did not come. Ten minutes went by and even the youngest of them could not remain
in such an uncomfortable pose indefinitely. What could they do? To rise without having been authorised would be to expose
themselves to condemnation by the monarch. One after another they fell on their knees, a pose which was just as respectful
but less exhausting. Only when the last kneecap had touched the ground did the sovereign make the sign that they might get
up and leave with no further ado. No one was surprised by the turn of events. That was the price to pay. Such is the order
of affairs of the kingdom.
Turkish officers and groups of notables then approached, as well as some
dihkans
, headmen from neighbouring villages. According to his rank, each kissed the foot or shoulder of the sovereign. Then a poet
came forward to recite a pompous eulogy to the glory of the monarch who very quickly looked ostensibly bored. With a gesture
he interrupted the poet, made a sign to the chamberlain to lean over and gave the order which he was to transmit. ‘Our master
wishes the poets assembled here to know that he is tired of hearing the same themes repeated, he wishes to be compared neither
to a lion nor an eagle, and even less to the sun. Let those who have nothing else to say depart.’
CHAPTER 5
The chamberlain’s words were followed by murmurs, clucking and a general din from the twenty-odd poets who had been awaiting
their turn. Some of them even took two steps backward before quietly slipping away. Only a woman stepped out of the ranks
and approached with a steady tread. Quizzed by Omar’s glance, the
qadi
whispered, ‘A poetess from Bukhara. She has herself called Jahan, meaning the vast world. She is a fickle young widow.’
His tone was that of rebuke, but Omar’s interest was only heightened and he could not turn his gaze away. Jahan had already
raised the bottom of her veil, revealing lips without make-up. She recited a pleasantly worked poem in which, strangely, the
Khan’s name was not mentioned one single time. Praise was given to the River Soghd which dispenses its bounty to Samarkand
and then to Bukhara before losing itself in the desert since there is no sea worthy of receiving its waters.
‘You have spoken well. Let your mouth be filled with gold,’ said Nasr, pronouncing his usual phrase.
The poetess lent over a huge platter of golden dinars and started putting the coins into her mouth one by one as the audience
counted them aloud. When Jahan hiccupped and almost choked, the whole court, with the monarch at the fore, let out a laugh.
The chamberlainsignalled to the poetess to return to her place. They had counted forty-six dinars.
Khayyam alone did not laugh. With his eyes fixed on Jahan, he tried to work out what emotion he felt toward her. Her poetry
was so pure, her eloquence so dignified, her gait so courageous, but here she was stuffing her mouth with yellow metal and
being subjected to this humiliating reward. Before pulling her veil back down, she lifted it a little more and cast a glance
which Omar noticed, inhaled and tried to hold on to. It was a moment too fleet to be detected by the crowd but an eternity
for the lover. Time has two faces, Khayyam said to himself. It has two dimensions, its length is measured by the rhythm of
the sun but its depth by the rhythm of passion.
This sublime moment between them was interrupted by the
qadi
tapping Khayyam’s arm and bringing him back to himself. Too late, the woman had gone. There were only veils left.
Abu Taher wanted to present his friend to the Khan. He uttered the formula, ‘Your august roof today shelters the greatest
intellect of Khorassan, Omar Khayyam, for whom the plants hold no secrets and the stars no mystery.’
It was not serendipity that made the
qadi
note medicine and astrology out of all the disciplines in which Omar excelled, as they were always in favour with princes;
the former to try and preserve
in such an uncomfortable pose indefinitely. What could they do? To rise without having been authorised would be to expose
themselves to condemnation by the monarch. One after another they fell on their knees, a pose which was just as respectful
but less exhausting. Only when the last kneecap had touched the ground did the sovereign make the sign that they might get
up and leave with no further ado. No one was surprised by the turn of events. That was the price to pay. Such is the order
of affairs of the kingdom.
Turkish officers and groups of notables then approached, as well as some
dihkans
, headmen from neighbouring villages. According to his rank, each kissed the foot or shoulder of the sovereign. Then a poet
came forward to recite a pompous eulogy to the glory of the monarch who very quickly looked ostensibly bored. With a gesture
he interrupted the poet, made a sign to the chamberlain to lean over and gave the order which he was to transmit. ‘Our master
wishes the poets assembled here to know that he is tired of hearing the same themes repeated, he wishes to be compared neither
to a lion nor an eagle, and even less to the sun. Let those who have nothing else to say depart.’
CHAPTER 5
The chamberlain’s words were followed by murmurs, clucking and a general din from the twenty-odd poets who had been awaiting
their turn. Some of them even took two steps backward before quietly slipping away. Only a woman stepped out of the ranks
and approached with a steady tread. Quizzed by Omar’s glance, the
qadi
whispered, ‘A poetess from Bukhara. She has herself called Jahan, meaning the vast world. She is a fickle young widow.’
His tone was that of rebuke, but Omar’s interest was only heightened and he could not turn his gaze away. Jahan had already
raised the bottom of her veil, revealing lips without make-up. She recited a pleasantly worked poem in which, strangely, the
Khan’s name was not mentioned one single time. Praise was given to the River Soghd which dispenses its bounty to Samarkand
and then to Bukhara before losing itself in the desert since there is no sea worthy of receiving its waters.
‘You have spoken well. Let your mouth be filled with gold,’ said Nasr, pronouncing his usual phrase.
The poetess lent over a huge platter of golden dinars and started putting the coins into her mouth one by one as the audience
counted them aloud. When Jahan hiccupped and almost choked, the whole court, with the monarch at the fore, let out a laugh.
The chamberlainsignalled to the poetess to return to her place. They had counted forty-six dinars.
Khayyam alone did not laugh. With his eyes fixed on Jahan, he tried to work out what emotion he felt toward her. Her poetry
was so pure, her eloquence so dignified, her gait so courageous, but here she was stuffing her mouth with yellow metal and
being subjected to this humiliating reward. Before pulling her veil back down, she lifted it a little more and cast a glance
which Omar noticed, inhaled and tried to hold on to. It was a moment too fleet to be detected by the crowd but an eternity
for the lover. Time has two faces, Khayyam said to himself. It has two dimensions, its length is measured by the rhythm of
the sun but its depth by the rhythm of passion.
This sublime moment between them was interrupted by the
qadi
tapping Khayyam’s arm and bringing him back to himself. Too late, the woman had gone. There were only veils left.
Abu Taher wanted to present his friend to the Khan. He uttered the formula, ‘Your august roof today shelters the greatest
intellect of Khorassan, Omar Khayyam, for whom the plants hold no secrets and the stars no mystery.’
It was not serendipity that made the
qadi
note medicine and astrology out of all the disciplines in which Omar excelled, as they were always in favour with princes;
the former to try and preserve
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