and cries out, ‘It is I!’
A day or two his puny matters flourish;
Then Death appears and cries out, ‘It is I!’
CHAPTER 9
It was feast-time in Samarkand and a woman dared to cry – the wife of the triumphant Khan, but she was also above all the
daughter of the assassinated Sultan. Naturally her husband had gone to present his condolences. He had ordered the whole harem
to wear mourning and had a eunuch who had displayed too much good humour flogged in front of her. However, when he was back
in his
diwan
he did not hesitate to tell all and sundry that ‘God has granted the prayers of the people of Samarkand’.
It might be supposed that at that time the inhabitants of a city had no reason for preferring one sovereign over the other.
However, they said their prayers, for what they really feared was a change of master with his string of massacres and ordeals
and the inevitable pillaging and plundering. For the population to wish to be conquered by another, the monarch had to go
beyond the limit in submitting them to exorbitant taxes and continuous harassment. This was not the case with Nasr. If he
was not the best of princes, he certainly was not the worst. They could live with him and they put their faith in the ability
of the Almighty to keep him in check.
Thus in Samarkand they were celebrating being spared from war. The immense square of Ras al-Tak was overflowing with smoke
and noise. Itinerant merchants had erected stalls against every wall, and under every street lamp there was a singing girl
or a lute playerimprovising melodies. Myriad groups were forming and dispersing around the story-tellers, the palm-readers and the snake-charmers.
In the centre of the square, on a hastily constructed and shaky rostrum they were holding the traditional contest amongst
popular poets who sang praise to the incomparability and invincibility of Samarkand. The public’s judgement was instant. New
stars arose and others waned. There were wood fires almost everywhere, as it was December and the nights had already turned
cold. In the palace, jars of wine were being emptied and smashed. The Khan was jovial, boisterous and swaggering with drink.
The next day he had the prayer for the dead recited in the great mosque and then received condolences over the death of his
father-in-law. The same people who had rushed over the day before to congratulate him on his victory came back, wearing expressions
of mourning to express their sorrow. The
qadi
, who had recited some appropriate verses and invited Omar to do the same, gave Omar an aside:
‘Do not be astonished at anything. Reality has two faces and so do people.’
That very evening, Abu Taher was summoned by Nasr Khan, who asked him to join the delegation charged with going to pay Samarkand’s
homage to the deceased Sultan. Omar had set off too, albeit with a hundred and twenty other people.
The site of the condolences was an old Seljuk army camp, situated just north of the river. Thousands of tents and yurts were
pitched all around, a veritable improvised city where the solemn representatives of Transoxania rubbed shoulders distrustingly
with the nomad warriors with long plaited hair who had come to renew their clan’s allegiance. Malikshah, at seventeen, a giant
with the face of a child, was wrapped in a flowing
karakul
coat and sat enthroned on the very dais where his father, Alp Arslan, had fallen. Several steps in front of him stood the
Grand Vizir, at fifty-five years old the strongman of the empire, whom Malikshah called ‘father’ as a sign of extreme deference.
Nizam al-Mulk, the Order of the Kingdom. Never had a name been more deserved. Every time a visitor of rankapproached, the young sultan gave the Vizir a questioning look. He then gave an imperceptible signal as to whether to receive
the visitor warmly or reservedly, serenely or distrustingly, attentively or absently.
The whole delegation from Samarkand
A day or two his puny matters flourish;
Then Death appears and cries out, ‘It is I!’
CHAPTER 9
It was feast-time in Samarkand and a woman dared to cry – the wife of the triumphant Khan, but she was also above all the
daughter of the assassinated Sultan. Naturally her husband had gone to present his condolences. He had ordered the whole harem
to wear mourning and had a eunuch who had displayed too much good humour flogged in front of her. However, when he was back
in his
diwan
he did not hesitate to tell all and sundry that ‘God has granted the prayers of the people of Samarkand’.
It might be supposed that at that time the inhabitants of a city had no reason for preferring one sovereign over the other.
However, they said their prayers, for what they really feared was a change of master with his string of massacres and ordeals
and the inevitable pillaging and plundering. For the population to wish to be conquered by another, the monarch had to go
beyond the limit in submitting them to exorbitant taxes and continuous harassment. This was not the case with Nasr. If he
was not the best of princes, he certainly was not the worst. They could live with him and they put their faith in the ability
of the Almighty to keep him in check.
Thus in Samarkand they were celebrating being spared from war. The immense square of Ras al-Tak was overflowing with smoke
and noise. Itinerant merchants had erected stalls against every wall, and under every street lamp there was a singing girl
or a lute playerimprovising melodies. Myriad groups were forming and dispersing around the story-tellers, the palm-readers and the snake-charmers.
In the centre of the square, on a hastily constructed and shaky rostrum they were holding the traditional contest amongst
popular poets who sang praise to the incomparability and invincibility of Samarkand. The public’s judgement was instant. New
stars arose and others waned. There were wood fires almost everywhere, as it was December and the nights had already turned
cold. In the palace, jars of wine were being emptied and smashed. The Khan was jovial, boisterous and swaggering with drink.
The next day he had the prayer for the dead recited in the great mosque and then received condolences over the death of his
father-in-law. The same people who had rushed over the day before to congratulate him on his victory came back, wearing expressions
of mourning to express their sorrow. The
qadi
, who had recited some appropriate verses and invited Omar to do the same, gave Omar an aside:
‘Do not be astonished at anything. Reality has two faces and so do people.’
That very evening, Abu Taher was summoned by Nasr Khan, who asked him to join the delegation charged with going to pay Samarkand’s
homage to the deceased Sultan. Omar had set off too, albeit with a hundred and twenty other people.
The site of the condolences was an old Seljuk army camp, situated just north of the river. Thousands of tents and yurts were
pitched all around, a veritable improvised city where the solemn representatives of Transoxania rubbed shoulders distrustingly
with the nomad warriors with long plaited hair who had come to renew their clan’s allegiance. Malikshah, at seventeen, a giant
with the face of a child, was wrapped in a flowing
karakul
coat and sat enthroned on the very dais where his father, Alp Arslan, had fallen. Several steps in front of him stood the
Grand Vizir, at fifty-five years old the strongman of the empire, whom Malikshah called ‘father’ as a sign of extreme deference.
Nizam al-Mulk, the Order of the Kingdom. Never had a name been more deserved. Every time a visitor of rankapproached, the young sultan gave the Vizir a questioning look. He then gave an imperceptible signal as to whether to receive
the visitor warmly or reservedly, serenely or distrustingly, attentively or absently.
The whole delegation from Samarkand
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