Omar Khayyam - a life (25 page)

"Be silent!" Omar clenched his teeth. Hassan! Hassan, son of Sabah. Hassan had just now warned him to keep his tongue between his teeth. And Jafarak's tongue had been pulled half out of his body last night. For what reason—for what earthly reason? Unless Hassan's men had thought he was spying on them. What had Jafarak been occupied with these last days? Nothing but that accursed miracle which fairly reeked of Alamut. The dead man who told tales of paradise, in the house of Ibn Atash, in—Omar frowned, straining his memory—yes, it was near the Jami Masjid. In the street behind the Jami Masjid, on Friday-eve. That was it.

Jafarak, then, had been slain probably near the mosque, and his body carried to a distant place.

"What knowest thou of a certain house of the Son of Fire (Ibn Atash) in the alley behind the mosque?" he demanded.

"Naught—the name I have never heard."

Omar half rose, to start off to the house in question and find out what it had to tell. Then he settled down again on the carpet, and Tutush breathed again. Useless to search the dwelling of murderers if they had just committed a crime. By now they would probably be praying with the dervishes in the mosque.

"Only one thing I know," he mused. "Last night a thief left a writing beside my head, warning me to keep my tongue between my teeth."

Tutush's jaw dropped, as he thought of Jafarak's death.

A voice from behind the distant lattice work interrupted them, "Thy forgiveness, my lord—tell him also of the dagger and the fresh baked bread." '

"Ayesha," said Omar quietly. "Go back to the harem."

A rustle of garments, then silence.

"A loaf of bread!" cried the chief of the spies.

"Yes—what of it?"

"
Y'allah!
And a knife?"

"Thou hast heard."

For a moment Tutush pondered. Then he explained how five men of mark had disappeared some days after finding the bread beside their pillows.

"I think the bread was put by me after they slew Jafarak," Omar said slowly. "Surely it was the work of the same hand."

"Without doubt." Tutush considered and nodded. "Also, Jafarak waited of nights by the mosque, near which three of them were lost to sight."

"Then it must be the work of the Fidais," Omar said.

The words had a strange effect on Tutush. His mouth opened and closed again, and the skin beneath his turban visibly crawled. "Of—of what—" he stammered.

"The Devoted Ones, the drug eaters, the dagger bearers of the Lord of Life and Death, Hassan ibn Sabah.
He
is master of Alamut and is often called master of the Seveners."

Imploringly Tutush lifted his hands, glancing about in sudden fear. "Do not speak that name, Excellency."

Omar stared at him in silence. "Then thou knowest the Seveners, and that this is their work?"

"Oh, Master of the Stars, I know naught. Only, some tales. People fear the name of the one thou—your Excellency hath mentioned."

"And now, you will tell me what you know of these Seveners."

It was no easy matter to make Tutush tell what he had in his mind. His dread of the Seveners seemed to be as great as his fear of Omar. At last he spoke in broken whispers, eyeing the distant lattice as if it concealed serpents behind it.

Nizam had ordered the search made, he insisted, because Nizam believed Hassan's followers were heretics. Nizam had written about the secret order that had invaded Persia from Egypt in his book, and sealed the chapters until after his death. He, Tutush, was only a servant, who obeyed orders—he said this last in a loud, clear voice.

Hassan, they had discovered, gained power by inspiring fear in faithful Moslems and servants of the throne. He threatened rich merchants until they gave him large sums. His method of doing it was to have his Fidais leave the fresh baked bread by the sleeping victim, as a sign that he must make payment to the lord of the mountains. Then the next day a beggar would come to the door, asking for bread from the hand of the master of the house. Instead of bread, the beggar would take away a sack of gold, and the giver would be free from menace.

"Yet we know not if it be Hassan's plan, or the work of others who serve him. We have tried to grasp him and hold him, in vain. Yea, he dared enter the Dar al Kuttub at Ray and sit down to talk with Nizam—no man knowing his face—and speak his own name. When we searched his lodging, he had vanished like snow on the desert's face."

Only recently had the people of Isfahan been threatened. And Tutush could discover nothing about the five who had not paid tribute and had disappeared. It was more terrifying to think of them simply snatched away from the very streets than to find their bodies, even slain like Jafarak. He thought the Assassins had a stronghold in the city, but he could not be sure.

"What did you call them?" Omar asked.

"Assassins—
hashishin
in Arabic—users of hashish. That is the drug that fires them to evil deeds."

Omar thought of the wine he had drunk in Alamut, and of the three Fidais who had leaped from the rampart into space. Yes, the men of Alamut were assassins, servants of hashish.

"Perhaps today," Tutush went on, "will come the dervish to beg. It—it would be wise to keep silence and give up a little money."

"I do not think they will ask me to pay them."

"Nay—I had forgotten. Already that man of affairs, Akroenos, hath made away with the goods and profits of your Excellency's caravans. He hath taken toll of your wealth. Still, they may desire more."

"It is they who will make payment, for Jafarak's death."

Tutush sighed, while his plump fingers played up and down the rosary. "Better to cover the embers of wrath with the water of discretion. What can your Excellency do, to oppose them? Preachers and great men of affairs have spoken in public against the Seveners, the Assassins. And then, in a little while they have become silent, except for praise of the Seveners. Who knows why—or how? Who can find a snake hiding i' the jungle? These assassins go about in the guise of camelmen, merchants, dervishes. By now at least one is working as a servant here, in the house of your Excellency."

Omar remembered the eunuch who had haunted Kasr Kuchik, and he wondered if one of his many servants had not placed the bread and the dagger with the message by him last night.

"Already," resumed Tutush, "they hold the mountain region behind Kasvin and Ray in the grip of fear. Their emissaries have come to Nisapur. And here in Isfahan they have been seen in the ruin of the ancient fire temple on the hilltop of Dizh Koh. And how did these five men of Isfahan vanish? My soul! If I could know! They were not slain openly, as others have been; they raised no outcry; no word has come from them; they did not leave the gates of Isfahan, yet no sign of them remains. 'Tis a fearful thing to happen. Be wise, Excellency, and molest not these men of Ha——of the mountain:

"They make use of magic and trickery. So, there is one way to strike through their armor of secrecy."

"You——you will make search for them?"

"Nay, they will reveal themselves."

Tutush rose in haste. It was true, he reflected, that Omar the Tentmaker had a secret power, and Omar could oppose magic with magic. But Tutush wished to be far off from such a conflict. "Excellency," he whispered, "already is my life in pawn for saying what I have said this hour. I——I have naught to do with hidden powers. Grant me leave to go!"

When the sunset faded to full starlight that Friday-eve, Omar left his house. He went out by a postern door, and only Ayesha of all the household knew that he had changed his shape. The man who crossed the great square with the swinging pace of the desert-born wore the black jellaba of an Arab of the Khoraish clan. The loose wool robes hid his figure and the short curved sword in his girdle, while the head-cloth veiled his face. Even his voice had taken on the harsh gutturals of the tribesmen.

By the hour of full starlight—in time for the last praying— Omar was in the Jami Masjid, with some hundreds of the faithful. Going out with the crowd, he turned aside, seeking the alley behind the mosque. Other figures went ahead of him, in the near-darkness, and he slowed his pace until he could be certain that they turned into a door on the left of the alley.

A man was seated by this door who lifted his head in the manner of the blind, holding a staff in his hand. Abreast him, Omar stopped and spoke.

"I seek the house of Ibn Atash."

"O companion of the desert, it is here. What hast thou to do with Ibn Atash?"

"I have heard talk of one who knoweth paradise."

The blind man rocked on his haunches, chuckling. "Ay— ay, of paradise."

Since he said nothing more, Omar felt his way into the dark entrance. Near at hand a voice was chanting, but he could see nothing. His outstretched hand brushed a heavy curtain, and he drew it aside. A candle was thrust close to his face, and a lean dervish peered at him. Apparently the scrutiny was satisfactory, because the dervish motioned toward a curtain behind him, and Omar advanced into a large room filled with seated figures, all facing a heavy rug hung upon the far wall.

Before this carpet a
majdhub
stood, revolving slowly and wailing as he beat his chest—a half mad wandering dervish whose bleared eyes gleamed from a pockmarked face. As he turned, he chanted his mourning for Hussayn, one of the martyrs of Persia.

"How did Hussayn die? Oh, how did he die? He was slain with a sword and the earth drank his precious blood. Oh, believers, have pity for Hussayn—yes, for Hussayn. Lo, I strike my breast for Hussayn!"

The chant was familiar to Omar, and as he edged his way forward to a place near the
majdhub
, he scrutinized the crowd. No sign of the Assassins was apparent, anywhere. The listeners were townspeople, men-at-arms, even a few mullahs from the mosque—all afire with expectancy. Some of them beat their hands together in time with the
majdhub
's howling.

Incense curled up from a small brazier, filling the air with pungent scent. The light came from two great lamps on the floor by the chanter.

". . . have pity for Hussayn, yes, for Hussayn!" murmured the throng.

The room was packed by then, and suddenly the
majdhub
ceased his revolving.

"Lo," he screamed, "the voice of the dead speaks."

Reaching up, he jerked the rug aside. Sliding upon a long bar, it revealed an archway opening into an alcove. Upon the floor behind the lamps lay a great brass basin, half filled with blood. In the center of the basin rested a human head, its eyes closed, its skull shaven smooth.

Exclamations broke from the crowd. Save for its pallor this head, erect upon the basin, seemed to be that of an ordinary man.

"Be still!" cried the dervish.

And then the eyes opened in the head. They looked from right to left. There was no need to quiet the throng now, because utter silence held the room.

The lips of the head in the basin moved, and it spoke. "Oh, ye faithful ones! Hear the tale of that which is beyond sight."

"Oh, Allah!" breathed a mullah beside Omar.

While the low voice of the head spoke on, revealing one by one the secrets of paradise, Omar—unlike the others—watched rather than listened. The voice, he felt certain, came from the throat of the thing in the basin, and beyond doubt that was a living head, without sign of a body.

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."