Abu Ali ordered a large ditch dug at the foot of the hill, into which they threw the enemy dead. He had the Turkish colonel beheaded and his head stuck onto a lance atop the watchtower. Manuchehr and his men arrived from the castle and listened downcast to the victors’ raucous accounts of the course of the battle. Al-Hakim and his assistants hurriedly treated the wounded and had them carried on litters to Alamut. He knew he still had hard work ahead of him there.
When the wounded had been tended to and the enemy bodies disposed of, Abu Ali ordered for the trumpet to sound the return. The soldiers loaded their fallen comrades and plunder onto the camels and donkeys, mounted their horses, and, amid impetuous shouts, returned to the castle.
Hasan had observed the course of the battle from his tower. He saw the Turks rushing in and Abu Ali cutting off their path. He saw the fedayeen joining the battle and Muzaffar’s horsemen, with Abdul Malik at their head, assuring victory. He was extraordinarily satisfied.
A gong sounded the arrival of news for him. No one was allowed atop his tower, under punishment of death, not even his eunuchs. He went back into his room. Buzurg Ummid was waiting for him there.
Hasan rushed toward him and embraced him tightly.
“Now I’m perfectly happy!” he exclaimed.
In contrast with Abu Ali, Buzurg Ummid was a man of striking appearance. He was tall and strong and had an aristocratic face. His magnificent black beard was curled, with silver threads showing only here and there. His lively eyes expressed will and determination. His lips were full and well articulated, though sometimes, when he laughed, they hinted at inflexibility and even cruelty. Like the other leaders he was dressed Arabian style in a white cloak and white turban, from which a wide kerchief draped down onto his shoulders. But his clothing was cut from choice fabric and tailored to fit. Even now, with a long and arduous ride just behind him, he looked as though he had dressed expressly for a formal occasion.
“The Turks nearly got me under their sabers,” he said, smiling. “Yesterday after third prayers your carrier pigeon brought me your order. I had barely managed to give instructions to cover my absence, when your messenger came swimming up Shah Rud with the news. The Turks had positioned a large detachment in front of the castle, and your man had to ford the water on his horse so they wouldn’t catch him.”
Then he described how he had taken a shorter route on the other side of the river and finally managed to outdistance them. Barely a hundred paces ahead of them, he forded another stream, and he became infernally fearful that Hasan’s men wouldn’t be able to let the bridge down for him or, if they did so, that the Turks would be able to charge into the fortress right behind him.
Hasan rubbed his hands in delight.
“Everything is working out beautifully,” he said. “You and Abu Ali are going to get to see what I’ve come up with. You’ll be so amazed your head will spin.”
Abu Ali returned and Hasan embraced him, grinning.
“Truly, I wasn’t mistaken about you,” he said.
He had him describe the course of the battle in detail. He was particularly interested in the fedayeen.
“So the grandson of Tahir, our poet, seized the regimental flag? Excellent, excellent.”
“Suleiman was right behind their flag bearer, but he fell, and ibn Tahir finished the job,” Abu Ali explained. “The Turk slid into the river on his horse, and the poet chased after him and took the flag away from him.”
Then he provided a count of the casualties and described their plunder.
“Let’s go to the assembly hall,” Hasan said. “I want to congratulate my men on their victory myself.”
Al-Hakim assigned several fedayeen to work with his assistants, so they could see in real life how the injured were cared for and treated. They helped him straighten out broken limbs and bandage wounds. Some of the wounded had to have large wounds burned out, so that the entire infirmary smelled of burnt flesh. The injured shouted and wailed, and their cries were audible throughout the fortress. Those who had to have a limb sawed off lost and regained consciousness repeatedly and bellowed most hopelessly of all.
“This is horrible,” ibn Tahir whispered to himself.
“How lucky that we fedayeen came away intact,” Yusuf remarked.
“War is something terrible,” Naim said.
“It’s not for little doves like you, that’s for sure,” Suleiman laughed.
“Leave Naim alone,” Yusuf shot back. “He was at my side the whole time, and I wasn’t hiding.”
“You were roaring so loudly the Turks had to hold their ears instead of fight,” Suleiman joked. “Small wonder our cricket hid under your wings.”
“You couldn’t get to the Turkish flag, no matter how hard you tried,” Obeida snorted at him.
Suleiman went pale. He didn’t say a word but watched al-Hakim as he approached another injured man.
The Greek was a capable physician. The cries and moans of the injured didn’t bother him a bit. Now and then he would comfort a patient with an encouraging word, but otherwise he did his job skillfully and matter-of-factly, like a craftsman at work. In the process he explained the basics of dressing wounds to the fedayeen, seasoning his words with his personal wisdom.
A Turk had broken Sergeant Abuna’s arm. Al-Hakim approached him, removed the improvised sling, took a board from the hands of a feday and used it to straighten and then reinforce the broken limb.
While the sergeant gnashed his teeth in pain, the Greek spoke to the fedayeen.
“The human body’s predisposition to harmony is so strong that the separate parts of a broken limb long to be reunited and fused. The power of this passion for reestablishing the whole is so great that even wrongly adjusted parts will reunite. The skill of a good doctor is in knowing the body’s true structure, avoiding that kind of irregularity and being able to rejoin the parts of a broken limb in accordance with nature.”
By the time he had finished with the Ismaili wounded, he was dead tired. He saw how many Turkish wounded were still waiting for him, and he sent ibn Tahir to ask Abu Ali what he should do with them. He secretly hoped he could deal with them more quickly, perhaps even “curing” some of the more critically wounded with a dependable poison.
Ibn Tahir ran into Abu Soraka, who went to ask the grand dai.
The order came back: “Treat the Turks as carefully as if they were our friends. We need them as hostages.”
The doctor cursed and threw himself back into his work. Now he no longer offered encouraging words to the groaning wounded, and he didn’t bother to explain anything to the fedayeen. He left the easier jobs for his assistants. Of the fedayeen, Obeida proved to be the most capable.
It wasn’t until late afternoon that he finished treating wounds and setting broken bones. He gave his assistants appropriate orders and then left to find the commanders.
Meanwhile the commanders were talking about the day’s exploits over food and wine in the assembly hall. They shared conjectures about the supreme commander’s next moves and what advantages the day’s victory might bring them. They all praised Abdul Malik for carrying out his assignment so brilliantly.
Their mood reached a high point when Hasan appeared in the hall with the two grand dais. His face shone with satisfaction, and as he and the commanders greeted each other, his cheeks trembled from smiling.
“I have excellent assistants in you,” he said as they sat over the platters and jugs. He particularly praised Abu Ali, who had led the entire expedition. Then he turned to Abdul Malik and asked him how he had fared with the harems at Muzaffar’s. He acknowledged his successful contribution to the battle and thanked him for it. He also praised Abu Soraka for leading the fedayeen and carrying out his instructions so precisely. Then he looked at Captain Manuchehr. A roguish smile came over his face.