from the front and report the moods of the palace to which he would listen without obvious enthusiasm.
On the ground, Alp Arslan’s advance was slow. He was weighted down with excess troops, discipline was slipshod and he had
to contend with illness and the swamps as well as occasional outbreaks of fierce resistance. One man in particular was making
the Sultan’s life hard. He was the commander of a fortress not far from the river. The army could have skirted around it and
continued to advance, but its rear would have been less secure, harassments would have continued and in case of difficulty
any retreat would have been turned out to be perilous. Alp Arslan thus had given the order to put the fortress out of action
ten days earlier and they had made numerous assaults on it.
The battle was being followed very closely from Samarkand.Every three days a pigeon would arrive, released by the defenders. The message was never an appeal for help. It did not describe
the exhaustion of supplies or men, it spoke only of adverse losses and rumours of epidemics rife amongst the besiegers. Overnight
the commander of the site, a certain Yussif, originally from Khwarazm, became the hero of Transoxania.
However, eventually the defenders were overwhelmed, the foundations of the fortress were undermined and the walls scaled.
Yussif fought to the last before being wounded and captured. He was led off to the Sultan, who was curious to see close up
the cause of his troubles. It was a lean little man, hirsute and dusty, who was marched in front of the Sultan. He held himself
upright with his head held high, between two giants who gripped him by the arms. Alp Arslan, for his part, was stretched out
on a wooden dais covered with cushions. The two men looked at each other defiantly, then the victor ordered:
‘Place four posts in the ground, tie him to them and have him quartered.’
Yussif looked at the Sultan condescendingly and scornfully, and shouted: ‘Is that the way to punish someone who has fought
like a man?’
Alp Arslan did not reply. He turned his face away. The prisoner added: ‘You, the Effeminate. I am talking to you!’
The Sultan jumped up, as if stung by a scorpion. He seized his bow which was lying near him, loaded an arrow, and before firing
he ordered the guards to release the prisoner as he could not fire on the man without the risk of wounding his own soldiers.
In any case, he had nothing to worry about for he had never missed a target.
Perhaps it was his extreme annoyance, his hurry or the awkwardness of firing at such a short distance but Yussif was still
unharmed and the Sultan did not have time to load a second arrow before the prisoner attacked him. Alp Arslan, who could not
defend himself while still perched on his pedestal, tried to extricate himself, tripped on a cushion, stumbled and fell to
the ground. Yussif was upon him straight away, grasping the knife which he had kept hidden in the folds of his clothing. He
had time to stab him in the side beforehe himself was dispatched by a massive blow. The soldiers set upon his lifeless, mutilated body. His lips, however, still
kept the sardonic smile which death had frozen on them. He was avenged and the Sultan was not to outlast him for long.
Alp Arslan in fact died after four long nights of agony and bitter meditation. His words were recorded in the chronicles of
the time: ‘The other day I reviewed my troops from high on a promontory and I felt the earth tremble under their step. I told
myself, “I am the master of the world! Who can measure up to me?” For my arrogance and vanity God sent out the most wretched
of humans, a prisoner, a condemned man on his way to be executed; he proved himself more powerful than I, he struck me, he
knocked me off my throne, he has removed my life.’
Was it the day after this drama that Omar Khayyam wrote in his book:
Once in a while a man arises boasting;
He shows his wealth
On the ground, Alp Arslan’s advance was slow. He was weighted down with excess troops, discipline was slipshod and he had
to contend with illness and the swamps as well as occasional outbreaks of fierce resistance. One man in particular was making
the Sultan’s life hard. He was the commander of a fortress not far from the river. The army could have skirted around it and
continued to advance, but its rear would have been less secure, harassments would have continued and in case of difficulty
any retreat would have been turned out to be perilous. Alp Arslan thus had given the order to put the fortress out of action
ten days earlier and they had made numerous assaults on it.
The battle was being followed very closely from Samarkand.Every three days a pigeon would arrive, released by the defenders. The message was never an appeal for help. It did not describe
the exhaustion of supplies or men, it spoke only of adverse losses and rumours of epidemics rife amongst the besiegers. Overnight
the commander of the site, a certain Yussif, originally from Khwarazm, became the hero of Transoxania.
However, eventually the defenders were overwhelmed, the foundations of the fortress were undermined and the walls scaled.
Yussif fought to the last before being wounded and captured. He was led off to the Sultan, who was curious to see close up
the cause of his troubles. It was a lean little man, hirsute and dusty, who was marched in front of the Sultan. He held himself
upright with his head held high, between two giants who gripped him by the arms. Alp Arslan, for his part, was stretched out
on a wooden dais covered with cushions. The two men looked at each other defiantly, then the victor ordered:
‘Place four posts in the ground, tie him to them and have him quartered.’
Yussif looked at the Sultan condescendingly and scornfully, and shouted: ‘Is that the way to punish someone who has fought
like a man?’
Alp Arslan did not reply. He turned his face away. The prisoner added: ‘You, the Effeminate. I am talking to you!’
The Sultan jumped up, as if stung by a scorpion. He seized his bow which was lying near him, loaded an arrow, and before firing
he ordered the guards to release the prisoner as he could not fire on the man without the risk of wounding his own soldiers.
In any case, he had nothing to worry about for he had never missed a target.
Perhaps it was his extreme annoyance, his hurry or the awkwardness of firing at such a short distance but Yussif was still
unharmed and the Sultan did not have time to load a second arrow before the prisoner attacked him. Alp Arslan, who could not
defend himself while still perched on his pedestal, tried to extricate himself, tripped on a cushion, stumbled and fell to
the ground. Yussif was upon him straight away, grasping the knife which he had kept hidden in the folds of his clothing. He
had time to stab him in the side beforehe himself was dispatched by a massive blow. The soldiers set upon his lifeless, mutilated body. His lips, however, still
kept the sardonic smile which death had frozen on them. He was avenged and the Sultan was not to outlast him for long.
Alp Arslan in fact died after four long nights of agony and bitter meditation. His words were recorded in the chronicles of
the time: ‘The other day I reviewed my troops from high on a promontory and I felt the earth tremble under their step. I told
myself, “I am the master of the world! Who can measure up to me?” For my arrogance and vanity God sent out the most wretched
of humans, a prisoner, a condemned man on his way to be executed; he proved himself more powerful than I, he struck me, he
knocked me off my throne, he has removed my life.’
Was it the day after this drama that Omar Khayyam wrote in his book:
Once in a while a man arises boasting;
He shows his wealth
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