“You’ll need everyone, because everything has to be ready by tomorrow evening. Have the eunuchs prepare the food and drink. I hope there’s still enough wine in the cellars.”
“More than enough.”
“Good. I’ll visit the gardens tomorrow between third and fourth prayers. I want the girls to see me and have their zeal reinforced. And hear directly from me how they’re supposed to behave toward their visitors. I won’t tolerate any jokes. If any of them in any way lets on that she’s not one of the houris and that the gardens aren’t paradise, she’ll be finished, no questions asked. It shouldn’t be too hard, I don’t think.”
“Each one of them thinks she’s a princess already,” Apama added.
“The two of us will be sure to coach them into their roles,” Miriam commented anxiously.
“The threat of death will do its work,” Hasan said. “Make sure all three pavilions are fully ready for visitors tomorrow. The girls assigned to them should be made over from head to foot, dressed all in silk, gold and gemstones. Made up so that they themselves could be convinced that they’re girls from heaven. I hope the school has done its job in that respect.”
“Don’t worry about that, my master. Miriam and I will take care of everything.”
“Tell me, since you know best, what kind of appearance should I make to those monkeys in order to produce the strongest impression?”
“You need to look like a king,” Miriam replied. “That’s how the girls imagine and want you to be.”
“You’ll need to have an entourage,” Apama added, “to make your arrival more ceremonious.”
“Aside from the eunuch guards and my two deputy commanders, no one can know about the existence of these gardens. I’ll have to make do with them. But tell me, what do those little chickens imagine a king looks like?”
“A proud gait and an exalted facial expression—that’s what their king needs to have,” Miriam said with a smile. “And most important of all, a scarlet cape and a gold crown on his head.”
“Amusing, really. The wise man has to disguise himself if he wants respect and confirmation from the people.”
“That’s how the world is,” Apama added.
“Well, we have plenty of rags and baubles like that in the castle. All that was taken care of ahead of time.”
Hasan laughed. He leaned toward Apama and whispered in her ear.
“Do you have that tincture ready that causes the skin to contract? The visitors should get the impression that they have perpetual virginity beside them.”
Apama burst out laughing and nodded. Miriam had only caught the last few words and blushed.
“Are the baths and everything that goes with them ready?”
“Everything is in order, my master.”
“Good. Get to work in earnest tomorrow morning and then wait for me with the girls. Good night.”
Adi rowed him noiselessly back out of the gardens.
Now that he was alone in his rooms, he thought everything through one more time. For twenty years he had prepared steadily and unflaggingly for this moment. Twenty long years. He had never wavered or been frightened by anything in his path. He had been hard and demanding toward himself. He had also been hard and demanding toward others. All just to realize his goal, to embody his dreams.
What a fairy tale life was! A youth full of dreams, an early manhood full of restless searching. And now, in his mature years, the old dreams were starting to become reality. He was the master of thirty armed fortresses. He was the commander of thousands of believers. He lacked only one tool to assume absolute power. To become feared by all the potentates and foreign despots far and wide. That tool was the plan just now on the verge of being launched. A plan built on thorough knowledge of nature and human weakness. An insane and wild plan. A plan calculated in every respect.
It suddenly occurred to him that he might have overlooked some trifling detail that could bring down the whole conceit. A strange fear gripped him. Had he perhaps miscalculated somewhere?
He tried in vain to escape into sleep. The strange uncertainty unsettled him. He had in fact never seriously thought about the possibility of his entire edifice collapsing. He had, after all, taken every possibility into account. Now that fear was haunting him.
“Just get through this night,” he told himself. “Then it will be fine.”
He became short of breath. He got up and went to the top of the tower. Up there was the immeasurable starry vault. Beneath it roared the river. Next to it were the gardens, harboring their strange life. The first embodiment of his strange dreams. Out there, in front of the castle, his army was waiting for the arrival of the sultan’s vanguard. They had all submitted to his leadership without reservations. Did any of them have a hint where he was leading them?
It occurred to him that he could escape all of this. Leap over the ramparts and disappear into Shah Rud. That would be the end of his responsibility forever. He would be spared everything. What would happen with his people then? Maybe Abu Ali would announce that the supreme commander had been lifted up into heaven. Like Empedocles. And they would venerate him as a great prophet and saint. Maybe they would find his corpse. What would they say then?
He felt the awful attraction of the depths. Convulsively he seized onto the ramparts. He was almost lured into the abyss.
He relaxed only after he returned to his room. Soon he was overcome by sleep.
He dreamt he was still at the court in Isfahan, as he had been sixteen years before. A huge throne room. All around nothing but grandees and dignitaries. In an elevated space, Sultan Malik Shah half sits, half reclines and listens to his report. He’s twirling his long, thin mustache and sipping wine. Standing next to him is the grand vizier, his former schoolmate, who winks at him roguishly. He, Hasan, is reading the report and turning its pages. Suddenly all of the sheets are blank. He is unable to proceed. His tongue gets stuck. He begins stammering incoherently. The sultan fixes two cold, hard eyes on him. “Enough!” he shouts and points to the door. His knees get weak. The hallway shakes with the hellish guffawing of the grand vizier.
He shot upright out of his sleep, drenched in sweat, his whole body shaking.
“Praise be to Allah,” he whispered, relieved. “I was just dreaming.”
Then, comforted, he fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was a clear, starry night, one of those nights when we think we can hear the heartbeat of the universe. A snowy chill blowing down from Mount Demavend did battle with the dampness evaporating out of an earth still warm from the sun.
One after the other the warriors rode through the canyon. Abu Ali was at their head. Every fifth horseman swung a torch above his head, lighting the way for those who came behind him. Moths darted around the flames, flew into them, and burned up. The clatter of hooves echoed off the rocky canyon walls. The commands of the officers and sergeants, the shouts of the camel drivers, and the neighing of the horses merged in a mighty din that drowned out the roar of the mountain stream.
The fedayeen set up camp behind a lookout ridge. They were well covered. They pitched their tents, lit their campfires, and posted guards. Some two hundred paces away from them the other warriors, horsemen, lancers and archers had settled in atop a hill overgrown with shrubs. At the bottom of a small gulley they kindled low-burning fires, warmed themselves next to them, and roasted an ox. They spoke in muffled tones and laughed excitedly. Anxiously they cast glances at the figure atop the guard tower, his outlines motionless against the horizon. Those who had drawn lookout or guard duty wrapped themselves in their jackets and lay down to get their sleep in early.