“My lord,” Ibn al-Haytham replied, “a curse on my failure to curb the Nile, something that has plagued me and disturbed my slumber ever since. The river defied all my calculations and projects and simply scoffed as it demolished all my equations and measurements, It almost seemed as though it was leaving its own banks just in order to bring cascades of water crashing down on my head. All I could do in response was to whistle and get out of the way. One day I was walking and whistling just a short distance from my sleeping place in the desert, when all of a sudden I got the idea of coming to the royal assembly and submitting a request to resign from all my responsibilities. That is in fact what I did. After waiting for a while I received a letter from my lord refusing my request because of the suspect personal motivations that had led me to submit the petition. Once I had read the letter, it seemed to me that the only thing I could do was to retire with my dark beard and feign madness. Without that, all avenues to a reasonable life would be closed, leaving me in the clutches of despair and never-ending insomnia. And so I sank ever lower. I started walking around the city with a scowl on my face, never responding to salutations and guffawing as I chased equations, measurements, and integers. Now, my lord, your sources have revealed my pseudo-madness, so I beg you to remove from my path the things that block my passage and stifle my breathing.”
“That is indeed amazing, Ibn al-Haytham,” said al-Hakim, signs of surprise already registering in his demeanor, “but I won’t let you go until you tell me why you won’t work in my service.”
“I’m afraid, my lord,” replied Ibn al-Haytham, “that serving you can never involve failure or diffidence; it all has to be brilliant and successful. Working within the shadow of your august presence, I have come to realize that every servant naturally strives to see his star wax strong, but that, once successful, the same star is destined to fall. This is a distressing irony, one that I find unbearable; indeed I can only discuss it in the words of the poet who says:
In you I see behavior both good and bad; by my life, you are the one I shall describe:
Near and far, forthcoming and inscrutable, generous and miserly, upright and criminal,
Honest and deceitful, so not even his friend knows whether to shun or flatter him.
You are neither deceiver nor counselor; I find myself completely uncertain about you.
So my tongue can both lampoon and extol you, just as my heart is both knowing and ignorant of you.”
“You do indeed surprise me, Ibn al-Haytham.” said al-Hakim with a laugh, “you surprise me very much! So go in peace! Now bring in the poet, Ibn al-Sa‘sa‘ al-Qarmati.”
With that Ghayn the police chief went over to the cage where the accused were being kept and brought out a handsome young man in the prime of his youth. He forced the young man to kiss the ground in front of the caliph and display signs of humility and obedience.
“Come now, young man,” said a! — Hakim. “Tell us about the accusation against you, the way you interpret the history of ‘Ali — peace be upon him! — and the Shi‘a who make him divine.”
“My Lord,” Ibn Sa‘sa‘ began, “you should be aware that ‘Ali — peace be upon his memory — had spent two thirds of a night in prayer and recitation. Just before dawn he and his army set off to confront a group of his followers who were exaggerating his superhuman qualities and making him divine.
“Once he had reached them and had them surrounded, they bowed down to him.
‘“You are our god, creator, and provider,” they all said. ‘From you we take our beginning and to you we return. For you to be our Lord is glory enough: for us to be your servants is honor enough. You are as we would wish, now make us as you would wish!’
‘“Ali drew his sword and told these devotees to desist from such gross hyperbole and error. They refused and vaunted their defiance.
“This very day I shall fill this ditch with your corpses,’ ‘Ali told them, ‘and dire is the resort for you thereafter!’
‘“If you do indeed slay us,” they replied once they realized they were doomed to die, “you yourself will raise us up again! We testify that ‘Ali is the Imam al-Mahdi, the expected Messiah!’
“When threats proved to be of no avail, ‘Ali gave orders for a fire to be lit in the ditch and for their bodies to be burned. He recited the following line: Once I realized that the matter was anathema, I lit my fire and summoned a lark.’
“From the limits of life the humble servant now stands before you. I began my comments on this hadith by saying: Had ‘Ali actually renounced such hyperbole regarding his unique essence and the glorification of his worldly-record, he would have realized that the ‘Ali. of those who burned to death in that fire was not ‘Ali himself, but rather Imam ‘Ali, the expected one; and it is impossible to await what is either present or transitory. The use of the very same name for a personage who is absent is a metaphorical device demanded by the will of events. As a result, the basic, real meaning of the word ‘‘Ali’ here is Man. The Shi‘a were awaiting the imam named Man, and in that they were indeed radical.”
“The only thing that astonishes me about your interpretation,” said al-Hakim, “is your reliance on the role of imagination. You can astound us even more now by giving your imagination free rein to contemplate your death at my hands.”
“I’m only contemplating death at your hands, my lord,” replied Ibn Sa‘sa‘ confidently, “in a single, utterly unique fashion. In the police record it will state as follows: ‘In that the perpetrator of the above mentioned interpretation has radically supported the cause of the Shi‘a who were burned, in that his words do not conform with their testimony, in that he is a well-known poet-heretic who defines poetry as the revelation of what is inspired by standing in front of a wall in the midday sun when people are taking a nap, in that this poet has extolled authority and seems devoted to it, this poet who claims that poetry is the discourse of waiting in that space which separates us from seizing power, and — in another version — that the most poetic of poets is one who senses that his poetry is an expression of essential weakness and deprivation, and so he strives for power and dreams of it. The police authorities, realizing their duties and ever watchful for the repose of the people, reserve for themselves the right to arrest and interrogate the poet until such time as he reveals the many secrets stored in his heart.’ However, my lord, once I have disappeared for ever, Ghayn, the chief of police, will release a factual report to people, which will say: ‘Rumors have spread abroad in the country stating that Ibn Sa‘sa‘ the poet who had been arrested by our forces died while being tortured by our personnel. In that this is false, we have no alternative but to reveal the following information: the above-named poet’s corpse was discovered where the Nile waters had deposited it. A medical examination determined that he had been killed by a dagger thrust while fighting alongside pimps and heretics.’”