I have started writing a novel set in 12th century Persia, Egypt and Syria, about a sect of so-called Assassins who used political murder as their main means of asserting their power over the middle-east. I need some help from you, O smart escapists, to give me some critique on this first part. It's about 4000 words long. Be as harsh as you want, but please be constructive. I don't want any "ZOMG THIS SUX" even if it is true. I'm only looking to develop as a writer.
The sect (Hashshashin) actually existed. Nevertheless, the novel only loosely follows historical facts, and doesn't aim to be a novelized history lesson. Keep this in mind.
Before anyone says anything, I started writing this before Assassin's Creed came out. For all I know Ubisoft copied my novel (or rather, my historical sources).
Apologies to anyone who was mildly interested in the story for this sudden cut-to-black moment. That's as far as I've revised. I've written about 1000 more words, but they are due for revision tomorrow.
The sect (Hashshashin) actually existed. Nevertheless, the novel only loosely follows historical facts, and doesn't aim to be a novelized history lesson. Keep this in mind.
Before anyone says anything, I started writing this before Assassin's Creed came out. For all I know Ubisoft copied my novel (or rather, my historical sources).
Outside Alamut, 1102
The scorching heat made Mansur feel more restless than he already was. He looked over his shoulder to see the grand fortress of Alamut, ?The Eagle?s Nest? looming over him like an ill omen. To his front, a man wearing a simple white tunic tied with a red sash, and a matching red turbant was riding a much healthier horse than he was. Mansur felt insignificant riding behind such a powerful figure.
For in front of him was Hassan bin Sabbah, leader of the discreet Assassin sect, the Hashshashin. Mansur had gone to meet with Hassan, and had managed to have a word with him after waiting for hours. When he had finished reading the letter for Hassan, he was taken outside, invited to go for ?a stroll? with him. Hassan?s horse was white, clad in shining armour, while Mansur?s seemed to be on the verge of collapsing under its own weight. He did not know the reason for this strange formality, but knew that there was reason enough for him to be worried for his life. Since Hassan, son of Sabbah, sheikh of the mountains and leader of the feared Hashshashins, was a man who in his life had managed to achieve greatness, and whose name, whispered in markets and alleys, inspired fear throughout all of Persia.
Mansur feared for his life, as he knew the sinister reputation of his host. Hassan, however, had a different goal in mind. After a few moments of tense silence, the lord of the fortress addressed his guest:
?Do you see that sentinel standing atop that tower?? The sentinel, one of the fierce warriors who had helped lay the foundations to the power of the sect, was an unmovable silhouette against the clear skies of Alamut, always keeping watch, never feeling tired, or hungry, or thirsty. Hassan whistled to call his attention. The sentinel raised his arm to acknowledge having heard Hassan, who then made a stern gesture with his hand. Inmediately after, the sentinel dropped his spear, saluted Hassan and without hesitation took a plunge into the deep abyss that extended below his feet, to be devoured by the rocks that lay at the bottom. As he fell, a loud crack of bones broken made Mansur realise what had just happened. Hassan gave his slackjawed guest a few moments to come to his senses to take in what he had just seen, then finally said:
?I have seventy-thousand men and women all across Asia, and each one of them is willing to do for me what you have just seen. Can your master, Malik Sha, say the same of his men? And he dares demand me that I bow to him! This is my reply: be gone!?
Mansur needed no further explanation. He quickly reared his horse and then made for the fortress, where he was to be lodged for one more day before setting off to tell the Sha of this news.
Businessman, wiseman, heretic, mysticist, assassin, ascetic, zealous and a revolutionary, this very polyfacetic character was born in Persia around 1138 to a wealthy family of Yemeni origins. As a child, the man who would, years later, be considered Allah?s incarnation on earth, was a dilligent student of Theology, and a zealous Taliban. His family?s financial position allowed him to enjoy a very privileged education, having been classmates to Nizam al Mulk (who would later become the Persian Sha?s Vizir) and Omar Jayyam, a great poet, astronomer and mathematician.
In his youth Hassan travelled to Egypt, where he remained for about one year and half of the next. There he had embraced the shiite doctrine. He came to question the Islamic dogma and understood that the world is transformed through actions, reaching the conclusion that beliefs are useless distractions used to enslave the masses. Without leaving his religious fervor aside, young Hassan became a pragmatic man who believed much more strongly in the strength of actions than in the strength of prayer, a belief which he would later use as a cornerstone for the structuring of the organization of his followers.
Besides what he learned in the Shiite schools, his stay in Egypt turned out to be quite eventful. Hassan was forced to abandon the region suddenly due to his participation in the controversy caused by the succession of the late Caliph. Hassan was incarcerated for supporting Nizar, one of the aspiring Caliphs, and would have remained in jail for life if it hadn?t been for luck. Because you see, luck was one of Hassan bin Sabbah?s most admired traits, and it followed him throughout life as surely as his shadow. Luck, in this case, had the jail cell?s wall collapse, allowing Hassan to retreat safely back to his native Persia.
During his journey he had time to develop what would be the greatest project of his life. To complete it, he would need a place that was safe and out of the way where he could carry out his plans without being bothered. Hassan ended up finding a fortress that was isolated at the highest point of the Qazvin mountains. This castle, called Alamut, was the ideal stronghold for the new sect that Hassan was about to found: the Nizari Ismaili, who would later be known as the Hashshashin, or Hashshishin. Aside from that, Alamut was located in a strategically convenient spot, which would allow Hassan to spread his Ismaili sect all over Persia.
How could one man take a fortress by himself? Hassan secured property of Alamut by use of subtlety and deception. His education allowed him to trick the lord of the Alamut through use of a technique which can be found in Odyssey, by Ulysses. Hassan came to an agreement with the lord of the castle, which stated that he would sell Hassan a piece of land in the fortress that could be covered entirely by the hide of a cow. The owner agreed, believing that the young stranger would set up a small shop in the market, not realising the cunning of Hassan. The young Hassan went on to divide the cow?s hide in many extremely thin lines, with which he put together a string with which he could encompass the entire fortress. Logically, the Lord protested against this, but Hassan?s followers persuaded him to fulfill his part of the agreement.
This is where this story begins. It is a tale of deceipt, treason, murder, poison, backstabs and violence. Hassan?s story is not one to be told lightly, of that I am sure. Listen carefully, stranger.
Damascus?s Market District, 1092
?No, no, no! Pay me now! I don?t know you!?Asif shouted angrily.
?Please, sir, my children are starving!? the beggar woman replied, with what looked to be a tear in her eye.
?If they starve it is because you are a fool!?
?Selaheddîn is the fool! If it weren?t for him, I would still work at the palace in Jerusalem! It is because of him that there is so much poverty!? This made Asif angry, as he was a devoted follower of Selaheddîn, or Saladin as he was known by Europeans. He stepped out of his store and without hesitation, punched the woman in the stomach. All passersbyes stopped to look at the pitiful image of the famelic woman curled up on the ground, crying and moaning and cursing, while Asif stood silently, watching her face closely as the tears trickled down her skinny cheeks, and the blood that she had coughed.. Some of the onlookers started to shout and curse at Asif, who stood arrogantly. The crowd started inching away towards him, with a look of murder in their eyes. In this district, merchants were stereotyped as greedy, heartless evils who must be consorted with regardless, since they held most of the food in the city. Asif, seeing the clear and present danger that this crowd posed, climbed on top of his stall and bellowed:
?People of Damascus!? The crowd stopped moving, and after a few seconds had passed, their shouting became an incessant muttering. Asif continued ?I have done what you have seen because this heretic was a traitor! One who would call Selaheddîn a fool! A fool! After all that he?s done for us! Selaheddîn is a military genius, a political force and an economical vissionary!? The crowd was now quiet, listening intently. ?He has foreseen victory against the Christians! He shall erradicate the Lionheart?s threat quickly and efficiently! We will live in peace!? Now the crowd was roaring in excitement. ?We will not fear the Christians nor their king! We shall rule supreme over Persia once more! You, who would call me a man of greed, what say you now??
Asif, despite being a terrible person and a greedy, lusty, selfish drunk, was a skilled public speaker, and Selaheddîn himself had requested his services more than once. His eyes wandered while the crowd dispersed like raindrops on a spherical surface. This was good business. Each and every one of those people would tell their acquaintances about his speech without mentioning the poor woman, which would lead to said acquaintances visiting his shop, which would mean he would be able to sell more, at a higher price. Good business indeed.
He climbed down from the top of his stall and took a fleeting glance at the woman. He looked again and saw that she was not there anymore. A trail of blood heading north had replaced her. It was not exactly a trail of blood. Instead, it resembled the scattered grease stains on a cook?s apron, which Asif thought was logical, since the woman wasn?t bleeding out, in its stead coughing blood.
Alamut, near the entrance.
Sohayla looked at herself in her little pocket mirror. The years were starting to show. Her deep black eyes were now surrounded by tiny wrinkles which curled and curved around them, as if trying to avoid touching them. Her lips, once pout and fleshy had begun to grow thin. The slightest movement of her eyes would cause lines to start appearing on her forehead. Her cheekbones were more prominent than ever, and she thought this disgusting, since it reminded her of her deceased mother, whose cheekbones, at the age of fifty, were practically identical to Sohayla?s. She hated to think of it that way, although her mother had always been a very beautiful woman. Sohayla gazed at the stars as she sat on the cool stone bench, waiting for her client. After the changing of the guard, he was to wait one minute and then come out of his hiding place to see her. Of course, Islam stated very clearly that Sohayla's line of work was heretical, and this was a point that made many people reluctant to hire her, but contrary to what many may think, not all Muslims are zealous followers of the religion.
She was feeling impatient, fiddling with her sash which was tied around only once, instead of the usual three or four times, the reason for this being that, being a woman who spent so much time out of her clothes, she shouldn?t have to waste any more time than necessary getting dressed. In the distance, past the impenetrable night, a bell sounded once, twice. This meant that the time for the changing of the guard was at hand. Sohayla stood up and paced about the alley she had been sitting in impatiently, now fiddling with her necklace. A little sooner than expected, she heard footsteps to her right, and there the silhouette of her client presented itself. He stepped forward, so that now she could see his face. He was a burly man of about forty, wearing a simple white turbant and sporting a well-groomed white beard. Sohayla grabbed his hand and led him to another alley, well away from the guardsmen.
Hassan?s Library, Alamut
The library was where Hassan bin Sabbah conducted most of his business. It was a quiet place overlooking all of Alamut except for the small garden behind the castle proper. The morning light poured in through the windows and was reflected in the stonework, giving the chamber a surreal feeling. On the shelves, books were ordered by some sort of criteria unknown to everyone but Hassan, who was able to find any book one requested in a matter of seconds. A rather impressive feat, considering that his collection reached into the thousands. A stone archway led out of the library and into a corridor with two doors: one visible one leading to the main hall, and the other one, disguised by the wall, to Hassan?s Quarters. Even if one knew the location of the door, only Hassan held the key to open it.
As Hassan opened his door quietly and headed for the library, he noticed the shadow of a person coming from the library, his shadow made larger by the morning sun. Hassan drew his dagger, and crept quietly accross the marble floor. The man was looking out the window, his body silhouetted against the glass.
Despite having reached his fifties, Hassan bin Sabbah was by no means weak. The man was as strong as an ox and as untirable as the finest Arabian mare. Some attributed this strength to him being a descendant of the Prophet, which was not true. Hassan claimed his faith made him stronger, and that others should follow in his wake.
Who was this man? Why had he dared enter the library, knowing that it was well out of bounds? What was he looking for? There were many treasures in the library, but none which would concern any of Hassan?s, or to that matter, the sect?s enemies. Thinking this, Hassan decided at the last moment to spare this man?s life, and perhaps manage to retrieve some information. With his dagger hidden in his sleeve, being held by his middle and ring fingers, he calmly said:
?Intruder!?
The man turned around with a smile on his face. Hassan couldn?t feel any more embarrassed: it was Jalal, his right-hand man. He was a man with a tongue sharper than the finest blade, and the cunning and wit to match. Early in his life he had received an education not much different from Hassan?s. It had taken work to convert him, but it had been all worth the effort, since Hassan couldn?t ask for a finer advisor than Jalal.
?Tell me, dear friend, Hassan, why would you raise your sword against me??
?I apologise, friend. I?ve been very alert lately. There are rumours of an attack on Alamut.? This seemed to pique Jalal?s interest.
?Go on.?
?That?s all I know, I?m afraid. There are whispers in the markets.?
?There are always whispers in the markets, Hassan. I, however seem to be a little more knowledgeable on this subject than said whispers. For, you see, I know of this attack.Actually, it would be wrong to say I know anything about it, as it isn?t true..?
?Not true? Explain.?
?What is there to explain? Whispers are whispers. They go from ear to ear in the market. Factor in the following: the noise of the markets, the incapacity of poeple to retale stories truthfully, and their tendency to edify on said stories, making them seem grander and more dangerous. Every time this tale is told, it becomes more exaggerated, more full of false grandeur. What might have begun as mere gossip about, say, a woman throwing oil at a rival?s clothes, may have escalated into a tall tale about the Sultans of Egypt, Persia and Syria attacking Alamut.
Alamut?s Market District
Sohayla paced carefully, her face hidden by a linen scarf wrapped around her head. Her eyes darted from one stall to the next, deciding with her eyes which of them had the best fruit in the fortress. Eventually, she decided upon a relatively young man with a moustache that was far too large for her taste. She grabbed her little pocket mirror and raised it up so that it reflected the light of the bright Persian sun. With it, she signaled to her accomplice, perched on the rooftops. He discreetly moved his hand in acknowledgment, and Sohayla repeated the gesture. She watched fascinated as he walked due east, then gracefully jumped from one rooftop to the next. His white tunic and red sash trailed behind him in a way that she thought was incredibly beautiful. After making two more jumps, he took his position, perched like an eagle on a long plank of wood meant for hanging wet clothes. From under his sleeve he produced a small knife, not sharp enough to kill someone but still capable of piercing wood and more tender flesh. Directly below him stood the stall Sohayla had signaled for him to go to.
With apprehension, Sohayla scurried through the marketgoers and stood next to the stall. Now, she waited. She rolled her eyes up to see Ismail hanging above the stall with his knife. Suddenly he flung it downward in a powerful yet graceful swing. The knife ripped the cloth covering the stall and destroyed what Sohayle considered to be quite an amount of onions, causing a very noticeable sound. The merchant turned his head to see the source of the noise, and hunched over his bag of onions. This was Sohayla?s cue. She quickly grabbed some apples and wrapped them with her clothes, after which point she calmly walked away. Unseen, unheard.
Ismail?s escape, on the other hand, wasn?t quite as uneventful. After having thrown the knife, he had headed back for the rooftops and started running. After a minute or so, he slowed down his pace only to be greeted by an arrow landing mere centimeters from his feet. He looked over his shoulder and saw three soldiers running towards him. He made a dash for the next rooftop, which belonged to an abandoned house that he, as well as other Hashshashin had used as a hideout before. Upon landing on the roof, he looked for the mark. To his surprise, it wasn?t there, but luckily he remembered where it was supposed to be. He headed to that place, turned to face his pursuers and jumped. To the soldiers, he looked like he had fallen to his death, but Ismail knew better. After falling, he was to grab onto a ledge and come into the house through a window. Having accomplished this, he only had to wait.
Sohayla?s house, Alamut
As she entered her house, she took off her linen scarf and set the apples on her rickety table. Two of them looked good, but one was rotten and gave off a smell that reminded her of some of her less hygienic clients.
She was startled by knocking on her door. She had no friends and no family, and the only person who ever came to visit her lately was Ismail, whom she had met perhaps a week earlier. She hid the apples in a flower vase and opened the door. At first, glancing at the white tunic and red sash, she thought it was Ismail, but it turned it was another Hashshashin.
?Sohayla Nikoufar?? asked the man in a grave, yet somehow kind voice. After a long pause she replied:
?Perhaps. Who are you?? she said in the driest, most unpolite way she could conceive.
?A friend of Ismail. I assure you, we mean you no harm.?
? ?We?? It is only you out there.? She looked out of the door and turned her head both ways to make sure she was right.
?Behind you?
Shocked, she turned 180 degrees and drew a knife from under her sleeve the way Ismail had taught her, but to no use. The man had tricked her in the simplest way she could imagine, but before she could realize this, he knocked her over the head with something blunt and she was left unconscious.
Somewhere
Sohayla was feeling rather dizzy. More than anything, she wanted to stand up from her... whatever it was, and run away, but she was now powerless. All she could see was a blur that occasionally changed colours. She knew there were people talking around her, but the voices drowned each other with their incessant humming, and all she could hear was an unintelligible murmur. Where was she?
She was now beginning to recover her senses. Now she knew that she was lying down, facing upwards, and that whatever she was laying on top of was being moved or rattled for some reason. She even thought she could make out one word of what was being said. She closed her eyes, counted to five and opened them again. As her pupils adjusted, she could now notice she was lying down on a gourney, being carried by four, maybe five men, all dressed the way Ismail did. She felt like crying at this point, since she didn?t know what was to become of her. The men set her down and unstrapped her from the gourney. Before she could get up however, she was roughly grabbed from under the arms and pulled up violently. In front of her, a man in a more ornate version of the Hashshashin outfit Ismail wore stared at her. She remained silent while he spoke:
?I understand you?ve been causing quite a ruckus down at the market? he said in a grave, deep tone. Sohayla remained silent. ?Ah, silence is sometimes the smartest remark one can make. Anyway, those apples are none of my concern. The merchant has been resupplied accordingly and has been... persuaded not to speak of this matter to anyone.? Sohayla remained silent. ?You do well to keep quiet, since not all of your crimes are so petty. I understand you have come to... know one of my fidai quite well. Am I mistaken? Speak, child! Am I mistaken??
?What is a fidai?? Sohayla replied. She had learned from her mother how to respond in a manner that was both to the point and vague.
?I would have assumed Ismail would have told you this. It seems I must share it with you instead. Listen carefully, as I will not repeat myself. Fidai are the lowest-ranking members of our peculiar organization. Ismail is one such member. That they are the lowest-ranking doesn?t mean they are the least important. Oh, no. Fidai are vital. A fidai?s job is quite simple. They need only to follow one very simple rule: ?Do as I say?. It is truly that simple. A fidai may be asked to represent me at a meeting with the Sultan one day, and as soon as he returns, I may send him to buy my groceries.?
?What is the point of all this!?? She shouted at him loudly, unable to control herself any longer, ?why don?t you just kill me and get it over with already!??
?Easy, child. We Nizaris are not assassins. Surely the Crusaders and most of the people may know us as such, but truth be told, we have never participated in an assassination. That is not to say that none of our members have ever committed murder. In fact, that is how we have come to know most of our fidai. I see the look on your face. You fear Ismail may be a murderer. Rest assured, his hands are clean.?
?But... I don?t understand... why am I here??
?You are here because Ismail has broken a tenet. Fidai may not see women without my consent, or Jalal?s? he said, gesturing to his left where Jalal stood. Sohayla was amazed at how well he blended with the shadows around him. If that old man hadn?t pointed at him, she would have never seen him.
?But I am not bound by your rules! Let me go!?
?I am truly sorry, child. But this is the way it must be. Bring him forth.?
A Hashshashin dragged a bloodstained, naked Ismail meters of Sohayla?s feet. The hashshashin pulled a whip from his sash and struck Ismail once. Sohayla clenched her teeth but didn?t speak. He struck him again, and Ismail grunted painfully. This time Sohayla couldn?t control herself any longer:
?Stop! What am I to do??
Everything seemed to have stopped quite suddenly. Jalal stared at Ismail, whose head was down. With his turbant gone, she could see how messy and long his hair was. The old man continued to gaze at her intently, as if he were trying to see through her body so he could look at something that was behind her and only he could see.
?I am glad you asked.? The man said. This was followed by silence. Not the kind of silence one hears at night, but a silence that is louder than an earthquake, and fills your ear to such an extent that you feel sure that even if there was a sound next to you, you wouldn?t be able to hear it.
?You are to help the Nizari.? He said simply, with a small smile.
?I won?t! I will not give up my faith!? Sohayla, though unable to read and write in any language, was very well aware of some of the Nizari beliefs and customs; many of them conflicted with her Islamic faith. True, she had never been a particularly devout Muslim, but she did believe in the oneness of God and that Mohammed was his prophet. She went on:
?You think yourself above Allah! You think you?re his prophet! Rumour has it you know the Holy Qur?an by heart! If that is so, then you must know this! Muhammadun rasūlu l-Lāh! ? she knew she shouldn?t have said this.
?Quite literate for someone who can?t even read the Qur?an, don?t you think, Jalal??
?I think there is more to her than meets the eye. She seems a loner at first glance, but she?s obviously been taught the Qur?an. I, however, am friendly with everyone who attends the Alamut Grand Mosque, and no one has ever heard of Sohayla Nikoufar. They have, on the other hand, heard of Sabirah Nikourfar. Quite appropriate name, if you ask me.? Seeing Sohayla?s incredulous look, he went on ?I see you do not understand. Surely you know all niteny-nine of Allah's attributes??
Sohayla looked down, embarassed. She had always tried, but was never able to remember Allah?s attributes.
?I see that you don?t. You?ll see, Sabirah means Patient. That is Allah?s ninety-ninth attribute. He does not quickly punish the sinners. In time, if you decide to help us, I may
tell you why such a name is appropriate for who, I assume, is your mother.?
The scorching heat made Mansur feel more restless than he already was. He looked over his shoulder to see the grand fortress of Alamut, ?The Eagle?s Nest? looming over him like an ill omen. To his front, a man wearing a simple white tunic tied with a red sash, and a matching red turbant was riding a much healthier horse than he was. Mansur felt insignificant riding behind such a powerful figure.
For in front of him was Hassan bin Sabbah, leader of the discreet Assassin sect, the Hashshashin. Mansur had gone to meet with Hassan, and had managed to have a word with him after waiting for hours. When he had finished reading the letter for Hassan, he was taken outside, invited to go for ?a stroll? with him. Hassan?s horse was white, clad in shining armour, while Mansur?s seemed to be on the verge of collapsing under its own weight. He did not know the reason for this strange formality, but knew that there was reason enough for him to be worried for his life. Since Hassan, son of Sabbah, sheikh of the mountains and leader of the feared Hashshashins, was a man who in his life had managed to achieve greatness, and whose name, whispered in markets and alleys, inspired fear throughout all of Persia.
Mansur feared for his life, as he knew the sinister reputation of his host. Hassan, however, had a different goal in mind. After a few moments of tense silence, the lord of the fortress addressed his guest:
?Do you see that sentinel standing atop that tower?? The sentinel, one of the fierce warriors who had helped lay the foundations to the power of the sect, was an unmovable silhouette against the clear skies of Alamut, always keeping watch, never feeling tired, or hungry, or thirsty. Hassan whistled to call his attention. The sentinel raised his arm to acknowledge having heard Hassan, who then made a stern gesture with his hand. Inmediately after, the sentinel dropped his spear, saluted Hassan and without hesitation took a plunge into the deep abyss that extended below his feet, to be devoured by the rocks that lay at the bottom. As he fell, a loud crack of bones broken made Mansur realise what had just happened. Hassan gave his slackjawed guest a few moments to come to his senses to take in what he had just seen, then finally said:
?I have seventy-thousand men and women all across Asia, and each one of them is willing to do for me what you have just seen. Can your master, Malik Sha, say the same of his men? And he dares demand me that I bow to him! This is my reply: be gone!?
Mansur needed no further explanation. He quickly reared his horse and then made for the fortress, where he was to be lodged for one more day before setting off to tell the Sha of this news.
Businessman, wiseman, heretic, mysticist, assassin, ascetic, zealous and a revolutionary, this very polyfacetic character was born in Persia around 1138 to a wealthy family of Yemeni origins. As a child, the man who would, years later, be considered Allah?s incarnation on earth, was a dilligent student of Theology, and a zealous Taliban. His family?s financial position allowed him to enjoy a very privileged education, having been classmates to Nizam al Mulk (who would later become the Persian Sha?s Vizir) and Omar Jayyam, a great poet, astronomer and mathematician.
In his youth Hassan travelled to Egypt, where he remained for about one year and half of the next. There he had embraced the shiite doctrine. He came to question the Islamic dogma and understood that the world is transformed through actions, reaching the conclusion that beliefs are useless distractions used to enslave the masses. Without leaving his religious fervor aside, young Hassan became a pragmatic man who believed much more strongly in the strength of actions than in the strength of prayer, a belief which he would later use as a cornerstone for the structuring of the organization of his followers.
Besides what he learned in the Shiite schools, his stay in Egypt turned out to be quite eventful. Hassan was forced to abandon the region suddenly due to his participation in the controversy caused by the succession of the late Caliph. Hassan was incarcerated for supporting Nizar, one of the aspiring Caliphs, and would have remained in jail for life if it hadn?t been for luck. Because you see, luck was one of Hassan bin Sabbah?s most admired traits, and it followed him throughout life as surely as his shadow. Luck, in this case, had the jail cell?s wall collapse, allowing Hassan to retreat safely back to his native Persia.
During his journey he had time to develop what would be the greatest project of his life. To complete it, he would need a place that was safe and out of the way where he could carry out his plans without being bothered. Hassan ended up finding a fortress that was isolated at the highest point of the Qazvin mountains. This castle, called Alamut, was the ideal stronghold for the new sect that Hassan was about to found: the Nizari Ismaili, who would later be known as the Hashshashin, or Hashshishin. Aside from that, Alamut was located in a strategically convenient spot, which would allow Hassan to spread his Ismaili sect all over Persia.
How could one man take a fortress by himself? Hassan secured property of Alamut by use of subtlety and deception. His education allowed him to trick the lord of the Alamut through use of a technique which can be found in Odyssey, by Ulysses. Hassan came to an agreement with the lord of the castle, which stated that he would sell Hassan a piece of land in the fortress that could be covered entirely by the hide of a cow. The owner agreed, believing that the young stranger would set up a small shop in the market, not realising the cunning of Hassan. The young Hassan went on to divide the cow?s hide in many extremely thin lines, with which he put together a string with which he could encompass the entire fortress. Logically, the Lord protested against this, but Hassan?s followers persuaded him to fulfill his part of the agreement.
This is where this story begins. It is a tale of deceipt, treason, murder, poison, backstabs and violence. Hassan?s story is not one to be told lightly, of that I am sure. Listen carefully, stranger.
Damascus?s Market District, 1092
?No, no, no! Pay me now! I don?t know you!?Asif shouted angrily.
?Please, sir, my children are starving!? the beggar woman replied, with what looked to be a tear in her eye.
?If they starve it is because you are a fool!?
?Selaheddîn is the fool! If it weren?t for him, I would still work at the palace in Jerusalem! It is because of him that there is so much poverty!? This made Asif angry, as he was a devoted follower of Selaheddîn, or Saladin as he was known by Europeans. He stepped out of his store and without hesitation, punched the woman in the stomach. All passersbyes stopped to look at the pitiful image of the famelic woman curled up on the ground, crying and moaning and cursing, while Asif stood silently, watching her face closely as the tears trickled down her skinny cheeks, and the blood that she had coughed.. Some of the onlookers started to shout and curse at Asif, who stood arrogantly. The crowd started inching away towards him, with a look of murder in their eyes. In this district, merchants were stereotyped as greedy, heartless evils who must be consorted with regardless, since they held most of the food in the city. Asif, seeing the clear and present danger that this crowd posed, climbed on top of his stall and bellowed:
?People of Damascus!? The crowd stopped moving, and after a few seconds had passed, their shouting became an incessant muttering. Asif continued ?I have done what you have seen because this heretic was a traitor! One who would call Selaheddîn a fool! A fool! After all that he?s done for us! Selaheddîn is a military genius, a political force and an economical vissionary!? The crowd was now quiet, listening intently. ?He has foreseen victory against the Christians! He shall erradicate the Lionheart?s threat quickly and efficiently! We will live in peace!? Now the crowd was roaring in excitement. ?We will not fear the Christians nor their king! We shall rule supreme over Persia once more! You, who would call me a man of greed, what say you now??
Asif, despite being a terrible person and a greedy, lusty, selfish drunk, was a skilled public speaker, and Selaheddîn himself had requested his services more than once. His eyes wandered while the crowd dispersed like raindrops on a spherical surface. This was good business. Each and every one of those people would tell their acquaintances about his speech without mentioning the poor woman, which would lead to said acquaintances visiting his shop, which would mean he would be able to sell more, at a higher price. Good business indeed.
He climbed down from the top of his stall and took a fleeting glance at the woman. He looked again and saw that she was not there anymore. A trail of blood heading north had replaced her. It was not exactly a trail of blood. Instead, it resembled the scattered grease stains on a cook?s apron, which Asif thought was logical, since the woman wasn?t bleeding out, in its stead coughing blood.
Alamut, near the entrance.
Sohayla looked at herself in her little pocket mirror. The years were starting to show. Her deep black eyes were now surrounded by tiny wrinkles which curled and curved around them, as if trying to avoid touching them. Her lips, once pout and fleshy had begun to grow thin. The slightest movement of her eyes would cause lines to start appearing on her forehead. Her cheekbones were more prominent than ever, and she thought this disgusting, since it reminded her of her deceased mother, whose cheekbones, at the age of fifty, were practically identical to Sohayla?s. She hated to think of it that way, although her mother had always been a very beautiful woman. Sohayla gazed at the stars as she sat on the cool stone bench, waiting for her client. After the changing of the guard, he was to wait one minute and then come out of his hiding place to see her. Of course, Islam stated very clearly that Sohayla's line of work was heretical, and this was a point that made many people reluctant to hire her, but contrary to what many may think, not all Muslims are zealous followers of the religion.
She was feeling impatient, fiddling with her sash which was tied around only once, instead of the usual three or four times, the reason for this being that, being a woman who spent so much time out of her clothes, she shouldn?t have to waste any more time than necessary getting dressed. In the distance, past the impenetrable night, a bell sounded once, twice. This meant that the time for the changing of the guard was at hand. Sohayla stood up and paced about the alley she had been sitting in impatiently, now fiddling with her necklace. A little sooner than expected, she heard footsteps to her right, and there the silhouette of her client presented itself. He stepped forward, so that now she could see his face. He was a burly man of about forty, wearing a simple white turbant and sporting a well-groomed white beard. Sohayla grabbed his hand and led him to another alley, well away from the guardsmen.
Hassan?s Library, Alamut
The library was where Hassan bin Sabbah conducted most of his business. It was a quiet place overlooking all of Alamut except for the small garden behind the castle proper. The morning light poured in through the windows and was reflected in the stonework, giving the chamber a surreal feeling. On the shelves, books were ordered by some sort of criteria unknown to everyone but Hassan, who was able to find any book one requested in a matter of seconds. A rather impressive feat, considering that his collection reached into the thousands. A stone archway led out of the library and into a corridor with two doors: one visible one leading to the main hall, and the other one, disguised by the wall, to Hassan?s Quarters. Even if one knew the location of the door, only Hassan held the key to open it.
As Hassan opened his door quietly and headed for the library, he noticed the shadow of a person coming from the library, his shadow made larger by the morning sun. Hassan drew his dagger, and crept quietly accross the marble floor. The man was looking out the window, his body silhouetted against the glass.
Despite having reached his fifties, Hassan bin Sabbah was by no means weak. The man was as strong as an ox and as untirable as the finest Arabian mare. Some attributed this strength to him being a descendant of the Prophet, which was not true. Hassan claimed his faith made him stronger, and that others should follow in his wake.
Who was this man? Why had he dared enter the library, knowing that it was well out of bounds? What was he looking for? There were many treasures in the library, but none which would concern any of Hassan?s, or to that matter, the sect?s enemies. Thinking this, Hassan decided at the last moment to spare this man?s life, and perhaps manage to retrieve some information. With his dagger hidden in his sleeve, being held by his middle and ring fingers, he calmly said:
?Intruder!?
The man turned around with a smile on his face. Hassan couldn?t feel any more embarrassed: it was Jalal, his right-hand man. He was a man with a tongue sharper than the finest blade, and the cunning and wit to match. Early in his life he had received an education not much different from Hassan?s. It had taken work to convert him, but it had been all worth the effort, since Hassan couldn?t ask for a finer advisor than Jalal.
?Tell me, dear friend, Hassan, why would you raise your sword against me??
?I apologise, friend. I?ve been very alert lately. There are rumours of an attack on Alamut.? This seemed to pique Jalal?s interest.
?Go on.?
?That?s all I know, I?m afraid. There are whispers in the markets.?
?There are always whispers in the markets, Hassan. I, however seem to be a little more knowledgeable on this subject than said whispers. For, you see, I know of this attack.Actually, it would be wrong to say I know anything about it, as it isn?t true..?
?Not true? Explain.?
?What is there to explain? Whispers are whispers. They go from ear to ear in the market. Factor in the following: the noise of the markets, the incapacity of poeple to retale stories truthfully, and their tendency to edify on said stories, making them seem grander and more dangerous. Every time this tale is told, it becomes more exaggerated, more full of false grandeur. What might have begun as mere gossip about, say, a woman throwing oil at a rival?s clothes, may have escalated into a tall tale about the Sultans of Egypt, Persia and Syria attacking Alamut.
Alamut?s Market District
Sohayla paced carefully, her face hidden by a linen scarf wrapped around her head. Her eyes darted from one stall to the next, deciding with her eyes which of them had the best fruit in the fortress. Eventually, she decided upon a relatively young man with a moustache that was far too large for her taste. She grabbed her little pocket mirror and raised it up so that it reflected the light of the bright Persian sun. With it, she signaled to her accomplice, perched on the rooftops. He discreetly moved his hand in acknowledgment, and Sohayla repeated the gesture. She watched fascinated as he walked due east, then gracefully jumped from one rooftop to the next. His white tunic and red sash trailed behind him in a way that she thought was incredibly beautiful. After making two more jumps, he took his position, perched like an eagle on a long plank of wood meant for hanging wet clothes. From under his sleeve he produced a small knife, not sharp enough to kill someone but still capable of piercing wood and more tender flesh. Directly below him stood the stall Sohayla had signaled for him to go to.
With apprehension, Sohayla scurried through the marketgoers and stood next to the stall. Now, she waited. She rolled her eyes up to see Ismail hanging above the stall with his knife. Suddenly he flung it downward in a powerful yet graceful swing. The knife ripped the cloth covering the stall and destroyed what Sohayle considered to be quite an amount of onions, causing a very noticeable sound. The merchant turned his head to see the source of the noise, and hunched over his bag of onions. This was Sohayla?s cue. She quickly grabbed some apples and wrapped them with her clothes, after which point she calmly walked away. Unseen, unheard.
Ismail?s escape, on the other hand, wasn?t quite as uneventful. After having thrown the knife, he had headed back for the rooftops and started running. After a minute or so, he slowed down his pace only to be greeted by an arrow landing mere centimeters from his feet. He looked over his shoulder and saw three soldiers running towards him. He made a dash for the next rooftop, which belonged to an abandoned house that he, as well as other Hashshashin had used as a hideout before. Upon landing on the roof, he looked for the mark. To his surprise, it wasn?t there, but luckily he remembered where it was supposed to be. He headed to that place, turned to face his pursuers and jumped. To the soldiers, he looked like he had fallen to his death, but Ismail knew better. After falling, he was to grab onto a ledge and come into the house through a window. Having accomplished this, he only had to wait.
Sohayla?s house, Alamut
As she entered her house, she took off her linen scarf and set the apples on her rickety table. Two of them looked good, but one was rotten and gave off a smell that reminded her of some of her less hygienic clients.
She was startled by knocking on her door. She had no friends and no family, and the only person who ever came to visit her lately was Ismail, whom she had met perhaps a week earlier. She hid the apples in a flower vase and opened the door. At first, glancing at the white tunic and red sash, she thought it was Ismail, but it turned it was another Hashshashin.
?Sohayla Nikoufar?? asked the man in a grave, yet somehow kind voice. After a long pause she replied:
?Perhaps. Who are you?? she said in the driest, most unpolite way she could conceive.
?A friend of Ismail. I assure you, we mean you no harm.?
? ?We?? It is only you out there.? She looked out of the door and turned her head both ways to make sure she was right.
?Behind you?
Shocked, she turned 180 degrees and drew a knife from under her sleeve the way Ismail had taught her, but to no use. The man had tricked her in the simplest way she could imagine, but before she could realize this, he knocked her over the head with something blunt and she was left unconscious.
Somewhere
Sohayla was feeling rather dizzy. More than anything, she wanted to stand up from her... whatever it was, and run away, but she was now powerless. All she could see was a blur that occasionally changed colours. She knew there were people talking around her, but the voices drowned each other with their incessant humming, and all she could hear was an unintelligible murmur. Where was she?
She was now beginning to recover her senses. Now she knew that she was lying down, facing upwards, and that whatever she was laying on top of was being moved or rattled for some reason. She even thought she could make out one word of what was being said. She closed her eyes, counted to five and opened them again. As her pupils adjusted, she could now notice she was lying down on a gourney, being carried by four, maybe five men, all dressed the way Ismail did. She felt like crying at this point, since she didn?t know what was to become of her. The men set her down and unstrapped her from the gourney. Before she could get up however, she was roughly grabbed from under the arms and pulled up violently. In front of her, a man in a more ornate version of the Hashshashin outfit Ismail wore stared at her. She remained silent while he spoke:
?I understand you?ve been causing quite a ruckus down at the market? he said in a grave, deep tone. Sohayla remained silent. ?Ah, silence is sometimes the smartest remark one can make. Anyway, those apples are none of my concern. The merchant has been resupplied accordingly and has been... persuaded not to speak of this matter to anyone.? Sohayla remained silent. ?You do well to keep quiet, since not all of your crimes are so petty. I understand you have come to... know one of my fidai quite well. Am I mistaken? Speak, child! Am I mistaken??
?What is a fidai?? Sohayla replied. She had learned from her mother how to respond in a manner that was both to the point and vague.
?I would have assumed Ismail would have told you this. It seems I must share it with you instead. Listen carefully, as I will not repeat myself. Fidai are the lowest-ranking members of our peculiar organization. Ismail is one such member. That they are the lowest-ranking doesn?t mean they are the least important. Oh, no. Fidai are vital. A fidai?s job is quite simple. They need only to follow one very simple rule: ?Do as I say?. It is truly that simple. A fidai may be asked to represent me at a meeting with the Sultan one day, and as soon as he returns, I may send him to buy my groceries.?
?What is the point of all this!?? She shouted at him loudly, unable to control herself any longer, ?why don?t you just kill me and get it over with already!??
?Easy, child. We Nizaris are not assassins. Surely the Crusaders and most of the people may know us as such, but truth be told, we have never participated in an assassination. That is not to say that none of our members have ever committed murder. In fact, that is how we have come to know most of our fidai. I see the look on your face. You fear Ismail may be a murderer. Rest assured, his hands are clean.?
?But... I don?t understand... why am I here??
?You are here because Ismail has broken a tenet. Fidai may not see women without my consent, or Jalal?s? he said, gesturing to his left where Jalal stood. Sohayla was amazed at how well he blended with the shadows around him. If that old man hadn?t pointed at him, she would have never seen him.
?But I am not bound by your rules! Let me go!?
?I am truly sorry, child. But this is the way it must be. Bring him forth.?
A Hashshashin dragged a bloodstained, naked Ismail meters of Sohayla?s feet. The hashshashin pulled a whip from his sash and struck Ismail once. Sohayla clenched her teeth but didn?t speak. He struck him again, and Ismail grunted painfully. This time Sohayla couldn?t control herself any longer:
?Stop! What am I to do??
Everything seemed to have stopped quite suddenly. Jalal stared at Ismail, whose head was down. With his turbant gone, she could see how messy and long his hair was. The old man continued to gaze at her intently, as if he were trying to see through her body so he could look at something that was behind her and only he could see.
?I am glad you asked.? The man said. This was followed by silence. Not the kind of silence one hears at night, but a silence that is louder than an earthquake, and fills your ear to such an extent that you feel sure that even if there was a sound next to you, you wouldn?t be able to hear it.
?You are to help the Nizari.? He said simply, with a small smile.
?I won?t! I will not give up my faith!? Sohayla, though unable to read and write in any language, was very well aware of some of the Nizari beliefs and customs; many of them conflicted with her Islamic faith. True, she had never been a particularly devout Muslim, but she did believe in the oneness of God and that Mohammed was his prophet. She went on:
?You think yourself above Allah! You think you?re his prophet! Rumour has it you know the Holy Qur?an by heart! If that is so, then you must know this! Muhammadun rasūlu l-Lāh! ? she knew she shouldn?t have said this.
?Quite literate for someone who can?t even read the Qur?an, don?t you think, Jalal??
?I think there is more to her than meets the eye. She seems a loner at first glance, but she?s obviously been taught the Qur?an. I, however, am friendly with everyone who attends the Alamut Grand Mosque, and no one has ever heard of Sohayla Nikoufar. They have, on the other hand, heard of Sabirah Nikourfar. Quite appropriate name, if you ask me.? Seeing Sohayla?s incredulous look, he went on ?I see you do not understand. Surely you know all niteny-nine of Allah's attributes??
Sohayla looked down, embarassed. She had always tried, but was never able to remember Allah?s attributes.
?I see that you don?t. You?ll see, Sabirah means Patient. That is Allah?s ninety-ninth attribute. He does not quickly punish the sinners. In time, if you decide to help us, I may
tell you why such a name is appropriate for who, I assume, is your mother.?
Apologies to anyone who was mildly interested in the story for this sudden cut-to-black moment. That's as far as I've revised. I've written about 1000 more words, but they are due for revision tomorrow.
