The worshiper will, if water is unavailable, wash his hands with sand or soil, for he must bathe before praying. He will have with him his kibleh, a small compass to ascertain the direction of Mecca, and his tesbeth, or rosary.
The devout Moslem will pray five times a day, his devotions preceded by washing of the face, hands, and feet. Ears that have heard evil are touched with water. Eyes and mouth that have seen or spoken evil are washed. When washing the hands, the Moslem cups the water in his hands and lifts them, allowing the water to run down to his elbows.
It was from this habit of washing our hands before prayer that we physicians adopted the habit of bathing our hands in this manner, as it was the custom to pray before each operation.
After bathing, the worshiper would kneel upon his marked-off space or rug, prostrating himself, touching the rug with his forehead. During the years when Mohammed lived, it was the custom to pray toward Jerusalem, but following his death, the direction of Mecca was adopted. Mats and rugs had been used by various religions since earliest times, so the idea was not new to Arab, Turk, or Persian.
The prayer rugs offered for sale in Tabriz were rectangular rugs with an elaborate border of delicate floral design. At the top of the rug and inside the border was a panel some four inches wide and at least two feet long containing a stylized quotation from the Koran in Arabic. Beneath the panel and outlining the prayer arch was the spandrel with a field of sapphire blue worked with an intricate design.
The Ghiordes prayer arch or niche possessed a high central spire and well-defined shoulders. Two pillars supported the arch on the sides, and from the center of the arch was suspended a representation of the sacred lamp of the temple.
The coloring of the Ghiordes rugs I saw in Tabriz was delicate but beautifully defined. The rug I purchased had just been completed and was woven from silk with a few designs in wool. Had the rug been woven entirely of silk or wool, it would have been perfect, and nothing is perfect but Allah, so the addition of a few designs in other materials indicated the humility of the weaver. The blue, light-green, and yellow were beautiful in the extreme, and when held in different lights the rug possessed a shimmer like a mirage in the desert. The pile of the rug was woven in such a way that the nap lay in the direction of Mecca.
The rugs fascinated me, and I wandered through the bazaars studying the various ideas and motifs expressed in the weaving. The influence of the Chinese was quite obvious in some of the rugs. Contacts with the Chinese had begun long before. For several hundred years ships from Cathay had been coming to the Persian Gulf, and in Constantinople as well as here I had seen bronze articles as well as ceramic from China.
Rugs from Samarkand were displayed in the markets, some worked with a pomegranate design, a Hittite symbol of eternal life and fertility. In others the pine cone was the basic motif, a Chinese symbol of longevity, and the cypress tree, often planted in Moslem cemeteries, was often seen. In ancient times it had been believed that cypress boughs left upon the tombs of the dead would continue to mourn. The cypress had long been sacred in Persia, sacred to the fire worshipers who gave Persia its name, for the tall, slender shape of the cypress symbolized the flame. In Córdoba I had seen many rugs from the East, fabulous in beauty and texture. It was incredible that such rugs could be woven, with hundreds of knots to the square inch. The one I finally decided upon for myself numbered five hundred and forty knots to the square inch, although this was nothing to such palace rugs as the great rug woven for the audience hall at Ctesiphon, representing a garden. Some such rugs numbered two thousand five hundred knots to the square inch, an incredible number.
The garden idea was quite common in Persian rugs, and the word paradise is Persian and means a “walled garden.” Khatib found me in the bazaar, worried by my absence, and reminding me of my meeting with the Emir. It was with rugs as with pottery and books. I have been fascinated by the ideas expressed and the symbolism woven into the texture of their work.
An hour after leaving the bazaar I appeared at the palace of the Emir, Mas’ud Khan. Upon a dais at the far end of the audience hall a low table had been spread with all manner of fruit and viands. Scarcely had I been shown into the room than Mas’ud Khan himself appeared, and my expectations were shattered.
Instead of the corpulent emir I expected, round of cheek before and behind, I found myself meeting a lean, hawk-faced man with black penetrating eyes that measured me coldly. This was no idle official, fattening upon the deeds of other men, but a warrior, lean and fierce. He carried the smell of blood and the saddle about him, and I realized I must proceed’with the greatest caution.
“It is an honor to meet a scholar of such great knowledge.” He spoke smoothly, then abruptly. “You are truly a physician?”
“Truly,” I replied, then added, “and you are truly the Emir?”
49
He smiled with genuine humor, albeit a wolfish humor that had more than a hint of the sardonic. “Well said!” He seated himself at a table and handed me a piece of fruit. “I think we shall be friends!”
“A scholar is always a friend to an emir,” I said, “or he is not wise enough to deserve the name of scholar!”
“You must forgive my ignorance,” Mas’ud Khan said, “but I believed I knew the names of the most eminent scholars. What a pity that I know so little of what you have done!”
Suspicious of me, was he? Suspicious, and therefore dangerous, for this man would act upon what he believed. Was he an Isma’ili? Perhaps an ally and friend to Sinan?
“How could you know of me? I, who am but the least of Allah’s servants? My home was Córdoba, and in Córdoba one must be a great scholar indeed to be known. Yet I knew Averroes there, and John of Seville was my friend.”
“What did you there? Were you a teacher?”
“A translator of books from Greek and Latin to Arabic, and sometimes from the Persian, also.”
“And your plans?” Mas’ud’s hard black eyes measured me.
“To study at Jundi Shapur,” I said. “I have heard it is the greatest medical school in the world. Is it true the teaching there is in Sanskrit?”
“No more, but it was once so. For more than one thousand years it has been the greatest of schools, although each year it becomes more difficult to maintain the university and the hospital because Baghdad hires its teachers.”
“There is a thing you could do for me, Emir. Long since, word came to me of a book of several thousand pages, the Ayennamagh. Can this be found?”
“Truly, you are a scholar! How few even know of this book!” Regretfully, he shook his head. “No, it cannot be had. I have never seen a copy, and if such could be found, it would be my head if it left our hands.”
Yet his suspicions remained, and artfully, I guided the conversation through talk of medicine, law, and poetry to the art of war. He had not heard of Sun Tzu and was fascinated to learn of his theories, and we passed from that to talk of Vegetius and the Roman legions. “We had them here, you know, and our Parthians defeated them. One captured legion was sold to slavery in China and marched there intact.”
Artfully, I guided the talk to libraries and alchemy, knowing that in the fortress at Alamut a great library existed, and Sinan himself was interested in alchemy. Suddenly, without warning he said, “There is a man here from your land. You must meet him.”
“His name?”
“Ibn-Haram.”
Had he suddenly leaned across and struck me, I could have been no more startled. Yet I believe it did not show in my face.
“Ah, yes. A good man to have for a friend, and a dangerous enemy. I know of him … he plotted long to seize power in Córdoba, even from Yusuf, his benefactor.” He was one man I must not meet, for I had no greater enemy, and he would use all the power he could muster to have me beheaded. Yet what I had said apparently caused Mas’ud Khan to think, for he was silent, musing for a long time.
“Yusuf was his benefactor, you said?” For what it was worth, I would try. “As one scholar to another”—I spoke softly, not to be overheard—”trust him not. He is a man hungry for power, and not to be satisfied with anything less than all the power.”