Omar Khayyam - a life (3 page)

Jafarak, the King's jester, sat in meditation upon his white donkey. His short legs projected on either side the donkey's ribs. A scarlet cloak covered his wizened body. Only his clear brown eyes moved restlessly from side to side.

For Jafarak, who did his best to keep near that grim Sultan, his master, was aware that this would be no ordinary battle.

They had told him to wait by the baggage train, with the assemblage of mullahs, the priests of Islam. That, they had said, would be the safest place. But Jafarak had said, no. 'The safest place," he had retorted, "is behind my master's back, for the Moslems will send no arrows there and the Christians will never see it."

This had pleased his master, the Sultan Alp Arslan, the Seljuk, Lord of the World, and King of the East and the West. So Jafarak kept his place by the red standard and the imperial parasol that was held by armed slaves over the head of Alp Arslan. Alp Arslan no longer laughed, in these last days that tried the patience of the Moslem warriors.

For Alp Arslan had planted his standard near the head of the valley, beside the walls of the town of Malasgird. In front of him stretched the rolling, fertile valley. Up this valley was advancing the host of the Christians, of the accursed
Roumis
, the host commanded by the Emperor of Constantinople himself—the Emperor whose ancestors had been the arch foes of Islam for four centuries.

Until now Alp Arslan had contented himself with making inroads far into the dominion of the Emperor—thrusting spearheads of horsemen into the vitals of Asia Minor, so long the stronghold of Asiatic Rome. These spear thrusts had wounded and angered the
Roumis
, until at last the Emperor had assembled all his power to strike back at the wary Turk who had challenged him so boldly, whose ancestors, sons of Tokak the Bowman, had emerged from the fastness of mid-Asia to ride victoriously almost within sight of Constantinople. Now the Emperor was advancing with his mailed cavalry, and his heavy infantry, his mercenary Bulgar archers, throngs of fierce Georgian swordsmen and friendly Armenians fighting to defend their land against the advance of Islam. A huge, slow-moving host, hybrid as the array of Sennacherib. Seventy thousand souls, men said, crawling up the valley after the retreating Turks fifteen thousand strong.

The Emperor of the Christians, a fine soldier, was impatient to come to grips with the Turkish horsemen who had eluded him for so many months. And now, to the surprise of his own officers, Sultan Alp Arslan had planted his standard in the ground, and had quartered his cavalry regiments across the valley, to await the coming of the Emperor.

It seemed a strange thing to Jafarak that fifteen thousand should sit down to wait when they were pursued by seventy thousand.

He heard some of the amirs say, when they thought no one was listening—no one except the Court fool in his motley—that even the veteran Turkish cavalry could not withstand the charge of the heavier
Roumi
mailed lancers. And still Alp Arslan waited there with his cavalry, while the advancing standards of the Christians came nearer, moving slowly over the muddy fields. Jafarak knew that many officers were afraid of being penned up; they were accustomed to attack and pursuit, or swift retreat.

"That will not be," Alp Arslan said in his deep, slow voice. "The camp of the Roumis is already placed far down the valley. They have pressed on to overtake us, and we are here. It is decided, it is written. And what is written will come to pass."

Jafarak, who was sitting by the eldest prince, noticed that the boy glanced toward his father as if frightened by these words.

Perhaps, thought the jester, the issue of the morrow's battle was already decided, as the pious mullahs proclaimed and as the learned astrologers prophesied. He thought of the impatience of the great Christian Emperor, of the muddy, bare fields, and the motionless horsemen of the Seljuk Turks who had never known defeat in battle. Perhaps it was decided, after all, and on the morrow they would only move hither and yon like pawns in a game foreordained.

But Alp Arslan did not sleep that night.

Before the first light Rahim was up, shivering with cold and excitement. He gave his sword to Yarmak to sharpen for the dozenth time, and set other men to grooming his black charger. Hastily he gulped down some dates and barley soaked in water. Now that the hour had come, it was not at all like the start of an antelope chase.

Nor was it in the least as Rahim had fancied it would be. Instead of being summoned to saddle at daybreak and rushing forward with a shout, Rahim could do nothing except fidget about his horse for hours, while the curtain of mist around him thinned away, and his men squatted down and threw dice. When he mounted his horse he could see the heads and lances of riders passing by at a walk. At times he heard a sound like wind rushing through a forest far away, and once beyond the haze in the valley a loud murmur rose, like the crowd pressing about the mosque of Nisapur on a feast day.

When a strange rider trotted by, Rahim cried out to him for news of the battle. The man, a Turk, merely looked at him and went on. Then, beside himself with impatience, Rahim trotted off to his commander, an amir who had the volunteer swordsmen of Nisapur gathered around his standard.

"Send us forward," he urged eagerly, "or we will not see the first blows struck."

To his astonishment he learned that fighting had been going on for hours down the valley. The Khorasanis had heard strange tidings. The Christians had sent demons encased in iron against the Moslems ... a whole regiment had been drowned in the river . . . the Sultan had gone off to the mountains on the right, where hordes of Georgians and Armenians were pressing forward . . . the valley, for leagues, was full of Christians.

"But no," cried someone, "there is our lord the Sultan. Look, yonder!"

Rahim rose in his stirrups and stared. He saw a cavalcade of horsemen trotting across a mound beside him. The leader of the cavalcade rode a white horse—a broad, powerful man with mustaches that curled up on either side his lined brown face, beneath a towering black sheepskin hat. He held a white ivory baton in his rein hand, and a bowcase flapped against his hip as naturally as if he had been an archer of the palace guard.

"Where is the Sultan?" whispered Rahim, peering among the officers.

"
Wallahi
, that is he—there, the first one."

Rahim had expected to see silk robes fluttering in the wind of a headlong gallop— plumed helmets—a banner—drums beating— he did not know what. Deep disappointment filled him at beholding these ordinary quiet men, with a dwarf on a white donkey trotting after them. He went back to his place in silence.

At noon, when he felt both hungry and weary, Omar called him.

"The battle is coming nearer, Rahim. I have been watching from the mound, with the Turkomans. Come!"

When they climbed to the height over which the Sultan had passed, Rahim heard a humming as of a thousand beehives. A faint clattering of metal and drumming of horses' hoofs. The sun had cleared away the last of the mist and the whole valley lay open, with multitudes of tiny horsemen moving about it. At times they paced slowly, like grazing cattle. Then they would sweep back toward the mound as if driven by some irresistible wind.

For hours the Christian cavalry had been charging the Turks, who retired slowly, and crept back again. The arrows of the Turkish bowmen never ceased their hail. It seemed to Rahim as if these myriads of miniature riders had decided, all at once, to move down the valley.

"Look!" cried Omar.

Their own servants were standing up, waving at them. The regiment of Khorasanis had started to trot forward, the saddle drums muttering.

"At last," shouted Rahim, "they will charge."

"Allah il-allah!"
shrieked a boy dragging a long spear after him, as he clutched Rahim's stirrup and tried to keep up with the horse.

This, thought Rahim, was the moment for which he had waited. He drew his sword that sheathed it again presently because none of the others had done more than to draw on their shields. "Slay—slay!" sobbed the boy with the stolen spear, when he fell to the ground, no longer able to keep up with the charger. They were trotting across plowed earth, leaping channels of water.

An hour later they were still racing down the valley. But here their horses swerved from bodies that lay half buried in the mud. Riderless horses were trotting by them, while Arab tribesmen snatched at the loot that lay scattered about the plain.

"Now," exclaimed Rahim, eaten by impatience, "surely the Sultan will call for us to go into the battle."

Instead, they came at twilight to a regiment of Turkish cavalry dismounted in an abandoned garden, and here they were ordered to wait during the night. Although the Turks found dry brush somewhere and kindled great fires, the Khorasanis had neither fire nor food, and they drowsed through sheer weariness, until the first light when the clamor of distant trumpets roused them.

The trumpets were in the Christian camp, whither the Emperor had withdrawn the battered center of his host—the reserve in his rear had marched away during the darkness either from a misunderstanding or by treachery, and the infantry cut off upon his wings in the hills had surrendered to Alp Arslan's horsemen—and now, at dawn, the trumpets were summoning the mailed cavalry of Constantinople to a fresh charge. But Rahim and Omar knew nothing of this; they were heavy with sleep and stiff with the chill of the damp ground.

Their followers had saddled their chargers for them, and before they realized it they were in a mass of riders shouting and plunging over the ground at a gallop.

Omar's hands gripped the rein, and his head throbbed as if with fever. He saw the confusion about him only in glimpses of little things. A loosened turban cloth flapping about the head of a rider—a man running barefoot with his mouth open—a cart overturned, with a peasant crouching beneath it.

Suddenly at one side appeared a man crawling upon hands and knees. A rider reined in above him and thrust a lance down at the wounded man. The lance point stuck in the armor, and then thrust deep into the man's side. As it did so blood ran from his mouth and his head drooped, although he still tried to crawl away. And Omar thought with surprise that this must be a Christian soldier.

He turned his head, looking for Rahim. The rider with the loosened turban was holding fast to an arrow projecting from his hip. Omar heard him grunt with pain.

Then tents appeared on either hand. There was a sound of hammering upon iron, and a screaming. Omar noticed that foam lay upon the neck of his horse, and he loosened his grasp on the rein. He laughed when he thought that he had come through a battle and had not remembered to draw his sword.

Rahim was standing on the ground by a large tent. All around him the Khorasanis were dismounting to look for spoil. No one seemed to have ordered them to do that, but they were shouting and running about like children. Three of Rahim's followers came out of the tent with damask cloth and silver vessels in their arms. By the wrists they were leading a girl.

She stared about her as if bewildered, a mass of gleaming hair as light as ripe wheat falling about her eyes. She wore no veil, and the girdle that bound her slim waist was cloth-of-gold. The men-at-arms looked at her curiously; they had never encountered a Christian woman before.

"Ya, Omar," cried Rahim. "Allah hath favored us with victory."

Victory! It had a strange sound.

"This must be the slave of a Christian lord," continued Rahim gleefully. "I slew a dog of an infidel back there. Let us go into the tent——"

"Take care!" cried Yarmak suddenly.
"Y'allah!"

Down between the tents came a band of men on muddy sweating horses. They were clutching swords and axes and galloping as if tormented by devils, their faces drawn and bleak under round iron helmets. Christian riders.

Omar caught at his rein and turned his horse, just as the riders swept upon him. The horse swerved and reared, throwing him back.

Something struck his shoulder, and the clashing hoofs of a charger passed over his head. Dirt stung his eyes and mouth, and after he had rubbed his eyes clear, he realized that he was on the ground. Unsteadily he got to his feet.

One of the servants twisted upon the earth, as if struggling with an invisible enemy. Close by him, Yarmak bent over Rahim, who was trying to lift himself to his knees.

Omar ran to him and caught his arms. Rahim was smiling in a strange way.

"Art thou hurt, O my brother?" cried Omar. "How?"

His foster brother looked at him as if the words had no sense. Omar told Yarmak to bring a clean cloth. He let Rahim's wounded body gently down and began to raise the edge of the mail shirt to see the wound from which blood was running. It felt hot upon his hands, and a faint vapor rose from it into the damp air.

"O master," said Yarmak at his ear, "what would you do? Harken to the death rattle in his throat."

Standing up, Omar looked at his bloodied hands. The hot sunlight beat upon his hands and the trampled earth. Rahim's face was the color of clay, and he had ceased panting. Only that clacking sound came from his throat for a while and then ceased.

Then the servant Yarmak grunted like an animal and drew a curved knife from his girdle cloth. His lips twisted and he threw himself suddenly at the captive girl, who had stood motionless beside them during Rahim's death.

"Life for a life," Yarmak muttered, striking at the Christian.

She shrank away, the knife brushing her dress. Then she flung herself down before Omar, her hands clasping his legs, her body quivering. She made no sound, but her eyes stared up at him in agony.

"Fool!" Omar caught the servant's arm, and flung him away. Yarmak fell to the ground as if he had no strength in his limbs, and sobbed:
"Aiwallah aiwallah!"

Omar told the Roumi girl to go into the tent, but she did not understand his words. When he pointed to the tent, she went into it slowly, looking over her shoulder. With the other servants Omar carried Rahim's body in and laid it upon the carpet. Uncertainly he wiped at his hands with a cloth and then ordered them to bring clean water.