Alamut Read online

  Alamut was originally written in 1938 as an allegory to Mussolini’s fascist state. In the 1960s it became a cult favorite throughout Tito’s Yugoslavia, and in the 1990s, during the war in the Balkans, it was read as an allegory of the region’s strife and became a bestseller in Germany, France, and Spain. The book once again took on a new life following the attacks of 9/11/2001 because of its early description of the world of suicide bombers in fanatical sects, selling more than 20,000 copies in a new Slovenian edition.

  “First published sixty years ago, Alamut is a literary classic by Slovenian writer Vladimir Bartol, a deftly researched and presented historical novel about one of the world’s first political terrorists, eleventh-century Ismaili leader Hasan ibn Sabbah, whose machinations with drugs and carnal pleasures deceived his followers into believing that he would deliver them to a paradise in the afterlife, so that they would destroy themselves in suicide missions for him. Flawlessly translated into English (and also published in eighteen other languages), Alamut portrays even the most Machiavellian individuals as human—ruthless or murderous, but also subject to human virtues, vices, and tragedies. An afterword by Michael Biggins offering context on the author’s life, the juxtaposition of his writing to the rise of dictatorial conquest that would erupt into World War II, and the medley of reactions to its publication, both in the author’s native Slovenia and worldwide, round out this superb masterpiece. An absolute must-have for East European literature shelves, and quite simply a thoroughly compelling novel cover to cover.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “For all of its provocative ideas and sometimes eerily prescient incidents, Alamut is also successful simply as an entertaining yarn … Bartol devises a shifting collage of passions, adventure, and sacrifice. The book’s exotic settings are sumptuously described, and the characters are charismatic and complex—despite the fervent aims of some of them to subscribe to single-minded devotion.”

  —Seattle Times

  “Alamut is … a finely wrought, undiscovered minor masterpiece that offers … a wealth of meticulously planned and executed detail and broad potential for symbolic, intertextual, and philosophical interpretation.”

  —From the Afterword by Michael Biggins, translator

  “Whoever wants to understand the success of the Al Qaeda leader’s strategy should read Bartol. It is as if Osama bin Laden himself concocted the most powerful fist of his organization only after reading Alamut! The dates line up fatally: The novel was published in Iran in 1995 and was clearly so attractive that it was translated again within four years. In 1996 the suicide attack on the American Embassy in Kenya begins.”

  —Bernard Nezmah, Mladina (Slovenian newsmagazine)

  Translation copyright © 2007 by Michael Biggins. North American Trade Edition © 2007.

  English Translation © 2011 North Atlantic Books. Afterword © 2004 Michael Biggins.

  © 1988 Editions Phébus, Paris.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book, except for brief review, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the written permission of the publishers. For information contact North Atlantic Books. The translation was made possible in part by a grant from 4Culture, Seattle, Washington.

  Published by North Atlantic Books

  P.O. Box 12327

  Berkeley, California 94712

  Cover image by Shirin Neshat: “Untitled.” 1996 RC print & ink (photo taken by Larry Barns) 47-7/8 × 33-3/4 inches © 1996 Shirin Neshat, courtesy Gladstone Gallery, New York

  Cover design © 2007, Ayelet Maida, A/M Studios.

  Writing on hand by Forough Farokhzad:

  I Feel Sorry for the Garden

  No one is thinking about the flowers

  No one is thinking about the fish

  No one wants to believe

  that the garden is dying

  that the garden’s heart has swollen under the sun

  that the garden

  is slowly forgetting its green moments …

  Alamut is sponsored by the Society for the Study of Native Arts and Sciences, a nonprofit educational corporation whose goals are to develop an educational and cross-cultural perspective linking various scientific, social, and artistic fields; to nurture a holistic view of arts, sciences, humanities, and healing; and to publish and distribute literature on the relationship of mind, body, and nature.

  North Atlantic Books’ publications are available through most bookstores. For further information, visit our website at www.northatlanticbooks.com or call 800-733-3000.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bartol, Vladimir, 1903–1967.

  [Alamut. English]

  Alamut / Vladimir Bartol; translated by Michael Biggins.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-1-58394-695-4

  1. Hasan ibn al-Sabbah, d. 1124–Fiction. I. Biggins, Michael.

  PG1918.B33A7813 2007

  891.8′435—dc22

  2007022226

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Publisher’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Afterword

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  NOTHING IS TRUE, EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED.

  —The Supreme Ismaili Motto

  OMNIA IN NUMERO ET MENSURA

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  “The most blinkered reading of Alamut,” writes translator Michael Biggins in his afterword to this edition, “might reinforce some stereotypical notions of the Middle East as the exclusive home of fanatics and unquestioning fundamentalists … But careful readers should come away from Alamut with something very different.”

  In publishing this book, we aim to undermine hateful stereotypes, not reinforce them. What we celebrate in Alamut is the ways in which the author reveals how any ideology can be manipulated by a charismatic leader and morph individual beliefs into fanaticism. Alamut can be seen as an argument against systems of belief that eliminate one’s ability to act and think morally. The key conclusions of Hassan ibn Sabbah’s story are not that Islam or religion inherently predisposes one towards terrorism, but that any ideology, whether religious, nationalistic, or otherwise, can be exploited in dramatic and dangerous ways. Indeed, Alamut was written in response to the European political climate of 1938, as totalitarian forces gathered power over the continent.

  We hope that the thoughts, beliefs, and motivations of these characters are not taken as a representation of Islam or as any sort of proof that Islam condones violence or suicide bombing. Doctrines presented in this book, including the supreme Ismaili motto of “Nothing is true, everything is permitted,” do not correspond to the beliefs of the majority of Muslims throughout the ages, but rather to a relatively small sect.

  It is in this spirit we offer our edition of this book. We hope you’ll read and appreciate it as such.

  CHAPTER ONE

  In mid-spring of the year 1092 a good-sized caravan was wending its way along the old milita
ry trail that leads from Samarkand and Bukhara through northern Khorasan and then meanders through the foothills of the Elburz Mountains. It had left Bukhara as the snow started to melt, and had been underway for several weeks. The drivers brandished their whips, shouting hoarsely at the caravan’s draft animals, which were already on the verge of exhaustion. One after the other in a long procession stepped Arabian dromedaries, mules, and two-humped camels from Turkestan, submissively carrying their freight. An armed escort rode short, shaggy horses, glancing in equal measures of boredom and longing at the long chain of mountains that had begun to emerge on the horizon. They were tired of the slow ride and could barely wait to arrive at their destination. They drew closer and closer to the snow-covered cone of Mount Demavend, until it was blocked out by the foothills that absorbed the trail. Fresh mountain air started to blow, reviving the people and livestock by day. But the nights were ice cold, and both escorts and drivers stood around the campfires, grumbling and rubbing their hands.

  Fastened between the two humps of one of the camels was a small shelter resembling a cage. From time to time a small hand drew the curtain aside from its window, and the face of a frightened little girl looked out. Her large eyes, red from crying, looked at the strangers surrounding her as if seeking an answer to the difficult question that had tormented her for the entire journey: where were they taking her, and what did they plan to do with her? But no one noticed aside from the caravan leader, a stern man of about fifty in a loose Arab cloak and an imposing white turban, who would blink in disapproval when he caught sight of her through the opening. At those moments she would quickly pull the curtain shut and retreat inside the cage. Ever since she had been bought from her master in Bukhara, she had been living in a combination of mortal fear and thrilling curiosity about the fate that was awaiting her.

  One day, as they neared the end of their journey, a band of horsemen raced down the hillside to their right and blocked their path. The animals at the head of the caravan stopped on their own. The leader and escort reached for their heavy, curved sabers and assumed positions for a charge. A man on a short brown horse separated from the attackers and came close enough to the caravan that his voice was audible. He called out a password and received a response from the caravan leader. The two men galloped toward each other and exchanged courteous greetings, and then the new troop took over leadership. The caravan turned off the trail and headed into the brush, traveling this way until well into the night. Eventually they made camp on the floor of a small valley, from where they could hear the distant drumming of a mountain torrent. They built fires, ate hastily, and then fell asleep like the dead.

  When dawn came they were back on their feet. The caravan leader approached the shelter, which the drivers had unfastened from the camel’s back the night before and set down on the ground. He pushed the curtain aside and called out in a gruff voice, “Halima!”

  The frightened little face appeared at the window; then the low, narrow door opened. The leader’s firm hand grabbed the girl by her wrist and pulled her out of the shelter.

  Halima’s whole body was shaking. Now I’m done for, she thought. The commander of the strangers who had joined the caravan the previous day held a black bandage in his hand. The caravan leader signaled to him, and the man wordlessly put the kerchief over the girl’s eyes and knotted it tightly at the back of her head. Then he mounted his horse, pulled the girl up into the saddle with him, and covered her in his vast cloak. He and the caravan leader exchanged a few words. Then he spurred his horse into a gallop. Halima shrank into a tiny ball and clung fearfully to the rider.

  The sound of the torrent grew closer and closer. At one point they stopped and the rider briefly spoke to someone. Then he spurred his horse again. But soon he was riding more slowly and cautiously, and Halima thought that the path must be very narrow and lead right along the edge of the mountain stream. Cool air wafted up from below, and terror once again constricted her heart.

  They stopped again. Halima heard shouting and clanking, and when they set off at a gallop again, there was a muffled rumbling beneath the horse’s hooves. They had crossed a bridge over the rapids.

  What followed seemed like a terrible nightmare. She heard a tumult of shouting, as though an entire army of men were quarreling. The rider dismounted without letting her out of his cloak. He raced with her first over level ground, then down some steps, until it seemed to have grown very dark. Suddenly he threw his cloak open and Halima felt someone else’s hands take hold of her. She shuddered in near-mortal terror. The person who had taken her from the horseman laughed quietly. He headed off with her down a corridor. Suddenly a strange chill enveloped her, as though they had entered a cellar. She tried not to think at all but didn’t succeed. She was sure she was coming ever closer to the last and most horrible moment.

  The man who was holding her began to feel along the wall with his free hand, which finally found some object and firmly pushed it. A gong reverberated loudly.

  Halima cried out and tried to break free of the man’s arms. He only laughed and said, almost kindly, “Don’t wail, little peacock. Nobody is going to touch you.”

  Iron chains jangled and Halima once again saw flickers of light through the blindfold. They’re throwing me in jail, she thought. The stream roared beneath her and she held her breath.

  She heard the tread of bare feet. Someone was approaching, and the man who was holding her handed her off to the newcomer.

  “Here she is, Adi,” he said.

  The arms that took her now were lion-strong and completely bare. The man’s chest must have been bare too. She could feel this when he lifted her up. He had to be a real giant.

  Halima submitted to her fate. From this point on, she paid close attention to what was happening to her but offered no resistance. Carrying her, the man ran across a springy footbridge that swung unpleasantly under their weight. Then the ground started to crunch beneath his feet, as though it were covered with fine gravel. She could feel the pleasant warmth of the sun’s rays and light penetrating her blindfold. And suddenly out of nowhere came the smell of fresh vegetation and flowers.

  The man jumped into a boat, causing it to rock heavily. Halima cried out and clutched onto the giant. He gave a high-pitched, almost childlike laugh and said kindly, “Don’t worry, little gazelle. I’m going to row you over to the other side, and then we’ll be home. Here, sit down.”

  He set her down on a comfortable seat and started rowing.

  She thought she heard laughter in the distance—lighthearted, girlish laughter. She listened closely. No, she wasn’t mistaken. She could already make out individual voices. She felt as though a weight had been lifted from her heart. Perhaps nothing bad awaited her in a place where people were this happy.

  The boat pressed up against the shore. The man took her up in his arms and stepped out onto dry land. He carried her a few steps uphill and then set her down on her feet. A loud commotion surrounded them, and Halima heard the slap of many sandals approaching. The giant laughed and called out, “Here she is.”

  Then he returned to the boat and rowed it back.

  One of the girls approached Halima to take off her blindfold, while the rest spoke to each other.

  “Look how tiny she is,” one said.

  Another added, “And how young still. She’s a child.”

  “Look how thin she’s gotten,” a third observed. “The journey must have done that to her.”

  “She’s as tall and slim as a cypress.”

  The blindfold slid from Halima’s eyes. She was astonished. Endless gardens in the first bloom of spring extended as far as she could see. The girls surrounding her were more beautiful than houris. The most beautiful one of them all had removed her blindfold.

  “Where am I?” she asked in a timid voice.

  The girls laughed, as though amused by her timidity. She blushed. But the beauty who had removed her blindfold gently put an arm around her waist and said, “Don’t worry, dear child. Y
ou’re among good people.”

  Her voice was warm and protective. Halima pressed close to her while silly thoughts swam through her head. Maybe I’ve been brought to some prince, she mused to herself.

  They led her along a path that was strewn with white, round pebbles. To the right and left, flower beds were laid out symmetrically, filled with blossoming tulips and hyacinths of all sizes and colors. Some of the tulips were blazing yellow, others were bright red or violet, and still others were variegated or speckled. The hyacinths were white and pale pink, light and dark blue, pale violet and light yellow. Some of them were delicate and transparent, as though made of glass. Violets and primrose grew at the borders. Elsewhere irises and narcissuses were budding. Here and there a magnificent white lily opened its first flowers. The air was saturated with a delirious scent.

  Halima was amazed.

  They walked past rose gardens. The bushes were carefully pruned, and there were plump buds on the branches, some of them already producing red, white and yellow flowers.

  The path led them still farther through thick groves of pomegranates, dense with red flowers. Then came rows of lemon and peach trees. They came upon orchards of almonds and quinces, apples and pears.

  Halima’s eyes widened.

  “What’s your name, little one?” one of the girls asked her.

  “Halima,” she whispered almost soundlessly.

  They laughed at Halima so much that tears nearly came to their eyes.

  “Stop laughing, you nasty monkeys,” Halima’s protector scolded them. “Leave the girl alone. Let her catch her breath. She’s tired and confused.”

  To Halima she said, “Don’t take them wrong. They’re young and boisterous and when you get to know them better, you’ll see they aren’t mean. They’re going to like you a lot.”

  They came to a cypress grove. Halima heard the purling of water from all sides. Somewhere far off, the water rumbled like rapids funneling into a waterfall. Something glinted through the trees. Halima was curious. Soon she was able to make out a small castle in a clearing, showing white in the sunlight. The castle fronted a circular pond with a fountain. They paused here and Halima looked around.