  Across the carpet Nizam al Mulk and Omar Khayyam faced each other. For the first time the Arranger of the World found himself opposed by the King's astronomer, and he had not yet recovered from his surprise.

  "But why?" he repeated. "Why should you throw the stone of refusal into the path of our progress?"

  Nizam was quite calm, even curious. For nearly two generations he had administered the affairs of the growing Seljuk Empire. Now the empire stretched from the desert by the great Wall of China to within sight of the walls of Constantinople across the narrow strait that divided Asia from Europe. It extended up to the northern snows and down to the barren heart of Arabia. Nizam turned the signet ring upon his thin finger. The King, he said, was the father of a universal family; his deeds should be equal to his exalted rank. His skill in waging war had brought pagan lands and peoples under the rule of Islam. His victories had enhanced his prestige at home. Still, Malikshah was the grandson of a barbarian Turk. If he returned with his four hundred thousand horsemen and dwelt in the peaceful cities of Khorasan, the people would see only a warrior taking his ease among them, and besides, his soldiery, accustomed to the battlefield, would make trouble in the villages.

  "What is this army?" Nizam demanded. "As you know well, Khwaja Omar, it is made up of Turks from the north, of ghoulams who are the children of Turks trained as slaves to war, of Georgians, Turkomans, Arab tribesmen. Few are Khorasanis, and fewer Persians or Arabs of Baghdad. We should not make grants of land to such unruly spirits, prone to cause civil war. Nay, when the war in the east is finished, we will turn to the west to take two rich prizes—if God wills it—Constantinople itself, and Egypt."

  For a moment the idea startled Omar with its brilliance. A holy war, to sweep over the land of the schismatic kalif and the last stronghold of the Caesars. Had he not seen Jerusalem fall, in just this fashion? Nizam, withered as a figure of dried parchment, appeared to be invincible—an alchemist of power, a magician controlling the fortunes of men.

  Then the illusion vanished. Each new campaign could be paid for in lives and wealth only by another invasion. There was no place within Nizam's new state for the victorious machine it had built up, the Seljuk army. What would they do with the war elephants, brought up from India? Or the thousands of Turkish officers accustomed to a life of plundering?

  "By the army," he said, "you have built up a great empire, which in turn hath need of a greater army to defend it. Then, what can you do but make new conquests, to pay for the new army? What will be the end of this?"

  Fleetingly Nizam glanced at the astronomer. He had believed that Omar had thought for nothing except his science, his occasional dancing girl, and his wine. So long as Omar and Malikshah were compliant, his—Nizam's—plans could go forward without interference. But if Malikshah returned to Khorasan, and dismounted from the saddle of war, he would soon take the reins of administration into his own hands.

  And this was the last thing Nizam desired. Firmly he believed that Malikshah's conquests had been preordained, as well as his own administration of the empire.

  "It was ordained," he said, "by God's will that our Sultan should make these conquests, and that we should rule over them."

  Omar studied the pattern of the carpet before his knees. "And was it ordained that I should lie to the Sultan about the portents of the stars?"

  "Believest thou that a man's fate is to be read in the stars?"

  "Nay."

  "Nor do I." Nizam smiled, and decided that Omar at last would see reason. "So, if the portents read in the stars be lies, how can you refuse any longer to write to Malikshah the portent that will best guide him along the road to victory?"

  Abruptly he bethought him of something that had puzzled him for days. "A man calling himself Hassan ibn Sabah came to this room four days before thy letter from Kasr Kuchik reached my hand. He claimed to be able to read the future, and he said to me 'Soon, in a few days, your Highness will have a message from the King's astronomer of only one word—No.' Who is this Hassan that he should be told thy secrets?"

  "He is the preacher of a new faith. At Jerusalem he spoke with me." Omar frowned. "But I told no one of that message, before it was sent."

  "That cannot be! Thy courier who brought it was eight days from Kasr Kuchik to my presence. Yet Hassan knew of it four days before the courier came."

  No rider, Omar reflected, even a king's messenger, changing horses at every stop could make the journey in four days. It was impossible that any one in Ray could have known of his message much before the arrival of his own courier, unless—it had come on the wings of the air. He felt the little silver tube in his girdle. A messenger pigeon had been carrying this warning that he was on the road toward Ray, and a messenger pigeon could have carried the tidings of his letter to Nizam from Kasr Kuchik to Ray in four days.

  Then someone in his household had spied upon him and had sent tidings twice by pigeon to Ray. Was it Ayesha, or Ishak the keeper of his gate? Both of them denied that they could read or write.

  "A pigeon might fly the distance in three days," he said aloud.

  "The praise be to God!" Nizam, misunderstanding, leaned forward to pat his shoulder. "I knew that thou wouldst see the right path to follow. Write then, now, at once, to the Sultan, and we will send thy word by pigeon to S
amarkand. Only be sure to say there is danger, if the Sultan turns back from the war."

  "There is no danger." Omar smiled. "Would you have me write that Nizam hath decided the war is to go on?"

  "God forbid. What child's talk is this?"

  "Then I will write neither the one nor the other. I will write neither the lie nor the truth. I will write nothing."

  Nizam started as if the last word had been a bell struck in his ear. His eyes peered from a network of wrinkles, and his hands clenched upon his knees. "You dare say that to me!"

  "It is said," Omar nodded quietly, "and will not be unsaid."

  For a moment Nizam was silent. "I raised you from a ragged student to the third dignity of the Empire; when the mullahs would have stoned you, at the making of the calendar, I guarded you from harm. I gave you masters for assistants. How many palaces have you now—how much wealth in goods and gold? Men say that you speak the truth, but I have heard you lie often enough to Malikshah before now. I ask that you answer me with the truth—what is your reason for seeking to ruin my plans?"

  "The truth? I think you are mistaken, in forcing Malikshah into a new campaign. You would like to keep him at a distance, serving as commander of the army, while you govern the Empire."

  Nizam took up a cloth and wiped his lips. His fingers trembled. "Do you deny that for nearly twice your life-time I have served only Islam, and never myself?"

  "I know that." Omar did not add that at seventy-five Nizam was not the man he had been at thirty-five.

  "I think I understand," Nizam nodded. "I will give you an order on the treasury for ten thousand gold dinars. Will that suffice?"

  "It is not enough, nor will Mahmoud's golden throne be enough."

  "Ten, and five thousand, gold?"

  Omar looked at the aged man across the carpet. These were large sums. "Thou hast aided me, O Nizam, but I do not remember that thou hast bought me. I do not think that I will sell myself."

  "Then go to Akroenos, and the unbelievers! Go where thou wilt, Omar Khayyam, and look not to me for protection, for they who eat of my salt serve only Islam. As I have done."

  His thin arm motioned toward the door. Omar rose and turned away. When he reached the door he heard the murmur of Nizam's voice. But the Minister of the throne had not called him back. Kneeling on his prayer rug the aged Nizam was bowing toward Mecca, repeating unsteadily the ninety and nine holy names of Allah.

  "Peace," Omar said under his breath,
  Across from the Place of the Books rose the scaffolding of a new mosque with blue tiles gleaming from the moist clay. These mosques and academies stretching over desert lands—these rest houses for travelers, and giant market places, were part of the glory of Islam, and the aged Nizam had built them. Over nearly half the surface of the known world men were kneeling and praying in the same speech as Nizam.

  Now Omar felt that another door had closed upon him, never to be opened again.

  He was striding across the square, heedless of his surroundings, when a man cried out beside him. Bodies swirled in a sudden struggle and curved steel flashed in the sun.

  "Mulahid!" other voices yelled. "Heretics! Strike—slay!"

  Omar could see the first man, who wore a white robe and red sash, on his knees in a knot of soldiers. Blood was streaming from his throat and he gasped like an animal caught in a net. A hand closed over his face, the fingers catching in the nostrils and jerking it back. Then a scimitar was pushed across the man's throat and his severed head was lifted for all to see.

  Another white figure ran desperately across the square. It stumbled, and pursuers closed about it. Sword blades slashed at it, and the man's white garment became red of a sudden.

  "Death to the heretics." A bearded mullah raised his arms, invoking the wrath of the crowd that gathered as if by magic to join in the slaying. Hearing him, a ten-year-old boy began to weep, and the priest of Islam noticed the child. "O believers, here is a brat of the Seveners."

  Frightened, the boy cried out and fled. Seeing Omar he flung himself down, catching the astronomer's robe. "O Khwaja—O prince, do not let them hurt me."

  A youth with half a beard, a knife in his hand, clutched at the sobbing boy. Omar thrust him aside. "What is this? Do you hunt children in Ray? Stand back."

  Beside the stripling with the knife appeared the mullah, red with fury.

  "Khwaja Omar ibn Ibrahim," he shouted, "it is by command of the Nizam al Mulk that these infidel Seveners die. Let the steel of justice sever the thread of heresy."

  Thus heartened, the youth with the dagger struck at the frantic boy. At the same instant strong hands closed about Omar's elbows from behind, dragging him back. Akroenos' voice whispered in his ear, "Come away, or my life also is forfeit. Come quickly."

  By now the screaming boy had been stabbed several times in the stomach and his outcry was growing weaker. Akroenos' arm slipped under Omar's, drawing him away. "Talk to me—pretend to argue about the price received for the dates in Isfahan. Nay, it will do no good now to appeal to Nizam. Walk slowly."

  But Omar could not help turning his head to watch the tumult in the square. Above the running men he noticed a plump man motionless in the saddle of a horse. Even at that distance he recognized the blue turban and the swinging rosary of Tutush, commander of Nizam's spies.

  It had happened in two minutes. Then Omar found himself in the shade of an alley, staring into an open shop at a potter who was shaping wet clay upon a wheel, which he whirled with his bare foot. Ever and anon the potter thumped the clay rising between his hands as if endowed with life. But in the dust haze Omar still saw bright steel striking into human clay, and blood sinking into "the dust.

  "Gently," whispered Akroenos, "walk with me slowly. It is the chief of the secret police who follows. Eight kantaras we sold, out of eleven, the rest being too spoiled for the market"

  A horse stamped restively behind them, and bit chains rattled. Men were crowding from the shops to run toward the square.

  "That dog!" Omar cried.

  "Softly—that dog is Nizam's dog. Hast thou Nizam's favor still?"

  "What if we have quarreled? I am no enemy of the Minister, and there is no need to fear him."

  "But I fear the mob. Have you ever faced a mob egged on by mullahs scenting blood? Look at these saddle bags of woven wool; they are what we seek."

  Stooping beneath a mass of hanging saddle gear, Akroenos drew Omar into the shop of a wool merchant who was peering at the confusion outside.

  "Haft," Akroenos whispered, pointing to a bag. "Seven, we seek."

  Without a word, the shop-keeper rose and led them to the rear. Quickly he drew back the hanging that concealed a narrow door. "The owners of seven things," he remarked, "refresh themselves with wine at this hour." And he let fall the hanging behind his two visitors.

  "Hold my girdle-end," Akroenos whispered. "There are steps that wind down, twenty of them."

  And before Omar could speak, he began to descend into the darkness. In a moment around a curve in the stairs appeared a glimmer of light. A candle was standing in a wall niche, and Akroenos took it up with the familiarity of one who had passed that way frequently. Guiding Omar through the piled-up stores and rubbish of the wool merchant's cellar, he made for a great bale of wool standing apart against the wall. "Help me move this aside. Nay, just a little. We are neither of us as stout as that chief of police."

  "But why run into a rat-hole? You are safe with me."

  Akroenos glanced impatiently at the stairs across the cellar, and began to squeeze himself behind the heavy bale. "Perhaps, Khwaja Omar, in thy house I would be safe; but was that boy safe? This is not the first time I have fled from a religious riot, and I assure thee Tutush will do his utmost to track me down, to fasten some show of guilt upon me, and slay me out of hand. Then he and his followers would hasten to my warehouse and loot the goods there—thine as well as mine. Come thou after me. Ay, now pull the bale back against the wall by this rope."

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nbsp; They stood in a narrow passage concealed by the bale of wool. After listening for a moment, Akroenos led the way along the passage, which rose gradually to a closed door. This the Armenian opened without hesitation, placing his candle on a shelf beside it.

  Omar stepped out into a cool cellar, odorous with wine. Its walls were lined with kegs and great tuns. Upon a carpet in the clear space sat a half-dozen men in talk, about an iron lanthorn. They glanced only casually at Akroenos, but they inspected Omar with interest.

  After a deep salaam, the Armenian stepped aside respectfully, and a man who looked like a professor of the academy came forward to greet the astronomer.

  "Welcome, O Master of the Stars, to this gathering of doomed souls."

  "Every one of us," another explained lightly, "hath a price on his head this day."

  Curiously Omar surveyed them. One spoke in the high-pitched cadence of Egypt, one wore the tattered robe and carried the staff and bowl of a dervish, while the others might have been wealthy merchants, but they were all alike in one respect—their eyes held the good humor of intelligence, and they bore themselves like men of action.

  "Permit me, O Khwaja, to introduce these good companions who are temporarily in the shadow of the scimitar. I am the Professor; over there in the striped khalat sits the World Traveler, who can move mountains in his tales; the Dervish you will recognize; the fat man is the Seller of Sesame—and other disgraceful but pleasant drugs—and the twins are Gentlemen of Leisure from Isfahan. Do not trust them at dice. Now, sirs, I submit that we at last are Seven. And so we may depart, if the Master of the Stars will honor us with his company."

  "I am honored," Omar smiled, "by your hospitality."

  He had heard about the Seveners, who preached a new doctrine in Khorasan. But the tales conflicted, some relating that the Seveners were zealots who awaited the coming of a seventh prophet, some holding that they were heretics, preaching a new religion, while others maintained that they were magicians who possessed either divine or Satanic power. Omar thought it strange that these men could jest while the blood of their followers was being shed upon the square near at hand. Still, it would be foolish to wail and tear their garments.