Samarkand Page 3

  Having found no prey for his claws, Nasr Khan grabbed armfuls of his ceremonial robes and in a fury flung them one after another into a pile at his feet, yelling insult after insult in the sonorous Turco-Mongol dialect of Kashgar. According to custom, sovereigns would wear three, four or sometimes seven layers of embroidered robes, which they peeled off during the day, solemnly placing them on the backs of those whom they wish to honour. Behaving in such a manner, Nasr Khan showed that day that he had no intention of gratifying any of his numerous visitors.

  As with every sovereign’s visit to Samarkand, this was to have been a day of festivities, but any trace of joy was extinguished in the first minutes. Having climbed the paved road leading up from the River Siab, the Khan effected his solemn entry by the Bukhara Gate at the north of the city. He smiled with his whole face, making his small eyes seem more deeply set, more slanting than ever, and making his cheekbones glow in the amber reflection of the sun. Then suddenly he lost his good humour. He approached a group of some two hundred notables who were gathered around the qadi Abu Taher, focusing a worried and almost suspicious gaze upon the group in whose midst was Omar Khayyam. Apparently not having seen those he sought, he abruptly made his horse rear up, jerked hard on the reins and moved off, grumbling inaudibly. Rigid on his black mare, he no longer smiled, nor did he respond with the slightest gesture to the repeated cheers of the thousands of citizens who had been gathering there since dawn to greet him. Some of them held up petitions, composed by some public scribe. In vain, for no one dared to present his petition to the sovereign, but rather applied to the chamberlain who leaned over again and again to accept the sheets, mouthing a vague promise to take action.

  Preceded by four horsemen, holding aloft the brown standards of the dynasty, followed on foot by a slave naked to the waist and bearing a huge parasol, the Khan crossed the great thoroughfares lined with twisting mulberry trees without stopping. He avoided the bazaars and went along the main irrigation canals, called ariks, until he came to the district of Asfizar. There he had had set up a temporary palace, directly adjoining Abu Taher’s residence. In the past, sovereigns would lodge inside the citadel, but since recent battles had left it in a state of extreme dilapidation, it had had to be abandoned. Now, only the Turkish garrison would periodically erect its yurts there.

  Having observed the sovereign’s bad humour, Omar hesitated to go to the palace to give his respects, but the qadi urged him, no doubt in the hope that the presence of his eminent friend would provide a favourable distraction. On the way, Abu Taher took it upon himself to brief Khayyam on what had just transpired. The religious dignitaries of the city had decided to boycott the reception, accusing the Khan of having burnt down the Grand Mosque of Bukhara where armed opponents had entrenched themselves. ‘Between the sovereign and the religious establishment,’ explained the qadi, ‘the war rages on as ever. Sometimes it is overt and bloody, but most often clandestine and insidious.’

  It was even rumoured that the ulema had made contact with a number of officers who were exasperated by the behaviour of the prince. His forbears used to eat with the troops, they said, omitting no occasion to state that their power derived from the bravery of their people’s warriors. But from one generation to the next, the Turkish khans had acquired the regrettable habits of the Persian monarchs. They thought of themselves as demi-gods, surrounding themselves with an increasingly complex ceremonial which was incomprehensible and humiliating for their officers. A number of the latter had thus consulted the religious chiefs. They took pleasure in hearing the officers vilify Nasr and accuse him of having cast aside the ways of Islam. To intimidate the military, the sovereign reacted harshly against the ulema. Had not his father, a pious man moreover, inaugurated his reign by cutting off an abundantly turbaned head?

  In this year of 1072, Abu Taher was one of the few religious dignitaries who managed to maintain close ties with the prince, visiting him often in the citadel of Bukhara, his main residence and receiving him with solemnity each time he stopped at Samarkand. Certain of the ulema eyed warily Abu Taher’s conciliatory attitude, but most of them welcomed the presence of this intermediary.

  Yet again the qadi easily fell into the role of conciliator. He avoided contradicting Nasr, profiting of the slightest glimmer of an improvement of his humour to buoy up his spirits. He waited until the difficult moments were over, and when the sovereign returned to his throne and Abu Taher had seen him finally settle himself firmly against a soft cushion, he undertook a subtle and imperceptible resumption of control which Omar watched with relief. Upon a sign from the qadi the chamberlain summoned a young slave-girl to pick up the robes which were abandoned on the ground like corpses after a battle. Instantly, the atmosphere became less stifling, people discreetly stretched their limbs and some chanced to whisper a few words into the nearest ear.

  Then, striding towards the space in the centre of the room, the qadi positioned himself in front of the monarch, lowered his head and said nothing. The manoeuvre was so well-executed that after a long silence, when Nasr finally declared, with a strength tinged with fatigue, ‘Go and tell all the ulema of this city to come at dawn to prostrate themselves at my feet. The head which is not bowed will be cut off. Let no one attempt to flee, for no land can give shelter from my anger,’ everyone understood that the storm had passed and that a resolution was in sight. The clerics had only to make amends and the monarch would forego taking harsh measures.

  The next day, when Omar again accompanied the qadi to the court, the atmosphere was hardly recognizable. Nasr was on his throne, a type of raised platform covered with a dark carpet, next to which a slave was holding up a plate of crystallized rose petals. The sovereign would choose one, place it on his tongue, let it melt against his palate, before nonchalantly holding his hand out to another slave who sprinkled perfumed water on his fingers and wiped them attentively. The ritual was repeated twenty or thirty times, while the delegations filed past. They represented the districts of the city, notably Asfizar, Panjkhin, Zagrimach, Maturid, the bazaar corporations, the trade guilds of coppersmiths, papermakers, silkworm breeders and water-carriers, as well as the protected communities: Jews, Parsees and Nestorian Christians.

  They all began by kissing the ground. They then raised themselves up, and made another bow which they held until the monarch signalled them to rise. Their spokesman uttered a few phrases and they went out backwards, it actually being forbidden to turn one’s back to the sovereign before leaving the room. A curious practice. Was it introduced by a monarch over-keen on respect, or by a particularly distrustful visitor?

  Then the religious dignitaries came, awaited with curiosity but also with apprehension. There were more than a score of them. Abu Taher had had no difficulty convincing them to come. Since they had shown their feelings to ample extent, to persevere in that path would be to ask for martyrdom which none of them desired.

  Now they too presented themselves in front of the throne, each bending as low as his age and joints would allow him, awaiting the sign from the prince to rise. But the sign did not come. Ten minutes went by and even the youngest of them could not remain in such an uncomfortable pose indefinitely. What could they do? To rise without having been authorised would be to expose themselves to condemnation by the monarch. One after another they fell on their knees, a pose which was just as respectful but less exhausting. Only when the last kneecap had touched the ground did the sovereign make the sign that they might get up and leave with no further ado. No one was surprised by the turn of events. That was the price to pay. Such is the order of affairs of the kingdom.

  Turkish officers and groups of notables then approached, as well as some dihkans, headmen from neighbouring villages. According to his rank, each kissed the foot or shoulder of the sovereign. Then a poet came forward to recite a pompous eulogy to the glory of the monarch who very quickly looked ostensibly bored. With a gesture he interrupted the poet, made a sign to the chamberlain to lean over and gave the order which h
e was to transmit. ‘Our master wishes the poets assembled here to know that he is tired of hearing the same themes repeated, he wishes to be compared neither to a lion nor an eagle, and even less to the sun. Let those who have nothing else to say depart.’

  CHAPTER 5

  The chamberlain’s words were followed by murmurs, clucking and a general din from the twenty-odd poets who had been awaiting their turn. Some of them even took two steps backward before quietly slipping away. Only a woman stepped out of the ranks and approached with a steady tread. Quizzed by Omar’s glance, the qadi whispered, ‘A poetess from Bukhara. She has herself called Jahan, meaning the vast world. She is a fickle young widow.’

  His tone was that of rebuke, but Omar’s interest was only heightened and he could not turn his gaze away. Jahan had already raised the bottom of her veil, revealing lips without make-up. She recited a pleasantly worked poem in which, strangely, the Khan’s name was not mentioned one single time. Praise was given to the River Soghd which dispenses its bounty to Samarkand and then to Bukhara before losing itself in the desert since there is no sea worthy of receiving its waters.

  ‘You have spoken well. Let your mouth be filled with gold,’ said Nasr, pronouncing his usual phrase.

  The poetess lent over a huge platter of golden dinars and started putting the coins into her mouth one by one as the audience counted them aloud. When Jahan hiccupped and almost choked, the whole court, with the monarch at the fore, let out a laugh. The chamberlain signalled to the poetess to return to her place. They had counted forty-six dinars.

  Khayyam alone did not laugh. With his eyes fixed on Jahan, he tried to work out what emotion he felt toward her. Her poetry was so pure, her eloquence so dignified, her gait so courageous, but here she was stuffing her mouth with yellow metal and being subjected to this humiliating reward. Before pulling her veil back down, she lifted it a little more and cast a glance which Omar noticed, inhaled and tried to hold on to. It was a moment too fleet to be detected by the crowd but an eternity for the lover. Time has two faces, Khayyam said to himself. It has two dimensions, its length is measured by the rhythm of the sun but its depth by the rhythm of passion.

  This sublime moment between them was interrupted by the qadi tapping Khayyam’s arm and bringing him back to himself. Too late, the woman had gone. There were only veils left.

  Abu Taher wanted to present his friend to the Khan. He uttered the formula, ‘Your august roof today shelters the greatest intellect of Khorassan, Omar Khayyam, for whom the plants hold no secrets and the stars no mystery.’

  It was not serendipity that made the qadi note medicine and astrology out of all the disciplines in which Omar excelled, as they were always in favour with princes; the former to try and preserve their health and life, and the latter to preserve their fortune.

  The prince’s expression cheered up and he said that he was honoured. However, not being in a mood to engage in intellectual conversation and apparently mistaking the visitor’s intentions, he chose to reiterate his favourite formula, ‘Let his mouth be filled with gold!’

  Omar was taken aback and suppressed a retch. Abu Taher noticed this and was worried.

  Fearing lest a refusal offend the sovereign, he gave his friend an insistent and serious look and pushed him forward by the shoulder but to no avail. Khayyam had already made his decision.

  ‘Would my Lord be so kind as to excuse me. I am in a period of fasting and can put nothing in my mouth.’

  ‘But the month of fasting finished three weeks ago, if I am not mistaken!’

  ‘During Ramadan I was travelling from Nishapur to Samarkand. I had to break my fast with the vow that I would complete it later.’

  The qadi took fright and all those assembled fidgeted, but the sovereign’s face was blank. He chose to question Abu Taher.

  ‘Can you tell me, you who have knowledge of all the minutiae of the faith, can you tell me if putting gold coins in his mouth and taking them out quickly thereafter constitutes breaking the fast for Khawaja Omar?’

  The qadi adopted his most neutral tone;

  ‘Strictly speaking, anything that goes into the mouth can constitute breaking the fast. It has happened that a coin was swallowed by accident.’

  Nasr accepted the argument, but he was not satisfied. He questioned Omar:

  ‘Have you told me the real reason for your refusal?’

  Khayyam hesitated for a moment and then said:

  ‘That is not the only reason.’

  ‘Speak,’ said the Khan. ‘You have nothing to fear from me.’

  Then Omar pronounced these verses:

  It was not poverty that drove me to you

  I am not poor for my desires are simple.

  The only thing I seek from you is honour

  The honour of a free and steadfast man.

  ‘May God darken your days, Khayyam!’ murmured Abu Taher, as if to himself.

  He did not know what to think, but his fear was tangible. There still rang in his ears the echo of an all too recent anger and he was not sure if he would again be able to tame the beast. The Khan remained silent and still, as if frozen in unfathomable deliberation. Those close to the Khan were awaiting his first word as if it were a verdict and some courtiers chose to leave before the storm.

  Omar profited from the general disarray to seek out Jahan’s eyes. She was leaning with her back against a pillar with her face buried in her hands. Could it be for him that she was trembling?

  Finally the Khan arose. He marched resolutely toward Omar, gave him a vigorous hug, took him by the hand and led him off.

  ‘The master of Transoxania,’ the chroniclers report, ‘developed such an esteem for Omar Khayyam that he invited him to sit next to him on the throne.’

  ‘So now you are the Khan’s friend,’ Abu Taher called out to Khayyam when they had left the palace.

  His joviality was as great as the anguish which had gripped his throat, but Khayyam replied coolly:

  ‘Could you have forgotten the proverb which says, “The sea knows no neighbours, the prince knows no friends”?’

  ‘Do not scorn the open door. It seems to me that your career is marked out at court!’

  ‘Court life is not for me; my only ambition is that one day I will have an observatory with a rose garden and that I will be able to throw myself into contemplating the sky, a goblet in my hand and a beautiful woman at my side.’

  ‘As beautiful as that poetess?’ chuckled Abu Taher.

  Omar could think of nothing but her, but he did not reply. He was afraid that the smallest word uttered carelessly might betray him. Feeling a little light-hearted, the qadi changed both his tone and the subject:

  ‘I have a favour to ask of you!’

  ‘It is you who has showered me with your favours.’

  Abu Taher quickly conceded that point. ‘Let us say that I would like something in exchange.’

  They had arrived at the gateway of his residence. He invited Khayyam to continue their conversation around a table laden with food.

  ‘I have thought up a project for you, a book project. Let us forget your Rubaiyaat for a moment. As far as I am concerned they are just the inevitable whims of genius. The real domains in which you excel are medicine, astrology, mathematics, physics and metaphysics. Am I mistaken when I say that since Ibn Sina’s death there is none who knows them better than you?’

  Khayyam said nothing. Abu Taher continued:

  ‘It is in those areas of knowledge that I expect you to write the definitive book, and I want you to dedicate that book to me.’

  ‘I don’t think that there can be a definitive book in those disciplines, and that is exactly why I have been content to read and to learn without writing anything myself.’

  ‘Explain yourself!’

  ‘Let us consider the Ancients – the Greeks, the Indians and the Muslims who have come before me. They wrote abundantly in all those disciplines. If I repeat what they have said, then my work is redundant; if I contradict
them, as I am constantly tempted, others will come after me to contradict me. What will there remain tomorrow of the writings of the intellectuals? Only the bad that they have said about those who came before them. People will remember what they have destroyed of others’ theories, but the theories they construct themselves will inevitably be destroyed and even ridiculed by those who come after. That is the law of science. Poetry does not have a similar law. It never negates what has come before it and is never negated by what follows. Poetry lives in complete calm through the centuries. That is why I wrote my Rubaiyaat. Do you know what fascinates me about science? It is that I have found the supreme poetry: the intoxicating giddiness of numbers in mathematics and the mysterious murmur of the universe in astronomy. But, by your leave, please do not speak to me of Truth.’

  He was silent for a moment and then continued:

  ‘It happened that I was taking a walk round about Samarkand and I saw ruins with inscriptions that people could no longer decipher, and I wondered, “What is left of the city which used to exist here?” Let us not speak about people, for they are the most ephemeral of creatures, but what is left of their civilisation? What kingdom, science, law and truth existed here? Nothing, I searched around those ruins in vain and all I found was a face engraved on a potsherd and a fragment of a frieze. That is what my poems will be in a thousand years – shards, fragments, the detritus of a world buried for all eternity. What remains of a city is the detached gaze with which a half-drunk poet looked at it.’

  ‘I understand your words,’ stuttered Abu Taher, rather at sea. ‘However you would not dedicate to a qadi of the Shafi ritual poems which smack of wine!’

  In fact, Omar would be able to appear conciliatory and grateful. He would water down his wine, so to speak. During the following months, he undertook to compile a very serious work on cubic equations. To represent the unknown in this treatise on algebra, Khayyam used the Arabic term shay, which means thing. This word, spelled xay in Spanish scientific works, was gradually replaced by its first letter, x, which became the universal symbol for the unknown.