Samarkand (17 page)

Alas – when he started to suspect their cheerfulness, it was too late. They pinned him down, bound his hands and feet, gagged
and blindfolded him and led him amid much scoffing to the gate of the harem. The chief eunuch, woken from his sleep, ran off
to warn Terken of their arrival. It was up to her to decide the fate of her own son’s rival – whether she should have him
strangled or just blinded. The eunuch had disappeared in the long dark corridor when suddenly shouts, cries and sobs broke
out. Intrigued and worried, the officers, who could not hold back from penetrating the forbidden zone, came upon a talkative
old servant: Terken Khatun had just been discovered dead in her bed with the instrument of the crime at her side – a large
soft cushion with which she had been smothered. A eunuch with sturdy arms had disappeared and a servant-girl remembered that
he had been introduced into the harem some years earlier upon Nizam al-Mulk’s recommendation.

What a strange dilemma for Terken’s followers: their Sultana was dead, but their principal adversary was at their mercy; their
capital was surrounded but the very person laying the siege was now their prisoner. What should they do with him? Jahan had
taken over Terken’s place as guardian of the child-Sultan, and it was to her that the discussion was brought so that she might
settle it. Until then she had shown herself to be extremely resourceful, but her mistress’s death had shaken the ground under
her feet. To whom could she turn, whom could she consult if not Omar!

Omar arrived to find her seated on Terken’s divan at the foot of the drawn curtain with her head lowered and her tresses spread
carelessly over her shoulders. The Sultan was next to her, dressed all in silk with a turban on his little head. He was sitting
on his cushion; his face was red and spotty, and his eyes half-closed. He looked bored.

Omar went up to Jahan. He took her hand tenderly, stroked her face with his palm and whispered:

‘I have just been told about Terken Khatun. You have done well to call me to your side.’

When he caressed her hair, Jahan pushed him away.

‘If I have summoned you, it is not so that you can console me, but to consult you on a serious matter.’

Omar took a step backwards, crossed his arms and listened.

‘Barkiyaruk had been caught in a trap and is a prisoner in the palace. The men are divided over the fate that should be meted
out to him. Some demand his death, notably those who set the trap. They want to be certain of never having to answer to him
for their actions. Others prefer to come to an understanding with him, place him on the throne and win his favours hoping
that he will forget his misadventure. Still others have suggested keeping him hostage in order to negotiate with the besiegers.
Which path do you advise me to follow?’

‘You snatched me away from my books to ask me that?’

Jahan stood up. She was furious.

‘Does the matter not appear sufficiently serious? My life depends on it. The fate of thousands of people, this city and this
empire may depend on your decision. Yet you, Omar Khayyam, you do not wish to be disturbed for such a trifle!’

He went towards the door, and just as he was about to open it he came back over to Jahan.

‘I am consulted after the crime has been committed. What do you want me to tell your friends now? If I counsel them to release
the youth, how could I guarantee that he will not wish to slit their throats tomorrow? If I counsel them to keep him as a
hostage, or to kill him, I become their accomplice. Leave me out of these quarrels, Jahan, and you too should leave yourself
out.’

He looked at her with compassion.

‘One son of a Turkish Sultan replaces another son, a Vizir dismisses a Vizir. By God, Jahan, how can you spend the best years
of your life in this cage of wild animals? Let them rip each other’s throats out, kill and die. Will the sun be any less bright
or wine any less smooth?’

‘Lower your voice, Omar. You are frightening the child. And we can be overheard in the adjoining rooms.’

Omar persevered:

‘Did you not call me to ask my opinion? Well I shall not beat around the bush: leave this room, abandon this palace, do not
look back, do not say goodbye, do not even collect your belongings. Come, give me your hand and let us go home. You will compose
your poems and I shall observe my stars. Every evening you will come and curl up naked next to me. Wine with the aroma of
musk will make us sing and the world will cease to exist for us. We shall cross it without seeing or hearing it. Neither its
mud nor its blood will cleave to the soles of our feet.’

Jahan’s eyes were misty.

‘If I could return to that age of innocence, do you think that I would hesitate? However, it is too late, I have gone too
far. If Nizam al-Mulk’s men take Isfahan tomorrow they will not spare me. I am on their list of outlaws.’

‘I was Nizam’s best friend and I shall protect you. They will not come into my house to make off with my wife.’

‘Open your eyes, Omar. You do not know these men. They think only of vengeance. Yesterday they rebuked you for having saved
Hassan Sabbah’s head. Tomorrow they will reproach you for having hidden Jahan and they will kill you at the same time as me.’

‘So we will stay together at home, and if my fate is to die with you, I will resign myself to it.’

She straightened herself up.

‘I will not resign myself! I am here in this palace, surrounded by troops who are faithful to me, in a city which is now mine
and I shall fight to the end. If I die, it will be as a Sultana.’

‘And how do Sultana’s die? Poisoned, smothered, strangled! Or in childbirth! Pomp will not help you to escape human misery.’

They looked at each in silence for a long while. Jahan drew close to Omar and placed on his lips a kiss which she wanted to
be impassioned and sank into his arms, but he pushed her aside, not able to bear farewells. He begged her one last time:

‘If you still attach the least value to our love, come with me, Jahan. The table is laid on the terrace, a light wind from
the Yellow Mountains will blow over us and within two hours we will be drunk and we will go to lie down. I shall tell the
servants not to wake us until Isfahan changes master.’

That evening the wind from Isfahan carried a sharp perfume of apricot. But how lifeless were the streets! Khayyam took refuge
in his observatory. Usually he only had to enter it, look at the sky, and feel in his fingers the graduated disks of the astrolobe
in order for the worries of the world to vanish. Not this time. The stars were taciturn, there was no music, not a sound,
no secrets. Omar did not rush them for they had to have good reason for remaining silent. He decided to go home and walked
slowly holding a reed which sometimes hit against a tuft of grass or an unruly branch.

He was now stretched out in his bedroom with the lights out; his arms desperately held an imaginary Jahan, his eyes were red
from tears and wine. On the floor to his left were a carafe and a silver goblet which he seized from time to time with a weary
hand in order to take long pensive drafts of disillusion. His lips held a dialogue with him, with Jahan, with Nizam but above
all with God. Who else could hold together this universe which was crumbling?

It was not until dawn that an exhausted Omar, his head clouded, finally gave himself over to sleep. How many hours did he
sleep? The sound of footsteps woke him up. The sun was already high, and, pouring through a slit in the tenting, forced him
to shield his eyes. He was able to make out in the doorway the man whose noisy arrival had disturbed him. He was big and wore
a moustache. His
hand was tapping the sheath of his sword with a maternal gesture. His head was bound in a bright green turban and on his shoulders
was the short velvet cape of the officers of the Nizamiya.

‘Who are you?’ Khayyam asked with a yawn. ‘Who gave you rights over my sleep?’

‘Has the master never seen me with Nizam al-Mulk? I was his bodyguard, his shadow. They call me Vartan the Armenian.’

Omar remembered now and it hardly reassured him. He felt as if a cord were being knotted from his neck to his gut. However,
if he was afraid, he did not want to show it.

‘His bodyguard and shadow you say. So it was up to you to protect him from the assassin?’

‘He had ordered me to stay away. Everyone knows that he wanted to die like that. I could have killed one murderer and another
would have sprung up. Who am I to intercede between my master and his fate?’

‘And what do you want?’

‘Last night, our troops slipped into Isfahan. The garrison rallied to us. Sultan Barkiyaruk has been rescued and this city
belongs to him from now on.’

Khayyam sat bolt upright.

‘Jahan!’

It was a shout and an anguished question. Vartan said nothing. His worried air jarred with his martial bearing. Omar thought
he could read in his eyes a monstrous admission. The officer muttered:

‘I really wanted to try and save her. I would have been so proud to present myself to the illustrious Khayyam, bringing to
him his spouse, unharmed! But I arrived too late. All the people of the palace had been massacred by the soldiers.’

Omar went toward the officer and punched him as hard as he could without even succeeding in shaking him.

‘And you have come here to tell me that!’

The officer kept his hand on the sheath of his sword but had not drawn it. He spoke calmly.

‘I came for something else completely. The officers of the Nizamiya have decided that you must die. When you wound the lion,
they
say, it is wise to finish him off. I took on myself the task of putting you to death.’

Khayyam suddenly became calmer. He would keep his bearing up to the end. How many sages had devoted their whole life to reach
this peak of the human condition! He did not plead for his life, but on the contrary, he felt his fear wane by the second
and he thought above all of Jahan. He had no doubt that she too had kept her bearing.

‘I would never have pardoned those who killed my wife. My whole life I would have been their enemy, and my whole life I would
have dreamed of seeing them impaled! You are absolutely right to rid yourselves of me!’

‘It is not my opinion, master. It was up to five officers to decide your fate. My companions all wanted your death and I was
the only one to oppose it.’

‘You were wrong. Your companions seem to be wiser.’

‘I often saw you with Nizam al-Mulk. You were sitting down conversing like father and son. He never stopped loving you in
spite of your wife’s schemes. If he were here with us, he would not have condemned you. He would also have forgiven her, for
your sake.’

Khayyam took a close, hard look at his visitor, as if he had just now discovered his presence.

‘If you were against my death, why did they choose you to come and execute me?’

‘It was I who offered myself. The others would have killed you, but I planned to leave you alive – otherwise why would I have
stayed talking with you?’

‘And how will you explain this to your companions?’

‘I will not explain anything. I shall go away. I shall follow you.’

‘You announce it so calmly, as if it were a long-standing decision.’

‘It is the very truth. I do not act impulsively. I was the most faithful servant of Nizam al-Mulk – I believed in him. If
God had allowed it, I would have died to protect him. However, long ago I decided that, if the master should disappear, I
would serve neither his sons nor his successors and I would forever give up the profession of the sword. The circumstances
of his death have forced me to use it one last time. I was involved in the murder of Malikshah
and I do not regret it: he had betrayed his tutor, his father, the man who raised him up to the summit; he thus deserved to
die. I had to kill, but that has not made me a killer. I would never have shed the blood of a woman, and when my companions
outlawed Khayyam, I understood that the time had come for me to leave, to change my life and to became a hermit or a wandering
poet. If you want, master, collect some belongings and we shall leave this city as soon as possible.’

‘To go where?’

‘We shall take whatever path you wish. I shall follow you everywhere, as a disciple, and my sword will protect you. We will
be able to return when the tumult has died down.’

While the officer was readying the mounts, Omar hurriedly gathered up his manuscript, his writing case, his flask and a purse
bulging with gold. They rode right through the oasis of Isfahan to the suburb of Marbine toward the West without being troubled
by the numerous soldiers. One word from Vartan was enough for the gates to be opened and the guards to stand aside respectfully.
The servility shown to Vartan did not fail to intrigue Omar, who nevertheless avoided questioning his companion. For the moment
he had no choice other than to trust in him.

They had been gone less than an hour before a seething crowd came to pillage Khayyam’s house and set it on fire. By the end
of the afternoon the observatory had been laid waste. At the same moment, the lifeless body of Jahan was interred at the foot
of the mulberry tree which bordered the palace garden.

There would be no tombstone to show posterity her place of burial.

A parable from the
Samarkand Manuscript:

‘Three friends were taking a walk on the high plateaus of Persia. A panther sprang out at them with all the fierceness in
the world.

‘The panther looked at the three men for a long while and then ran toward them.

‘The first was the oldest, the richest and the most powerful. He cried out: “I am the master of these districts. I shall never
allow a
beast to ravage the lands which belong to me.” He had with him two hunting dogs and set them on to the panther. They managed
to bite it but the panther only became stronger, overwhelmed them, jumped on their master and ripped out his intestines.

‘Thus was the fate of Nizam al-Mulk.

‘The second man wondered: “I am a man of knowledge, everyone honours and respects me. Why should my fate be decided by dogs
and a panther?” He turned tail and fled without waiting for the outcome of the fight. Since then he has wandered from cave
to cave, from hut to hut, convinced that the wild beast was always at his heels.