Omar Khayyam - a life by Harold Lamb

problems, if only our wisdom could solve them. If we could measure the courses of the stars——"
    "Of the stars ? But that is Astrology, which seeketh to determine the influence of the planets upon human affairs."
    "Yet the problems are the same."
    "Sayest thou, O my pupil, that the problems of my book are like to the problems of the King's astrologer? That is folly—I regret to hear it spoken."
    "Yet the truth of one differs not from the truth of the other, if it could be reached."
    Master Ali sighed, and bethought him. "My son, thou art over young for such vain desires. In time thou wilt learn infallibly that what is demonstrated by one art is not the product of another. If the Kings astrologer confined himself to the truth of mathematics——" Amazingly, Master Ali's beard quivered, a guttural sound emerged from his throat, and he laughed. Instantly ashamed of his lapse, he added gravely, "I think that our minds are divided. I wished—I would have given much to have you pursue your studies through the gate of Mathematics. That is the only bridge from the known to the unknown. Well, tomorrow I will give thee a letter to take to Nisapur where, it may be, thou wilt find a patron. May thy journey be pleasant!"
    Omar lingered when he had risen. There was so much he wanted to confide in the aged master, and so little that he could say. He felt that another door had been closed to him.
    When he had gone, Master Ali took up a pen and a sheet of rare, white paper.
"It is apparent to me," he wrote, "that my pupil Omar Khayyam is already equal in ability to Master Ustad of Baghdad. He hath a secret by which he reaches the solution of all problems, but what it is I know not. It is impossible to say what he will do with it because he is as yet the slave of his imagination.
    "I pray that this knowledge of his, fostered in my house, may be acceptable to the Patron whom thou knowest, who hath no more devoted slave than the unworthy ALI"
    After the ink dried, he folded the paper and sealed the folds carefully with melted wax upon which he pressed his seal. He addressed the missive to the Lord Tutush at the Takin gate of Nisapur.
         The alley of the sweetmeat sellers, between the Takin gate and the mosque of the Sons of Hussayn at Friday-eve before the hour of praye r.
    Omar sat on his heels in the alley. In one hand he held a small iron spit, still hot from the fire. From the spit he drew pieces of crisp broiled mutton and bits of garlic. These he wrapped up in strips of bread torn from the slab on his knee, and ate with relish.
    He was very hungry because he had come afoot since sunrise from the edge of the salt desert, without stopping. Most of the way he had sat on a donkey belonging to the men of a camel train bringing in baskets of salt. Talking with the camel men and listening to their songs, he had not minded the glare of the sun.
    Such a day's journey, pressing against the wind, always filled the son of Ibrahim with exultation. From his seat in the alley he could watch the last arrivals from the plain passing through the Takin archway—a trotting cavalcade of donkeys, two dervishes followed by a stray sheep, a creaking cart weighed down with wet clay for the potters' wheels, and a train of stately dromedaries, their heads swaying in unison with the massive bales they carried on either side.
    "Eh," observed the keeper of the kebab shop, "from Samarkand. Every day now more and more come in from the Samarkand road."
    "And what," asked Omar, "do they bring?"
    "Only Allah knoweth! Elephant ivory, silk for our looms, musk, ambergris, the new clear glass, fine bronze, rhubarb. There is nothing they do not bring."
    "Except such kebabs as this." Omar smiled, handing back the empty spit. He felt in his girdle and brought out three copper coins.
    " Mashallah! The praise to Allah, that our sheep are fat." The shopkeeper was pleased. "Hi, son of a worthless father— sleepy one, seest not that the young master is athirst? Bring