wearing his beard lower than usual. His face was furrowed and his searing eyes were ready
to meet those of Nizam, although they were red with fatigue and lack of sleep. Behind him a secretary carried a bundle of
papers tied up with a wide band of Cordovan.
As a privilege that comes with age, the Grand Vizir was seated, or more correctly slumped, in a chair. His robe was grey,
his beard flecked with white and his forehead wizened. Only his glance was young and alert, one might even say sparkling.
Two of his sons accompanied him, flashing looks of hatred or defiance.
Right next to the Sultan was Omar, as dour as he was overwhelmed. He was drawing up in his mind various conciliatory words
which he would doubtless not have occasion to utter.
‘Today is the day that we were promised a detailed report on the state of our Treasury. Is it ready?’ asked Malikshah.
Hassan leaned over.
‘My promise has been kept. Here is the report.’
He turned towards his secretary who came forward to meet him and carefully untied the leather band holding together the pile
of papers. Sabbah started to read them out. The first pages were, as custom would have it, expressions of thanks, pious discourses,
eruditequotations and well-turned eloquent pages, but the audience was waiting for more. Then it came:
‘I have been able to calculate precisely,’ he declared,’ what the tax office of every province and known town has sent in
to the royal Treasury. In the same way, I have evaluated the booty won from the enemy and I now know how this gold has been
spent …’
With great ceremony, he cleared his throat, handed to his secretary the page he had just read, and fixed his eyes on the next
one. His lips opened a little and then shut tight. Silence fell again. He threw aside the leaf of paper and then set that
one aside with a furious gesture. There was still silence.
The Sultan was becoming a little anxious and impatient:
‘What is going on? We are listening to you.’
‘Master, I cannot find the continuation. I had arranged my papers in order. The sheet I am looking for must have fallen out.
I shall find it.’
He leafed through them again, rather pathetically. Nizam made the most of the situation by intervening, in a tone which tried
to sound magnanimous:
‘Anyone can lose a piece of paper. We should not hold that against our young friend. Instead of waiting around, I propose
that we go on with the rest of the report.’
‘You are right,
ata
, let us go on with the report.’
Everyone noticed that the Sultan had called his Vizir ‘father’ anew. Did this mean that he was back in favour? While Hassan
was still caught up in the most pathetic state of confusion, the Vizir pushed his advantage:
‘Let us forget this lost page. Instead of making the Sultan wait, I suggest that our brother Hassan presents to us the figures
on some important cities or provinces.’
The Sultan was eager to agree. Nizam carried on:
‘Let us take the city of Nishapur, for example, the birthplace of Omar Khayyam, who is here with us. Could we be informed
how much that city and its province have contributed to the Treasury?’
‘Immediately,’ responded Hassan, who had been trying to land on his feet.
He had ploughed expertly through his pile of papers, trying toextract page thirty-four where he had written everything about Nishapur, but it was in vain.
‘The page is not there,’ he said. ‘It has disappeared, I have been robbed of it … Someone has messed up my papers …’
Nizam stood up. He went up to Malikshah and whispered in his ear: ‘If our master cannot have confidence in his most competent
servants who are aware of the difficulty of projects and can tell the difference between the possible and the impossible,
there will be no end to his being thus insulted, held up to ridicule, and fair game for the ignorant, the foolish and charlatans.’
Malikshah did not doubt for a moment that Hassan had
to meet those of Nizam, although they were red with fatigue and lack of sleep. Behind him a secretary carried a bundle of
papers tied up with a wide band of Cordovan.
As a privilege that comes with age, the Grand Vizir was seated, or more correctly slumped, in a chair. His robe was grey,
his beard flecked with white and his forehead wizened. Only his glance was young and alert, one might even say sparkling.
Two of his sons accompanied him, flashing looks of hatred or defiance.
Right next to the Sultan was Omar, as dour as he was overwhelmed. He was drawing up in his mind various conciliatory words
which he would doubtless not have occasion to utter.
‘Today is the day that we were promised a detailed report on the state of our Treasury. Is it ready?’ asked Malikshah.
Hassan leaned over.
‘My promise has been kept. Here is the report.’
He turned towards his secretary who came forward to meet him and carefully untied the leather band holding together the pile
of papers. Sabbah started to read them out. The first pages were, as custom would have it, expressions of thanks, pious discourses,
eruditequotations and well-turned eloquent pages, but the audience was waiting for more. Then it came:
‘I have been able to calculate precisely,’ he declared,’ what the tax office of every province and known town has sent in
to the royal Treasury. In the same way, I have evaluated the booty won from the enemy and I now know how this gold has been
spent …’
With great ceremony, he cleared his throat, handed to his secretary the page he had just read, and fixed his eyes on the next
one. His lips opened a little and then shut tight. Silence fell again. He threw aside the leaf of paper and then set that
one aside with a furious gesture. There was still silence.
The Sultan was becoming a little anxious and impatient:
‘What is going on? We are listening to you.’
‘Master, I cannot find the continuation. I had arranged my papers in order. The sheet I am looking for must have fallen out.
I shall find it.’
He leafed through them again, rather pathetically. Nizam made the most of the situation by intervening, in a tone which tried
to sound magnanimous:
‘Anyone can lose a piece of paper. We should not hold that against our young friend. Instead of waiting around, I propose
that we go on with the rest of the report.’
‘You are right,
ata
, let us go on with the report.’
Everyone noticed that the Sultan had called his Vizir ‘father’ anew. Did this mean that he was back in favour? While Hassan
was still caught up in the most pathetic state of confusion, the Vizir pushed his advantage:
‘Let us forget this lost page. Instead of making the Sultan wait, I suggest that our brother Hassan presents to us the figures
on some important cities or provinces.’
The Sultan was eager to agree. Nizam carried on:
‘Let us take the city of Nishapur, for example, the birthplace of Omar Khayyam, who is here with us. Could we be informed
how much that city and its province have contributed to the Treasury?’
‘Immediately,’ responded Hassan, who had been trying to land on his feet.
He had ploughed expertly through his pile of papers, trying toextract page thirty-four where he had written everything about Nishapur, but it was in vain.
‘The page is not there,’ he said. ‘It has disappeared, I have been robbed of it … Someone has messed up my papers …’
Nizam stood up. He went up to Malikshah and whispered in his ear: ‘If our master cannot have confidence in his most competent
servants who are aware of the difficulty of projects and can tell the difference between the possible and the impossible,
there will be no end to his being thus insulted, held up to ridicule, and fair game for the ignorant, the foolish and charlatans.’
Malikshah did not doubt for a moment that Hassan had
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