The King Page 13

  Advancing with caution his horse climbed to the village in the dark. At a certain point the vizier dismounted and made his way to the castle on foot. The gate was wide open as usual. An old woman who had worked in the house for years as a servant saw the vizier and wanted to warn Isa Khan immediately, but the vizier let her know this would not be necessary, that he wanted to surprise his father.

  Isa Khan was in his room, sitting on a carpet at a small table and reading a book with a magnifying glass. The vizier stood there for a few minutes watching him, aware that this might well be his last visit with his father. He saw the decline in the way he sat, and that his hair and beard were completely grey. He couldn’t believe this was the same man who had once fought the Russians at the front, who had held lengthy talks with the tsar in order to establish the country’s borders with Russia – the same man who had also been forced to undergo the humiliation of signing a treaty in which the Persians were made to cede the state of Yerevan and the northern part of Azerbaijan to the Russians.

  Isa Khan sat bent over a book as the yellow light from a lantern illuminated half his face.

  ‘What is Isa Khan reading?’

  The old man straightened his back, looked in the direction of the voice and said, ‘I hear the vizier.’ He tried to stand up. The vizier rushed up to him, held his two hands, kissed them and knelt down beside him.

  ‘The vizier is sad. What is it?’ asked Isa Khan.

  ‘The country, the country, the country,’ sighed the vizier, and he rested his face in the weathered hands of his father.

  ‘I see you are troubled, my son.’

  ‘I’m afraid they will kill me.’

  ‘The men of our house have never been afraid of death,’ answered Isa Khan.

  ‘I am not afraid of death, but I am afraid they will kill me before I am able to finish my work.’

  ‘You cannot set the course of history alone, and man is not capable of completing his work in its entirety, yet you must try.’

  ‘I am doing that. I have always done that. But I fear that history will forget what I was trying to do,’ said the vizier.

  ‘Your words sound familiar,’ answered his father with a smile. ‘Don’t worry. History has seen you.’

  ‘But what if they kill me halfway through my mission?’

  ‘Then that too is the course of history,’ said Isa Khan.

  The vizier smiled. He was relieved.

  ‘I have never feared death,’ said Isa Khan. ‘Nor did my father, nor my father’s father. These were men who served their country, just as you are doing. They did their work exceedingly well. Now it’s your turn.’

  The vizier went back to shut the door, then sat down even closer to his father.

  ‘Father,’ he whispered, ‘the shah is running the country into the ground, and his mother is even worse, if that’s possible. His counsellors are deceivers and the shah wants to be deceived. He’s letting himself be led around by a pack of charlatans.’

  ‘That’s nothing new,’ answered Isa Khan placidly. ‘Didn’t I go through the same thing with the father of this shah?’

  The vizier walked back to the door to see if anyone was listening. ‘Father, you served the weak father of this shah. Your father served the weak father of the father of the shah. Now I serve this shah. They cannot manage without us,’ said the vizier.

  ‘Unburden your heart, my son,’ said Isa Khan.

  ‘Father, we live in a time of electricity and trains. There is a need for new leaders. I think the shah should step aside, and I’m not the only one,’ said the vizier.

  The old man looked into the eyes of his son. ‘Dismiss these ideas from your mind,’ he said calmly. ‘If you depose the shah the whole country will become entangled in tribal wars, something the foreign powers are just waiting to happen. This land is an ancient labyrinth of hidden power struggles, ancient resentments, convoluted religious currents, poisonous politicians, vindictive princes, stupid clerics and powerful women who pull the strings behind closed doors. Son, no matter what it is you want to do, you’ll have to do it with this shah.’

  ‘But the shah is a fool. Everyone is urging him to kill me, and he will do it without batting an eyelid.’

  Isa Khan paused to reflect.

  ‘I envy your ambition, my son,’ he said calmly. ‘I will not stand in your way. Perhaps you are right, perhaps someone should save the country by rising up like this. But because I am your father I am not the right advisor in this matter. You are clever and you don’t need my advice. One thing should be clear, however: don’t turn back. Use whatever strength you have and do your duty.’

  The vizier was encouraged by his father’s answer. The desire to live flashed in his eyes. He stood up and swung the door wide open.

  27. Supernatural Forces

  When King Darius the Great first announced that he wanted to send his vast army to the West by way of Athens, his counsellors studied the stars well ahead of time and provided Darius with wise advice.

  But the country no longer had any wise astronomers, and all the high towers from which they had once gazed at the heavens had been destroyed by the enemy during the wars. Now it was mainly magicians who predicted the future.

  Sheikh Aqasi was the last man of that tradition. He claimed that he could make contact with supernatural forces. The shah had instructed him to put his talents to work so that he, the shah, could feel certain about Herat.

  Sheikh Aqasi climbed Mount Tochal to shut himself up in his cave. This had been his practice whenever the last king had asked him for advice. It was a place where magicians and fortune-tellers once came to pore over ancient texts and busy themselves with strange herbs, perfumes, dried animal paws, human skulls, snakes and other reptiles.

  The opening to the cave was a narrow crack between two great rocks. Sheikh Aqasi had brought along a few pieces of dry bread, a sack of dried dates and a jug of water. He squeezed himself into the cave and crept down a narrow passage until he came to a space where he could not stand completely upright. He lit a candle and walked further. It was an oppressive, fearful place, but not for Sheikh Aqasi. He hummed a verse from a holy text to chase the poisonous creatures away: ‘Ya rabb, ar-rabbok, en ma’ rabbok, en inna rabbok, en allaha rabbok, en Muhammad-on rabbok, wa ‘Ali-on rabbok en mahdi-on rabbok.’

  The walls of the cave were black with candle smoke, and hanging from them were dried herbs, plants, wolf paws, skulls, snake teeth and talismans. The sheikh sat down, and after he had taken a nap and was completely rested he began to concentrate on Herat. He always sat in the same place when making contact with the supernatural forces, as he had when preparing the mother of the king for her journey to Russia. On the opposite wall he had seen Mahdolia ride into the palace of the Russian tsar in a coach. He had seen scenes from the future long before the queen had left for Moscow.

  After three days and two nights the sheikh had not received a single sign from above concerning Herat. It wasn’t until the end of the third evening that he began to hear the voices and see the faces of the inhabitants of a Herat of the future. Soon scenes from the war began to appear on the wall. He saw the Indian soldiers marching near the gate of Herat under the leadership of British officers, and British flags fluttering above the gate. A strapping British commander, who was in control of the city, came up so close that his face imprinted itself on Sheikh Aqasi’s memory. He heard the Persian cannons shooting over the city walls and saw the British flags fall. He saw the Indian soldiers take to their heels and the Persian warriors pursue them on horseback.

  In another scene he saw the shah, alive and well, riding through the gate of Herat and into the city. It was so vivid that he could hear the horses breathing. The shah was still mounted on his horse when a severed human head was tossed to the ground in front of him.

  Sheikh Aqasi recognised the big head immediately as that of the British commander. The message from above was clear. The sheikh went down from the mountain to pass the favourable prophecy on to the sh
ah.

  28. The Invasion

  Herat was once called Aria. It was the first city of the Aryans, the founders of the Persian Empire. The ancient Greeks called the city Artacoana.

  Alexander the Great once invaded the city on his way to India. He built a fortress there as a base of operations so he could rob India of its gold. He called the city Alexandria Ariana. A few centuries later the Arabs forced the population to accept the Quran, after which Genghis Khan arrived and razed the city to the ground. Many came and went in the years that followed. Now the shah of Persia was next in line to lay claim to this jewel of a city.

  One month after receiving the good news from Sheikh Aqasi the shah travelled to the border town of Mashad, in the east of the country, where he was to meet with the Russian officers. These officers had painstakingly gone over the battle plans with the Persian warlords, and their strategy earned the shah’s immediate admiration and approval. It was well thought out, which pleased the shah since he personally wanted to be present at the front. He saw himself riding through the gate of Herat and into the city with a great display of power, exactly as Sheikh Aqasi had envisioned in the cave.

  The chosen moment was exceedingly favourable. The British had their hands full with protests in the cities of India and in the countryside. They saw their conflict with the Persians as a matter for the negotiating table. The Persian army, they thought, would never be capable of occupying Herat by force of arms.

  The Russians made sure that all suspicious movements in the eastern border region escaped British observation. At the same time the Russians sent an army unit by ship via the Caspian Sea to the steppe beyond the Afghan border to come to the aid of the Persians as soon as Herat had fallen into their hands.

  The shah brought his storyteller with him to the border region. On the evening of the invasion he had him recount an old war story.

  The shah slept in the barracks at the border, in his own tent. He was sitting on a sofa, leaning on great, soft cushions, and smoking his hookah, a vast assortment of delicacies within reach. He sent the servant away and summoned the storyteller.

  The storyteller had dressed like a man of Herat with a milk-coloured turban wrapped round his head, the loose end of which rested on his shoulder. He bowed and waited for the shah to give him permission to begin.

  ‘What does the storyteller have for us today?’ asked the shah as the smoke from his hookah escaped from his mouth.

  ‘With Your Majesty’s permission I will talk about the journey of Xerxes to Athens, a true story based on the writings of Herodotus.’

  ‘Begin!’ said the shah.

  The storyteller blew out a few candles and began his tale.

  Xerxes, the king of kings, lived in a palace in Apadana, where he was watched over by seven thousand bodyguards. This was the glorious order of guards known as ‘the Fadaian’. They carried long spears that had been specially designed for them, spears that were worked with gold and silver. Besides the guards there were seventy thousand cavalrymen who were called ‘the Immortals’. And then there were elite troops from the various states of Persia and other subject nations such as Media, Bactria, India and the steppes of the Saks.

  An army of a million and a half soldiers was on its way to Athens.

  The king of kings rode in an open coach that was pulled by a royal horse, while a servant with a parasol stood behind him.

  Xerxes had his coach rolled onto a majestic ship, where warlords in special uniforms awaited him. A deafening thunder of drums and trumpet blasts was sounded. A camel was slaughtered as a sacrifice so the coach could ride over the blood. The royal anthem was sung with great enthusiasm. The priest of Zarathustra gently tapped the coach a few times with his golden staff to bless the king’s journey, and with his free hand he directed the smoke from the holy herbs towards Xerxes to protect him from the evil eye.

  It was a display of power unlike any that had ever been seen before on earth. The Greeks understood that soon they would be striking the image of this great king onto their gold coins.

  Xerxes, son of Darius, had remembered but one lesson from his father: ‘Conquer the world.’ Only when he had Athens at his feet could he proudly claim the throne of the Achaemenids. It was four hundred and eighty years before the birth of Isa, son of Mary.

  After seven days the ships reached the harbour of Greece. As they approached the mainland Xerxes stood on the deck of the ship to admire his army. Wherever he looked ships appeared on the horizon. He was hardly a man any longer; he was a god who was revealing himself to the world. When he turned round he saw the coastline of Europe for the first time.

  The king’s ship dropped anchor. Xerxes remained standing on the deck and watched his soldiers go ashore. The local populace looked on, powerless.

  ‘The King of Kings,’ they whispered, as they held the hands of their children and shook with fear.

  The shah knew the rest of the story: the humiliating defeat of Xerxes at the hands of the Greeks. It was not clear why the storyteller had chosen this particular tale, an event over which the Persians had remained silent for centuries out of shame. The storyteller was not yet finished when the shah threw a coin against the door. The storyteller stopped immediately, picked up the coin and disappeared.

  ‘Idiot,’ muttered the shah and put his hookah aside. He turned round, pulled the blankets over his head and tried to sleep. He would have to be up early the next morning to impart some words of encouragement to the first troops going to the front.

  A dream wrenched him from his sleep. He had seen his father. He had embraced him in his sleep with tears of joy. It was extraordinary that the old king should appear in his dream now, but it was also to be expected.

  All through the centuries the Persians had cherished Herat like an old gem. It was a very special city, where the Indian and Persian cultures met. The people spoke proper Persian, the customs were Persian, even the Indian rulers spoke Persian, but the British occupiers had done everything they could to make it an Indian city. It was no accident, then, that the dead king should have visited the shah in his sleep on that night of all nights. It was necessary, and it was a good sign. Later that morning, when the cavalrymen marched before the eyes of the shah on their way to the front, he felt in his heart that victory was inevitable.

  As soon as the shah heard that the attack on Herat had begun, he pressed his forehead to the earth and begged God with tears for a successful outcome. He was not yet finished with his prayers when the Russian colonel ordered the Persian army to fire the cannons.

  Thousands of Persian sharpshooters moved towards the city on horseback. This was the Russians’ idea, since the Persians were unsurpassed in their ability to shoot from galloping horses. It seemed like a very disorderly way of fighting, but it was intended to throw the disciplined Anglo-Indian army into confusion.

  The British, who had counted on every possible kind of attack, had not expected this strategic variant. The officers didn’t know how to defend themselves against such a swarm of armed Persians. The Afghan and Indian soldiers who were standing on the city wall could not hold out for long. The cavalrymen dispersed to avoid the British cannon shots and reached the gate of Herat. This obstacle was soon demolished, and hand-to-hand combat began within the city walls. The British had never stood face-to-face with Persian soldiers before.

  The fighting was painful for the Afghan soldiers. Deep in their hearts they did not want to fight their Persian brothers. The Indian soldiers too were short on motivation, for Persia was a nearby country and they were reluctant to take sides with the English against their own neighbours. The Persians believed that victory was within reach, and that gave them courage. They instinctively avoided the Afghan and Indian soldiers and pursued the British officers and sergeants, chasing them beyond the city walls.

  A sharpshooter took aim at a British officer standing on the balcony of the army post and brought him down. One of the Persian warlords ordered that his body be placed in a cart, to be thrown at the
shah’s feet later on. As soon as the Indian soldiers saw this, they fled through the other city gate towards the Indian border.

  The Afghan soldiers no longer knew whether they should be fighting against the Persians or with them. Herat was a city in which tribes of both Afghan and Persian origin had always dwelt, and many mixed marriages had taken place over the centuries. So the population awaited the outcome of the invasion with considerable tension.

  Once the Anglo-Indian troops were driven out of the city, the Afghan soldiers were ordered by their own leaders to withdraw into the hills until further notice. And thus the Persian sharpshooters captured the city. Beyond the walls, however, the battle raged. There the British inflicted great damage on the Persian army, destroying their French and Russian cannons. The Persian army was shattered, with countless dead and wounded.

  The British got ready to drive the sharpshooters from Herat. They had asked the Afghan tribal leaders to attack the city from all sides. But suddenly, to everyone’s astonishment, the British colonel was told to pull his army out of Herat and retreat to Indian territory without delay. The British officers were furious. They could make neither head nor tail of the order, but apparently London had something else in mind.

  One of the British officers had noticed that there were Russians fighting with the Persians. He sent his soldiers to look for Russians among the dead. The soldiers returned with three Russian bodies. These were placed on a cart, and with this booty the British army withdrew from Herat.

  The report of the victory soon reached the shah. Surrounded by Persian officers he entered the city like Xerxes. The Persian inhabitants of Herat came out of their houses to admire their king. The shah, perched high on his horse, waved at his subjects, and he thought of Xerxes and how happy he must have felt to first set foot on European soil.

  29. A Deathly Silence

  Reports of the victory had reached Tehran. The joy was enormous. Town criers spread the happy news. The city was festively decorated by order of Mahdolia, the mother of the shah, and army musicians played merrily in the streets. Merchants had huge torches lit in the bazaar, and great pans were placed on fires in the bazaar square so food could be shared with the poor.