Samarkand

by Amin Maalouf

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction; Ancient; Religious & Inspirational; Literary Fiction; Alternative History sci-fi

Synopsis

A gripping historical novel set in 11th century Persia that imagines the life of poet and philosopher Omar Khayyam Accused of mocking the inviolate codes of Islam, the Persian poet and sage Omar Khayyam fortuitously finds sympathy with the very man who is to judge his alleged crimes. Recognising genius, the judge decides to spare him and gives him instead a small, blank book, encouraging him to confine his thoughts to it alone. Thus begins the seamless blend of fact and fiction that is Samarkand. Vividly re-creating the history of the manuscript of the Rubaiyaat of Omar Khayyam, Amin Maalouf spans continents and centuries with breathtaking vision: the dusky exoticism of 11th-century Persia, with its poetesses and assassins; the same country's struggles nine hundred years later, seen through the eyes of an American academic obsessed with finding the original manuscript; and the fated maiden voyage of the Titanic, whose tragedy led to the Rubaiyaat's final resting place - all are brought to life with keen assurance by this gifted and award-winning writer.

Release date: April 19, 2012

Publisher: Abacus

Print pages: 312

Sample

Sometimes in Samarkand, in the evening of a slow and dreary day, city dwellers would come to while the time away at the dead-end
Street of Two Taverns, near the pepper market. They came not to taste the musky wine of Soghdia but to watch the comings and
goings or to waylay a carouser who would then be forced down into the dust, showered with insults, and cursed into a hell
whose fire, until the end of all time, would recall the ruddiness of the wine’s enticements.


Out of such an incident the manuscript of the Rubaiyaat was to be born in the summer of 1072. Omar Khayyam was twenty-four and had recently arrived in Samarkand. Should he go to
the tavern that evening, or stroll around at leisure? He chose the sweet pleasure of surveying an unknown town accompanied
by the thousand sights of the waning day. In the Street of the Rhubarb Fields, a small boy bolted past, his bare feet padding
over the wide paving slabs as he clutched to his neck an apple he had stolen from a stall. In the Bazaar of the Haberdashers,
inside a raised stall, a group of backgammon players continued their dispute by the light of an oil lamp. Two dice went flying,
followed by a curse and then a stifled laugh. In the arcade of the Rope-Makers, a muleteer stopped near a fountain, let the
cool water run in the hollow formed by his two palms, then bent over, his lips pouting as if to kiss a sleeping child’s forehead. His thirst slaked, he ran his wet palms over his face and mumbled thanks to God. Then he fetched a hollowed-out
watermelon, filled it with water and carried it to his beast so that it too might have its turn to drink.


In the square of the market for cooked foods, Khayyam was accosted by a pregnant girl of about fifteen, whose veil was pushed
back. Without a word or a smile on her artless lips, she slipped from his hands a few of the toasted almonds which he had
just bought, but the stroller was not surprised. There is an ancient belief in Samarkand: when a mother-to-be comes across
a pleasing stranger in the street, she must venture to partake of his food so that the child will be just as handsome, and
have the same slender profile, the same noble and smooth features.


Omar was lingering, proudly munching the remaining almonds as he watched the unknown women move off, when a noise prompted
him to hurry on. Soon he was in the midst of an unruly crowd. An old man with long bony limbs was already on the ground. He
was bare-headed with a few white hairs scattered about his tanned skull. His shouts of rage and fright were no more than a
prolonged sob and his eyes implored the newcomer.


Around the unfortunate man there was a score of men sporting beards and brandishing vengeful clubs, and some distance away
another group thrilled to the spectacle. One of them, noticing Khayyam’s horrified expression called out reassuringly, ‘Don’t
worry. It’s only Jaber the Lanky!’ Omar flinched and a shudder of shame passed through him. ‘Jaber, the companion of Abu Ali!’
he muttered.


Abu Ali was one of the commonest names of all, but when a well-read man in Bukhara, Cordova, Balkh or Baghdad, pronounced
it with such a tone of familiar deference, there could be no confusion over whom they meant. It was Abu Ali Ibn Sina, renowned
in the Occident under the name of Avicenna. Omar had not met him, having been born eleven years after his death, but he revered
him as the undisputed master of the generation, the possessor of science, the Apostle of Reason.


Khayyam muttered anew, ‘Jaber, the favourite disciple of Abu Ali!’, for, even though he was seeing him for the first time,
he knew all about the pathetic and exemplary punishment which had been meted out to him. Avicenna had soon considered him as his successor
in the fields of medicine and metaphysics; he had admired the power of his argument and only rebuked him for expounding his
ideas in a manner which was slightly too haughty and blunt. This won Jaber several terms in prison and three public beatings,
the last having taken place in the Great Square of Samarkand when he was given one hundred and fifty lashes in front of all
his family. He never recovered from that humiliation. At what moment had he teetered over the edge into madness? Doubtless
upon the death of his wife. He could be seen staggering about in rags and tatters, yelling out and ranting irreverently. Hot
on his trail would follow packs of kids, clapping their hands and throwing sharp stones at him until he ended up in tears.


As he watched this scene, Omar could not help thinking, ‘If I am not careful, I could well end up a wretch like that.’ It
was not so much that he feared drunkenness for he and wine had learnt to respect each other, and the one would never lay the
other low. What he feared was the idea that the mob could break down his wall of respectability. He felt overly menaced by
the spectacle of this fallen man and wanted to distance himself from it. He knew however that he could not just abandon a
companion of Avicenna to the crowd. He took three solemn steps, and struck a detached pose as he spoke firmly and with regal
gesture.


‘Leave the poor man alone.’

The gang leader who had been bent over Jaber came and planted himself upright in front of the intruder. A deep scar ran across
his beard, from his right ear to the tip of his chin, and it was this puckered profile that he thrust towards Omar, as he
uttered in judgement, ‘This man is a drunkard, an infidel.’ Then he hissed out the last word like a curse, ‘a failasuf!’

‘We want no failasuf in Samarkand!’


A murmur of approval arose from the crowd. For these people, the term ‘philosopher’ denoted anything too closely associated
with the profane Greek sciences, and more generally anything which was neither religion nor literature. In spite of his tender
age, Omar Khayyam was already an eminent failasuf and as such a greater catch than poor Jaber.


The man with the scar had certainly not recognized him, since he turned back to Jaber who was still speechless. He grabbed
him by the hair, shook his head three or four times and made as if to smash it against the nearest wall, but then suddenly
released him. Although brutal, it was a gesture of restraint, as if the man while showing his determination hesitated to commit
a murder. Khayyam chose this moment to intervene again.


‘Leave the old man alone. He is a widower. He is sick – a lunatic. Can’t you see, he can hardly move his lips.’

The gang leader jumped up and came towards Khayyam, poking Khayyam’s beard.

‘You seem to know him quite well! Just who are you? You aren’t from Samarkand! No one has ever seen you in this city!’

Omar brushed aside the man’s hand haughtily but not abruptly enough to give him the excuse for a fight. The man took a step
back, but persisted, ‘What is your name, stranger?’


Khayyam hesitated to deliver himself into their hands. He tried to think of some ploy. He raised his eyes to the sky where
a light cloud had just obscured the crescent moon. He remained silent and then uttered a sigh. He longed to immerse himself
in contemplation, to enumerate the stars, to be far off, safe from crowds!


The gang had surrounded him and some hands were brushing against him. He came back to himself.

‘I am Omar, son of Ibrahim of Nishapur. And who are you?’

The question was for the sake of form only. The man had no intention of introducing himself. He was in his home town and he
was asking the questions. Later on Omar would learn his name. He was a student called Scar-Face. With a club in his hand and
a quotation on his lips, he was soon to make all Samarkand tremble but for the moment his influence only extended to the circle
of youths around him, who hung on his every word and gesture.


Suddenly his eyes lit up. He went back toward his disciples, and then turned towards the crowd triumphantly and shouted, ‘By
God, how did I not recognise Omar, son of Ibrahim Khayyam of Nishapur? Omar, the star of Khorassan, the genius of Persia and Mesopotamia, the prince of philosophers!’


As he mimed a deep bow, he fluttered his fingers on both sides of his turban and succeeded in drawing out the guffaws of the
onlookers, ‘How did I not recognize the man who composed such a pious and devotional rubai:

You have broken my jug of wine, Lord.

You have barred me from the path of pleasure, Lord.


You have spilt my ruby wine on the ground.

God forgive me, but perchance You are drunk, Lord.


Omar listened indignantly, but worried. This provocation could provide an excuse for murder on the spot. Without wasting a
second, he shot back his response in a loud, clear voice lest anyone in the crowd be fooled. ‘I do not recognize this quatrain.
Indeed this is first time I have ever heard it. But here is a rubai which I myself have composed:


They know nothing, neither do they desire to know.


Men with no knowledge who rule the world!

If you are not of them, they call you infidel

Ignore them, Khayyam, go your own way.


Omar really should not have accompanied the words ‘men with no knowledge’ with a scornful gesture toward his opponents. Hands
came at him, grabbing his robe which started to rip. He tottered, his back struck someone’s knee and then landed on a paving
stone. Crushed under the pack, he did not deign to fight his way out but was resigned to having his clothing ripped from him,
being torn limb from limb, and he had already abandoned himself to the numbness of a sacrificial victim. He could feel nothing,
hear nothing. He was closed in on himself and laid bare.


So much so, that he viewed as intruders the ten armed men who came to break up this sacrifice. On their felt hats they wore
the pale green insignia of the ahdath, the town militia of Samarkand. The moment they saw them, his assailants drew back from Khayyam, but to justify their conduct they started to shout, ‘Alchemist! Alchemist!’, calling upon the crowd as their witness.


In the eyes of the authorities being a philosopher was not a crime, but practising alchemy could mean death.

However, the chief of the patrol did not intend to enter into an argument.

“If this man is in fact an alchemist,’ he pronounced, ‘then he must be taken before the chief qadi Abu Taher.’


As Jaber the Lanky, forgotten by all, crawled toward the nearest tavern, and inched his way inside resolving never to step
foot outdoors again, Omar managed to raise himself up without anyone’s help. He walked straight ahead, in silence. His disdainful
mien covered his tattered clothing and bloodied face like a veil of modesty. In front of him, the militiamen bearing torches
forged ahead. To the rear followed his attackers, and behind them the group of gawkers.


Omar did not see or hear them. To him the streets were deserted, the country was silent, the sky was cloudless, and Samarkand
was still the place of dreams which he had discovered a few years earlier.


He had arrived there after a journey of three weeks and, without taking the least rest, had decided to follow closely the
advice of voyagers of times long past. Go up, they had suggested, onto the terrace of Kuhandiz. Take a good look around and
you will see only water and greenery, beds in flower, cyprus trees pruned by the cleverest gardeners to look like bulls, elephants,
sturdy camels or fighting panthers which appear about to leap. Indeed, even inside the wall, from the gate of the Monastery,
to the West and up to the China Gate, Omar had never seen such dense orchards and sparkling brooks. Then, here and there,
a brick minaret shot up with a dome chiselled by shadow, the whiteness of a belvedere wall, and, at the edge of a lake which
brooded beneath its weeping willows, a naked swimmer spreading out her hair to the burning wind.


Is it not this vision of paradise that the anonymous painter wanted to evoke, when, much later, he attempted to illustrate
the manuscript of the Rubaiyaat? Is it not this which Omar had in mind as he was being led away towards the quarter of Asfizar where Abu Taher, chief qadi of Samarkand, lived? He was repeating to himself, over and over, ‘I will not hate this city. Even if my swimming girl is
just a mirage. Even if the reality should be cold and ugly. Even if this cool night should be my last.’


In the qadi’s huge diwan the distant chandeliers gave Khayyam an ivory hue. As he entered two middle-aged guards pinned him by the shoulders as if
he was a violent madman – and in this posture he waited by the door.


Seated at the other end of the room, the qadi had not noticed him as he gave out a ruling on some affair and carried on a discussion with the plaintiffs, reasoning with
the one and reprimanding the other. It seemed to be an old quarrel amongst neighbours, consisting of tired old gripes and
pettifoggery. Abu Taher ended by loudly showing his weariness, ordering the two heads of family to embrace, there and then
in front of him, as if they had never quarrelled. One of the two took a step forward but the other, a giant with a narrow
forehead, objected. The qadi gave him a mighty slap on the face at which the onlookers trembled. The giant cast a quick look at this chubby, angry and
frisky man who had had to hoist himself up to reach him, then he lowered his head, wiped his cheek and complied.


Having dismissed this group, Abu Taher signalled to his militiamen to approach. They reeled off their report and replied to
questions, having to explain how they had allowed such a crowd to gather in the streets. Then it was the turn of Scar-Face
to give his explanation. He leant toward the qadi who seemed to have known him a long time, and started off on an animated monologue. Abu Taher listened closely without revealing his own feelings. Then, having taken a few moments to think it over, he gave an order,
‘Tell the crowd to disperse. Let every man go home by the shortest route and,’ addressing the attackers, ‘you all go home
too. Nothing will be decided before tomorrow. The defendant will stay here overnight and he will be guarded by my men, and
none other.’


Surprised by being asked so speedily to disappear, Scar-Face made a feeble protest but then thought the better of it. He wisely
picked up the tail of his robe and retreated with a bow.


When he was alone with Omar, the only witnesses being his own confidants, Abu Taher pronounced a mysterious phrase of welcome,
‘It is an honour to receive the famous Omar Khayyam of Nishapur.’


He revealed not the slightest hint of emotion. He was neither sarcastic nor warm. His tone was neutral, his voice flat. He
was wearing a tulip-shaped turban, had bushy eyebrows and a grey beard without moustache, and was giving Khayyam a long piercing
gaze.


The welcome was the more puzzling since for an hour Omar had been standing there in tatters, for all to see and laugh at.

After several skilfully calculated moments of silence, Abu Taher added, ‘Omar, you are not unknown in Samarkand. In spite
of your tender years, your knowledge has already become legendary, and your talents are talked about in the schools. Is it
not true that in Isfahan you read seven times a weighty work by Ibn Sina, and that upon your return to Nishapur you reproduced
it verbatim from memory?’


Khayyam was flattered that this authentic exploit was known in Transoxania, but his worries had not yet been quelled. The
reference to Avicenna from the mouth of a qadi of the Shafi rite was not reassuring, and besides, he had not yet been invited to sit down. Abu Taher continued, ‘It is not
just your exploits which are passed from mouth to mouth, but some very curious quatrains have been attributed to you.’


The sentence was dispassionate. He was not accusing but he was hardly acquitting him – rather he was only questioning him
indirectly. Omar ventured to break the silence. ‘The rubai which Scar-Face quoted was not one of mine.’


The qadi dismissed the protest with a gesture of impatience, and for the first time his voice took on a severe tone. ‘It matters little
whether you have written this or that verse. I have had reports of verses of such profanity that I would feel as guilty quoting
them as the man who spread them about. I am not trying inflict any punishment upon you. These accusations of alchemy cannot
just go in one ear and out of the other. We are alone. We are two men of erudition and I simply wish to know the truth.’


Omar was not at all reassured. He sensed a trap and hesitated to reply. He could see himself being handed over to the executioner
for maiming, emasculation or crucifixion. Abu Taher raised his voice and almost shouted, ‘Omar, son of Ibrahim, tent-maker
from Nishapur, can you not recognize a friend?’


The tone of sincerity in this phrase stunned Khayyam. ‘Recognize a friend?’ He gave serious thought to the subject, contemplated
the qadi’s face, noted the way he was grinning and how his beard quivered. Slowly he let himself be won over. His features loosened
and relaxed. He disengaged himself from his guards who, upon a sign from the qadi, stopped restraining him. Then he sat down without having been invited. The qadi smiled in a friendly manner but took up his questioning without respite. ‘Are you the infidel some people claim you to be?’


It was more than a question. It was a cry of distress that Omar did not overlook. ‘I despise the zeal of the devout, but I
have never said that the One was two.’


‘Have you ever thought so?’

‘Never, as God is my witness.’

‘As far as I am concerned that suffices, and I believe it will for the Creator also. But not for the masses. They watch your
words, your smallest gestures – mine too, as well as those of princes. You have been heard to say, “I sometimes go to mosques
where the shade is good for a snooze.”’


‘Only a man at peace with his Creator could find sleep in a place of worship.’

In spite of the qadi’s doubting scowl, Omar became impassioned and continued, ‘I am not one of those for whom faith is simply fear of judgement.
How do I pray? I study a rose, I count the stars, I marvel at the beauty of creation and how perfectly ordered it is, at man, the most beautiful work of the Creator, his brain
thirsting for knowledge, his heart for love, and his senses, all his senses alert or gratified.’


The qadi stood up with a thoughtful look in his eyes and went over to sit next to Khayyam, placing a paternal hand on his shoulder.
The guards exchanged dumbfounded glances.


‘Listen, my young friend. The Almighty has granted you the most valuable things that a son of Adam can have – intelligence,
eloquence, health, beauty, the desire for knowledge and a lust for life, the admiration of men and, I suspect, the sighs of
women. I hope that He has not deprived you of the wisdom of silence, without which all of the foregoing can neither be appreciated
nor preserved.’


‘Do, I have to wait until I am an old man in order to express what I think?’

‘Before you can express everything you think, your children’s grandchildren will be old. We live in the age of the secret
and of fear. You must have two faces. Show one to the crowd, and keep the other for yourself and your Creator. If you want
to keep your eyes, your ears and your tongue, forget that you have them.’


The qadi suddenly fell silent, but not to let Omar speak, rather to give greater effect to his admonition. Omar kept his gaze down
and waited for the qadi to pluck more thoughts from his head.


Abu Taher, however, took a deep breath and gave a crisp order to his men to leave. As soon as they had shut the door behind
them, he made his way towards a corner of the diwan, lifted up a piece of tapestry, and opened a damask box. He took out a book which he offered to Omar with a formality softened
by a paternal smile.


Now that book was the very one which I, Benjamin O. Lesage, would one day hold in my own hands. I suppose it felt just the
same with its rough, thick leather with markings which looked like a peacock-tail and the edges of its pages irregular and
frayed. When Khayyam opened it on that unforgettable summer night, he could see only two hundred and fifty-six blank pages
which were not yet covered with poems, pictures, margin commentaries or illuminations.


To disguise his emotions, Abu Taher spoke with the tones of a salesman.


‘It’s made of Chinese kaghez, the best paper ever produced by the workshops of Samarkand. A Jew from the Maturid district made it to order according to
an ancient recipe. It is made entirely from mulberry. Feel it. It has the same qualities as silk.’


He cleared his throat before going on.

‘I had a brother, ten years older than I. He died when he was as old as you. He had been banished to Balkh for having written
a poem which displeased the ruler of the time. He was accused of formenting heresy. I don’t know if that was true, but I resent
my brother for having wasted his life on a poem, a miserable poem hardly longer than a rubai.’

His voice shook, and he went on breathlessly.

‘Keep this book. Whenever a verse takes shape in your mind, or is on the tip of your tongue, just hold it back. Write it down
on these sheets which will stay hidden, and as you write, think of Abu Taher.’


Did the qadi know that with that gesture and those words he was giving birth to one of the best-kept secrets in the history of literature,
and that the world would have to wait eight centuries to discover the sublime poetry of Omar Khayyam, for the Rubaiyaat to be revered as one of the most original works of all time even before the strange fate of the Samarkand manuscript was
known?


That night, Omar tried in vain to catch some sleep in a belvedere, a wooden pavilion on a bare hillock in the middle of Abu
Taher’s huge garden. Near him on a low table lay a quill and ink-pot, an unlit lamp and his book – open at the first page
which was still blank.


At first light there was an apparition. A beautiful slave-girl brought him a plate of sliced melon, a new outfit and a winding-scarf
of Zandan silk for his turban. She whispered a message to him.


‘The master will await you after the morning prayer.’

The room was already packed with plaintiffs, beggars, courtiers, friends and visitors of all sorts, and amongst them was Scar-Face
who had doubtless come for news. As soon as Omar stepped through the door the qadi’s voice steered everyone’s gaze and comment to him.


‘Welcome to Imam Omar Khayyam, the man without equal in knowledge of the traditions of the Prophet, a reference that none
can contest, a voice that none can contradict.’


One after another, the visitors arose, bowed and muttered a phrase before sitting down again. Out of the corner of his eye,
Omar watched Scar-Face who seemed very subdued in his corner, but still had a timid smirk on his face.


In the most formal manner, Abu Taher bid Omar take his place at his right, making a great show of dismissing those near him.
He then continued, ‘Our eminent visitor had a mishap yesterday evening. This man who is honoured in Khorassan, Fars and Mazandaran,
this man whom every city wishes to receive within its walls and whom every prince hopes to attract to his court, this man
was molested yesterday in the streets of Samarkand.’


Expressions of shock could be heard, followed by a commotion which the qadi allowed to grow a little before signalling for quiet and continuing.


‘Worse still, there was almost a riot in the bazaar. A riot on the eve of the visit of our revered sovereign, Nasr Khan, the
Sun of Royalty, who is to arrive this very morning from Bukhara, God willing! I dare not imagine what distress we would be
in today if the crowd had not been contained and dispersed. I tell you that heads would not be resting easy on shoulders!’


He stopped to get his breath, to drive his point home and let fear work its way into the audience’s hearts.

‘Happily one of my old students, who is with us here, recognized our eminent visitor and came to warn me.’

He pointed a finger towards Scar-Face and invited him to rise.

‘How did you recognize Imam Omar?’

He muttered a few syllables in answer.

‘Louder! Our old uncle here cannot hear you!’ shouted the qadi, indicating an ancient man with a white beard to his left.


‘I recognized the eminent visitor by his eloquence,’ Scar-Face could hardly get the words out. ‘and I asked him who he was
before bringing him to our qadi.’

‘You did well. Had the riot continued, there might have been blood-shed. You deserve to come and sit next to our guest.’

As Scar-Face was approaching with an air of false submission, Abu Taher whispered in Omar’s ear, ‘He may not be your friend,
but he will not dare to lay into you in public.’


He continued in a loud voice, ‘Can I hope that in spite of everything that he has been through, Khawaja Omar will not have too bad a memory of Samarkand?’


‘I have already forgotten whatever happened yesterday evening,’ replied Khayyam. ‘In the future, when I think of this city, a completely different image will spring to mind, the image of
a wonderful man. I am not speaking of Abu Taher. The highest praise one can give to a qadi is not to extol his qualities but the honesty of those for whom he has responsibility. As it happens, on the day I arrived
my mule had struggled up the last slope leading to the Kish Gate, and I myself had hardly put my feet on the ground when a
man accosted me.


‘“Welcome to this town,” he said. ‘Do you have family, or friends here?”

‘I replied that I did not, without stopping, fearing that he might be some sort of crook, or at the very least a beggar or
irksome. But the man went on:


‘“Do not be mistrustful of my insistence, noble visitor. It is my master who has ordered to wait here and offer his hospitality
to all travellers who turn up.”


The man seemed to be of a modest background, but he was dressed in clean clothes and not unaware of the manners of respectable
people. I followed him. A few steps on, he had me enter a heavy door and I crossed a vaulted corridor to find myself in the
courtyard of a caravansary with a well in the centre and men and animals bustling all about. Around the edges, on two floors,
there were rooms for travellers. The man said, “You can stay here as long as you wish, be it one night or the whole season.
You will find a bed and food and fodder for your mule.”


‘When I asked him how much I had to pay, he was offended.

‘“You are my master’s guest.”

‘“Tell me where my generous host is, so that I can address my thanks to him.”

‘“My master died seven years ago, leaving me a sum of money which I must spend to honour visitors to Samarkand.”

‘“What was your master’s name, so that I can tell of his acts of kindness?”

‘“You should give thanks to the Almighty alone. He knows whose acts of kindness are being carried out in His name.”

‘That is how it came about that I stayed with this man for several days. I went out and about, and whenever I came back I
found plates piled high with delicious dishes and my horse was better cared for than if I myself had been looking after him.’


Omar glanced at this audience, looking for some reaction, but his story had not caused any looks of surprise or mystery. The
qadi, guessing Omar’s confusion, explained.


‘Many cities like to think that they are the most hospitable in all the lands of Islam, but only the inhabitants of Samarkand
deserve the credit. As far as I know, no traveller has ever had to pay for his lodgings or food. I know whole families who
have been ruined honouring visitors or the needy, but you will never hear them boast of it. The fountains you have seen on
every street corner, filled with sweet water to slake the thirst of passers-by of which there are more than two thousand in
this city made of tile, copper or. . .