In Xanadu (7 page)

Against this sort of sensationalism. Polo's description of the sect is sobriety itself. Yet it is one of the most beautiful passages in
The Travels:

Now the Old Man of The Mountain caused a certain valley between two mountains to be enclosed, and had it turned into a garden, the largest and most beautiful that ever was seen, filled with every variety of fruit. In it were erected pavilions and palaces, the most elegant that can be imagined, all covered with gilding and exquisite painting. And there were runnels too, flowing freely with wine and milk and honey; and numbers of ladies and all the most beautiful damsels in the world, who would play on all manner of instruments, and sung most sweetly, and danced in a manner that was charming to behold. For the Old Man desired his people to think that this was actually paradise....

Now no man was allowed to enter the garden save those who were intended to be his Assassins. And there was a fortress at the entrance to the garden, strong enough to resist all the world. The Old Man kept at his court a number of youths of the country and to these he used to tell tales about paradise. Then he would introduce them into his garden, some four or six or ten at a time, having first made them drink a certain potion which cast them into a deep sleep, and then causing them to be lifted and carried in. So they awoke and found themselves in the garden, and deemed it was paradise in very truth; and the ladies and damsels dallied with them to their hearts' content, so that they had what young men will have, and with their own good will they would never have quitted this place.

Now when he wanted one of his Assassins to send on any mission, he would cause that potion whereof I spoke to be given to one of the youths in the garden, and then had him carried into his palace. So that when the young man awoke he found himself in the castle and no longer in paradise; whereat he was not over well pleased. And the Old Man would say to such a youth: 'Go and slay So and So; and when thou returnest my angels shall bear thee to paradise.'

So he caused them to believe; and thus there was no order of his that they would not affront any peril to execute, for the great desire that they had to get back to that paradise of his. And in this manner the Old One got his people to murder anyone whom he desired to be lid of... .'

Polo's story of the Garden of the Old One is based on the Assassins' Persian stronghold, Mulehet, the Eagle's Nest. But in 1271 this no longer existed, having been overun and destroyed by the Mongols a few years before, leaving Masyaf as the headquarters of the order. To a certain extent the early ideals had degenerated by the end of the thirteenth century, and the
fida'i
were frequently hired out as mercenary assassins. Yet they were still capable of heroics. When the crusader prince, Henry of Champagne, visited Masyaf he was taken around the battlements of the castle by the Grand Master. The Grand Master asked the prince if he had any subject as obedient as his own, and without waiting for a reply made a sign to two of his
fida'i.
They immediately jumped off the tower on which they were standing, and plunged straight to their deaths on the rocks below.

But even complete obedience could not save the Assassins. As befits fairy-tale villains they came to a sticky end. They had fallen foul not only of the Mongols, but of the other great power of the day, the revolting Mameluke sultan, Baibars. In 1273, he marched into the al-Garb and laid siege to the castle. It was taken by storm less than a week later and every Isma'ili was put to the sword. Before he left, Baibars built a victory tower. It was twenty feet high, and made out of the skulls of the defenders.

We arrived at Masyaf in the late afternoon. It had turned unusually chilly for high summer and clouds were billowing over the battlements. In the Fields along the al-Garb, the cotton was just beginning to ripen and a line of mules was bringing the first sackloads of white buds up to the town for weighing.

We were tired and dusty after five hours of travelling, and stumbled out of the bus into two wicker chairs placed against the stone wall of a tea house. A boy dressed in a long gown of blue and white striped cotton brought a pot of cinnamon tea, and grapes on a silver tray; we sat munching them in silence, eavesdropping on the conversations around us. At the next tabic two middle-aged men in shirtsleeves were playing
tawla;
they had suntanned faces, uncovered balding heads, and plump midriffs. Beside them sat a third man, who watched the play and occasionally leant over to offer advice. He was dressed in full
jellaba
and
keffiyeh,
and through the V-neck of his gown you could see a string vest. Nearby, at different tables, sat two old men with wrinkled foreheads and heavy glass hookahs. They would gaze thoughtfully at us, then at the backgammon players, then at each other, and when they drew on their hookahs the water in the glass bulbs would make a muffled bubbling noise.

An Arab boy walked over to our table and asked if he could sit down.

'My name is Nizar al-Omar, the Merchant's son,' he said. I like for you. You like for me?' I looked at Laura. 'Yes,' I said. 'We like for you.'

We did like for him. He was a tall, fragile boy with a light moustache on his upper lip, and the narrow, stooping manner of someone who is aware of his size. He looked delicate, sensitive and slightly effeminate.

'I
think you are English,' he said. "We are.'

'Good,' he said. 'I am student of English. I like English people because they speak very good English.' 'It's as good a reason as any.'

'Come,' he said. 'We are friends. Tonight you stay with my house.'

We got up and followed him through the steep, winding lanes. Masyaf reminded me of an Italian hill village. It was clean, and high and narrow, built of old, undressed stone. The houses were entered through first floor doors, up wooden banisters, and the windows had rough-hewn wooden frames which were covered with latticed grilles. We turned left down an alleyway, climbed some stairs and left our shoes outside the front door. Nizar's elder brother was playing cards on the floor. He got up when we entered and shook our hands.

'Do you know Werner?' he asked.

'Werner who?'

'Werner the German. He is my friend.' 'I'm afraid we're English.' 'But England is near Germany, isn't it?' 'Quite near.'

'I am sorry,' he said politely, and resumed his game. The family was as welcoming and hospitable as only Arabs can be. Laura and I sat on a sofa and made friendly gestures while the household was paraded before us. We smiled at four younger brothers, and two little sisters in frilly dresses, before being introduced to the mother who was known as Um-Aziz, mother of Aziz. She was a great beaming woman, still beautiful, with clear china-blue eyes shining out from an elaborate wimple. She said:
'saalam alekum,
smiled again and slipped off into the kitchen.

My house is yours,' said Nizar.

More to the point, his supper was ours. His mother returned wiih a tray full of Arab delicacies. As we sat on great camel-hair cushions the size of a large mattress, an undreamt-of spread of food was laid before us: white goats' cheese softened in boiling water, stuffed aubergines, curd, peppers, dates, tomatoes, green olives, houmos in sunflower oil, kidney beans, bowls of saffron and turmeric-coloured sauces, great sheets of flat, chapatti-like bread. We hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours and were ravenous. Nizar and his brothers joined us on the floor sitting cross-legged around the tray and scooping up the sauces with little corners of chapatti bread. It was a completely different concept to the Western idea of a meal, where everyone has their own separate portion. This was a communal meal – for the menfolk, at least. Laura was the only girl eating, and as we gorged the women waited on us, filling our glasses with more tea, and replenishing the bowls over and over again. When a boy wanted something he would clap his hands and a sister, or even his mother, would come scurrying from the kitchen.

When the meal was over we lay back on the cushions and digested our meal with the help of yet more pots of scented tea. Were we full? Were we comfortable? Was our journey tiring? Could we bring ourselves to forgive this humble fare? Would we accept their apologies? No wonder the Arabs have endeared themselves to generations of European travellers. The conversation was slow, formal and courteous, so much so that it seemed somehow archaic, fabulous, as if we were eighteenth-century gentlemen on a grand tour, rather than grimy undergraduates on a long-vac jaunt.

We reclined, and followed the example of the brothers. Some snoozed. Some played backgammon. Everyone belched. But before long Nizar went and fetched a new radio cassette recorder from his bedroom and my eighteenth-century fantasy evaporated. The first channel he picked up was a muezzin wailing despairingly to himself. Nizar looked embarrassed and turned the dial. We got a Turkish football report then some Changing-The-Guard-At-Buckingham-Palace music. Nizar blushed and turned the knob a little further.

‘... a very taut, sensitive study' said a voice on the radio.

Nizar smiled.

'London,' he said, pouting slightly.' "Kaleidoscope"."

He sat down and looked intently at the radio.

'. . . wry ... sensitive .. . deeply poignant’ said the radio
'.. lesbianism ... warmly compassionate   '

The learned ones of England discuss great literature’ said Nizar. 'Much is their wisdom.'

The following day we visited some castles.

The fortress at Masyaf is a wonderful ruin, straight out of one of the gloomier corners of a Burne-Jones canvas. It is grim, dark and brooding, with an air of Jack and the Beanstalk: 'Long ago there was a wicked ogre who lived in a big castle on a steep mountain.      

It squats heavily on a pinnacle of rock above the town, framed on one side by the peaks of the Alawi mountains, on the other by a windbreak of cypress and the flapping felt tents of a Bedouin encampment. Its weak curtain and irregularly placed, irregularly shaped towers of rough-cut granite can never have been a very serious deterrent to an attacker, yet it is just the sort of castle you would expect an Assassin to live in.

We skirted the walls, but the main gate was locked and the custodian would not let us in. He was an old man with skin like walnut bark and the left side of his face was drawn into a paralysed grin. Drawing on his hookah he coughed deep, choking coughs and spat the catarrh on the ground beside him. He sat in a little tin shack propped up against the foot of the castle rock. We left him there, firing his catapult at the children who were taunting him. Then, despite Nizar's protests about the dirt on his new trousers, we wriggled into the castle through a gap under the postern salient.

Inside it was dark and smelt of dust and bats' droppings. When our eyes adjusted, we could see stretching out ahead of us long, vaulted corridors buried halfway to the capitals. On either side lay the plain rectangular cells of the
fida'i.
We picked our way over fallen masonry, and wandered through the castle, silent and respectful, as if in a cathedral. It was a gloomy, eerie place full of sad, empty halls and echoing, rubble-filled cisterns. Preserved by centuries of warm Mediterranean weather it seemed only newly deserted and so doubly melancholy.