Each girl had been chosen for her beauty and the symmetry of her body, and these slaves posed, turning this way and that to display their costly bangles. Nearby was another bazaar where only perfumes were sold. Spikenard, patchouli, myrrh, frankincense, ambergris, musk, rose, and jasmine—there was no counting the fragrances. There was a street of booksellers, another for leather goods, and several streets crowded with weavers of rugs, which reminded me that I must find a prayer rug.
Riding on, I came to a hospice near the Baghdad gate. Travelers who stopped were served bread, meat, rice cooked with butter, and sweetmeats. Everywhere were horses, camels, bullocks, and goats as well as both veiled and unveiled women. Turkish women did not veil. Frankish traders were there, whom I quickly avoided, fearing to be recognized. There were Armenians, Levantines, Greeks, Jews, Kurds, Slavs, Turks, Arabs, and Persians. There were big blond men whom I recognized as Pathans, and even merchants from Hind and Cathay, for Tabriz was truly a crossroads.
It was much changed from the time that the Hudud-al-Alam was compiled. The note on Tabriz in that geography said simply Tabriz, a small borough, pleasant and prosperous, within a wall constructed by Ala-ibn-Ahniad. That, of course, had been written in 982, nearly two hundred years before my arrival.
Tabriz lay in the basin of Lake Urmiah, dominated by the volcano Mount Sehend, surrounded by miles of gardens and fields. The town had once been known as Kandsag, but that was long, long ago.
My arrival at the hospice brought a stir of excitement. The Arab stable boys rushed to help me from the saddle as if I were barrel fat and helpless. A familiar voice sounded at my elbow. “O Mighty One! I, Khatib the preacher, would serve you! I, a student of the Koran, but knowing in all the ways of evil! Trust me, O Mighty One, and you shall be guided safely!”
It was he … it was Khatib!
“Bismillah!” I exclaimed. “What manner of man is this who doth crawl with fleas! Thou hive of vermin, how could such a one serve me, ibn-Ibrahim, scholar and physician?”
He followed me to the door of the caravanserai, his wicked old eyes twinkling. “I knew if I waited, you must come sooner or later to this place, and surely, you have come.”
“And the Comtesse?”
“Safe enough, by the will of Allah! And like to remain so, for Lucca has recruited men for her, including some thirty of those who escaped from the Cumans. She will do well enough, that one!”
“Do you know what it is that I do?”
“You are a fool to even think of it, but I am a fool who has found his master, and will help you. It has been written.”
“My chances are not good.”
“Who speaks of chance or chances? We have neither one nor the other, ibn-Ibrahim!” He used the name with a sly grin. “We shall be food for jackals.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “But I have lived much, and who is to say that I should die otherwise?”
“Ibn-Ibrahim, being a scholar and a physician, might be invited … I say might … to the fortress of Alamut.”
“As Allah wills. Truly,” he added, “you are the most learned of men, and there is no trick in that. I have heard wise men speak of you so, even the great Averroes. Do you have a plan?”
“Only to become known quickly as a scholar and physician. Sinan, I hear, is one to appreciate such things, and there might be an invitation. If not, I shall find another way.”
Khatib shrugged. “What you wish has been done. Even before you arrived I informed all who listened that I awaited my master, who was a wise man before Allah.” He grinned again, evil twinkling from his eyes. “Besides, I had no money, and men would not allow the servant of a learned man to starve in their presence.”
“But the name, Khatib! Who did you tell them I was?”
“How could I know? I told them nothing as to name, just that my master was a great scholar who did not wish to become known, but who traveled in search of wisdom.”
“What of the way, Khatib? Do you know it?”
“Aye … it is far into the mountains near Qazvin, where each village is a nest of spies. You cannot proceed one step they will not know.
“Another thing, and beware! There is a man named al-Zawila … do you know such a one?”
“No.”
“He is of great power among the Isma’ili, but lately come to Alamut. Some say he is powerful as Sinan and is his strong right hand, his defender, his master of spies.
“There is a whisper, and not even walls may stop a whisper, that since his coming there has been grief and trouble for the slave named Kerbouchard. This slave had won a place for himself by diligence, but since the coming of al-Zawila he is marked for every demeaning task. It is as if al-Zawila wished to force him to anger so he could be tortured and killed!”
“Then we must move swiftly, for my father’s patience is as limited as his strength is great.”
We talked long, and I listened much, for Khatib knew all the gossip of the bazaars and nothing escaped him. First, I must establish myself, for what was needed was official recognition of my presence. Knowing the ways of power, I doubted I should long be kept waiting.
Al-Zawila? I knew no such name. Why, then, did he hate my father? For surely there must be hatred for such a man to even notice my father. And but recently arrived? Could he be an enemy of mine?
I knew no such man, nor had any memory of one.
Tabriz, Khatib told me, was noted for the splendor of its rugs as well as its books, and a rug was needed for my prayers. Finding Khatib gave me hope, for doubts assailed me. How could I succeed where kings and emperors had failed? Yet Khatib was a man of a thousand gifts, listening well, and possessing devious ways of acquiring knowledge hidden from all.
Scarcely an hour passed before there came a fat eunuch, puffing from his exertions. “O Auspicious One! I come from the Emir! From the mighty and learned Mas’ud Khan! If you would condescend to honor him with your presence!”
“Tell your master, his wish is an honor. His nobility, his splendor, his riches and power are known to all! If he wishes this humble one to come, come I shall!”
Such are the amenities of social life, which oft makes a liar of the best of men. Never had I heard of Mas’ud Khan, nor had I any idea whether he was noble, splendid, or rich, but considering my problems, I hoped he was all three. Yet if he was an emir—and seeing the wealth of the city as well as the poverty of the poor, I had no doubt someone was squeezing the juice from the orange—rich he might well be.
Yet there were other things to consider. It was in my mind to show myself in the bazaars, for what was whispered there would echo inside the walls of Alamut. Moreover, as I was now to become a Moslem, I wished to have a prayer rug. Women and the very rich had begun to use such rugs, and as I wished to establish myself as one of the very rich and very eminent, the prayer rug was essential. To breach the walls of Alamut with power had failed many; to enter by stealth with the network of spies was impossible. Every stranger was suspect. Hence, the solution seemed to be to herald my presence widely and hope for an invitation. Plotters and connivers were searched for in hidden places, so I would let myself be seen, heard, and talked with. Sinan was a man of varied interests, and it might be that a stranger would interest him.
The rugs woven in Tabriz were of several kinds, but the Ghiordes or Turkish knot was beginning to displace the Sehna or Persian knot in the Tabriz area. The city had long been noted for its weavers, although the industry had been damaged by Turkish invasions. Now Turks had settled in or around Tabriz and introduced their own methods of weaving. The tufted style had been suitable for a people whose rugs covered the floors of tents. The Turks invaded the country at least a hundred years before my time, but their methods of weaving had been slow to replace the Persian.
The idea of the prayer rug was new, although Moslems had marked off small areas when in the field or traveling, to keep intruders at a distance when praying. These were often marked off by sticks or stones. Despite the fact that the Moslem religion has many elements similar to Christian or Jewish practice, and all are People of the Book, the true Moslem will not pray where the footsteps of Jews or Christians have made the ground unclean.