Episode XII: Splendor and Siege in Isfahan

The summer of 1262 was drawing to a close when the Báb left Shíráz for the last time.

He did not leave alone. Siyyid Kázim-i-Zanjání accompanied Him on the road to Isfahán, one of the great cities of Persia, seat of provincial power, stronghold of ecclesiastical authority, and the kind of place where a young claimant could be either crowned by public opinion or crushed by it. As He neared the outskirts, the Báb wrote a letter to the governor, Manúchihr Khán, the Mu’tamídu’d-Dawlih, requesting him to signify where He should dwell. He entrusted the letter to Siyyid Kázim.

The courtesy of that letter, and the beauty of its penmanship, moved the governor to act at once. He instructed the Sultánu’l-‘Ulamá, the Imám-Jum’ih of Isfahán, the foremost ecclesiastical authority in the province, to receive the Báb in his own home. The Imám-Jum’ih sent his own brother to meet and escort the expected Visitor to the gate of the city. That brother would later earn, by the savagery of his conduct in years to come, the title “Raqshá” from Bahá’u’lláh. But for now, the reception was ceremonious. The Imám-Jum’ih went out in person to welcome the Báb and conducted Him to his house.

What followed stunned Isfahán.

On a certain Friday, as the Báb was returning from the public bath, a crowd pressed forward, clamoring for the water He had used for His ablutions. They believed it could heal them. The Imám-Jum’ih himself, the highest-ranking cleric in the province, seized the ewer from the hand of his chief steward. He set aside every dignity of his office. And he poured the water over the hands of the Báb with his own hands.

One night after supper, curiosity overtook reverence. The Imám-Jum’ih asked his Guest to reveal a commentary on the Súrih of Va’l-‘Asr. The Báb called for pen and paper. Without the slightest premeditation, He began to write. The speed was astonishing. By the time the hour neared midnight, He was still expounding the implications of the Súrih’s very first letter, the letter “váv,” upon which Shaykh Ahmad-i-Ahsá’í had already laid such weight in his own writings, and which symbolized for the Báb the advent of a new cycle of Divine Revelation.

Then the Báb began to chant. He chanted the homily that prefaced the commentary, and His voice did something to the room that argument alone could not do. His hearers rose instinctively to their feet. Together with the Imám-Jum’ih, they kissed the hem of His garment.

One man broke the silence. Mullá Muhammad-Taqíy-i-Haratí, an eminent mujtahid, could not contain himself. “Peerless and unique,” he declared, “as are the words which have streamed from this pen, to be able to reveal, within so short a time and in so legible a writing, so great a number of verses as to equal a fourth, nay a third, of the Qur’án, is in itself an achievement such as no mortal, without the intervention of God, could hope to perform. Neither the cleaving of the moon nor the quickening of the pebbles of the sea can compare with so mighty an act.”

This same Mullá Muhammad-Taqí was privileged to meet the Báb every day during those weeks. With the Báb’s consent, he undertook to translate one of His works, the Risáliy-i-Furú-i-‘Adlíyyih, from its original Arabic into Persian, a real service to the believers who could not read Arabic. But fear later seized him. He severed his connection with the Faith entirely. The man who had compared the Báb’s revelation to something mightier than the cleaving of the moon walked away from what he had witnessed.

As the Báb’s fame spread through the city, the stream of visitors to the Imám-Jum’ih’s house became unceasing. The Mu’tamíd himself came one day to visit. He sat in the midst of an assemblage of the most accomplished divines of Isfahán and asked them to demonstrate the validity of the Nubuvvat-i-Kháshshih, the specific prophetic mission of Muhammad. No one among them could produce an adequate response. Then he turned to the Báb. “Which do you prefer,” the Báb asked, “a verbal or a written answer to your question?” The governor chose written, so that present and future generations alike could benefit.

The Báb took up His pen. In less than two hours He filled roughly fifty pages: a sweeping, vigorous inquiry into the origin, character, and influence of Islám. The originality of it, the vividness, the command of minutest detail, no one present could deny what they were seeing. In the closing passages, the Báb linked the argument to the advent of the promised Qá’im and the return of the Imám Husayn, and argued with such force that the assembly sat stunned.

The Mu’tamíd could not restrain himself. “Hear me!” he cried. “Members of this revered assembly, I take you as my witnesses. Never until this day have I in my heart been firmly convinced of the truth of Islám. I can henceforth, thanks to this exposition penned by this Youth, declare myself a firm believer in the Faith proclaimed by the Apostle of God. I solemnly testify to my belief in the reality of the superhuman power with which this Youth is endowed, a power which no amount of learning can ever impart.”

That public triumph broke the equilibrium of the city.

The ecclesiastical authorities of Isfahán watched their own ground shift beneath them. They saw an unlearned Youth acquiring authority over the thoughts and consciences of their followers. A few of the shrewder clergy held back from open confrontation, they knew it would only enhance the Báb’s prestige. But the rest moved to attack. Muhammad-Mihdí, surnamed the Safíhu’l-‘Ulamá’, son of the late Hájí Kalbásí, began to calumniate the Báb from the pulpit in the most unseemly language. Reports reached Tihrán and landed on the desk of Hájí Mírzá Áqásí, the Grand Vazír. He understood the danger at once: if Muhammad Sháh ever met the Báb, the king would be won. And the Grand Vazír would fall. He sent a scorching letter to the Imám-Jum’ih, upbraiding him for sheltering the author of what he called an obscure and contemptible movement. He showered favors on the hostile clergy he had previously ignored.

The Imám-Jum’ih did not abandon his Guest outright, but he quietly instructed his associates to reduce the flow of visitors. The pressure was beginning to work.

The Mu’tamíd responded. He invited the Báb, and several leading figures, to a gathering at his own home. Hájí Siyyid Asadu’lláh, son of the late Hájí Siyyid Muhammad-Báqir, refused the invitation. He tried to dissuade the others from going. His words were remarkable, not for their courage, but for their precision of fear. “He will reassert his claim,” Asadu’lláh warned, “and will adduce whatever proof you desire, and without the least hesitation will reveal verses equal in number to half the Qur’án. In the end he will challenge you: ‘Produce likewise, if ye are men of truth.’ We can in no wise successfully resist him. If we disdain to answer, our impotence is exposed. If we submit, we forfeit our own prerogatives and commit ourselves to whatever further claims he may make.”

Some heeded that counsel. Hájí Muhammad-Ja’far did not attend. But Muhammad-Mihdí came, and so did Mírzá Hasan-i-Núrí, a noted Platonist. At the Mu’tamíd’s invitation, Mírzá Hasan asked the Báb to explain certain abstruse doctrines connected with the Arshíyyih of Mullá Sadrá, material whose meaning only a few had been able to unravel. The Báb answered in simple and unconventional language. Mírzá Hasan could not fully apprehend the answers, but he saw plainly how inferior the so-called masters of Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy were to this Youth.

Then Muhammad-Mihdí, the same man who had been calumniating the Báb from the pulpit, ventured to question Him on matters of Islamic law. He was not satisfied with what he heard. He began to contend. The Mu’tamíd cut him short. He called for an attendant, ordered a lantern lit, and had Muhammad-Mihdí escorted from his home.

The Mu’tamíd now saw clearly what was coming. He confided his fears to the Imám-Jum’ih. The Báb’s enemies were gathering force. The Sháh had summoned Him to Tihrán. Concealment was the only path left. The Imám-Jum’ih acceded. He returned to his own house alone. The Báb had spent forty days in his residence.

Before the transfer to the Mu’tamíd’s home, one more evening unfolded, and it carried consequences that would reach across generations. Mírzá Ibráhím, father of the Sultánu’sh-Shuhadá’ and elder brother of Mírzá Muhammad-‘Alíy-i-Nahrí, invited the Báb to his home for a banquet. Mírzá Ibráhím was a friend and close associate of the Imám-Jum’ih and managed his affairs. The feast he spread was of unsurpassed magnificence, it was commonly observed that no official or notable in the city had offered anything to match it. The Sultánu’sh-Shuhadá’ and his brother the Mahbúbu’sh-Shuhadá’, lads of nine and eleven, served at that table and received special attention from the Báb.

During dinner, Mírzá Ibráhím turned to his Guest. “My brother, Mírzá Muhammad-‘Alí, has no child,” he said. “I beg You to intercede in his behalf and to grant his heart’s desire.” The Báb took a portion of the food He had been served, placed it with His own hands on a platter, and handed it to His host. “Let them both partake of this,” He said. “Their wish will be fulfilled.”

It was fulfilled. Mírzá Muhammad-‘Alí’s wife conceived and gave birth to a daughter who would eventually be joined in wedlock with the Most Great Branch, a union that came to be regarded as the consummation of the hopes her parents had carried that night.

Two boys. A platter of food. A quiet word. And a bloodline that would shape the future of a Faith.

Then the trap closed.

The high honors accorded to the Báb inflamed the clergy beyond recovery. They summoned a gathering and issued a written document, signed and sealed by all the ecclesiastical leaders of the city, condemning the Báb to death. All concurred except two: Hájí Siyyid Asadu’lláh and Hájí Muhammad-Ja’far-i-Ábádiyí, who refused to associate themselves with so abusive a document. The Imám-Jum’ih declined to sign the death warrant. But cowardice and ambition found their own solution. In his own handwriting, he added a testimony: “I testify that in the course of my association with this youth I have been unable to discover any act that would in any way betray his repudiation of the doctrines of Islám. On the contrary, I have known him as a pious and loyal observer of its precepts. The extravagance of his claims, however, and his disdainful contempt for the things of the world, incline me to believe that he is devoid of reason and judgment.”

He could not call the Báb guilty. So he called Him insane.

The Mu’tamíd learned of the condemnation and moved immediately. The plan he devised was intricate, precise, and calculated to deceive an entire city.

Toward sunset, five hundred horsemen of the governor’s own mounted bodyguard rode out from the gates of Isfahán with the Báb at their center, heading in the direction of Tihrán. At the completion of each farsang, one hundred horsemen turned back. When only a hundred remained, the Mu’tamíd’s most trusted officer took command. At every maydán, twenty more were dismissed. Of the last twenty, ten were sent to Ardistán to collect taxes, a plausible errand that disguised the operation. The remaining ten, all men of absolute loyalty, took the Báb by an unfrequented route and brought Him back to Isfahán in disguise, timing their march so He arrived before dawn.

At an unsuspected hour, the Báb re-entered the city. He was conducted directly to the Mu’tamíd’s private residence, the Imárat-i-Khurshíd, and brought through a side entrance reserved for the governor himself. No public eye saw Him pass.

The governor waited on Him in person. He served His meals. He guarded His safety. And the city buzzed with wild rumors: the Báb had been sent to Tihrán, the Báb had suffered punishment, the Báb had been condemned. The believers in Isfahán were consumed with grief.

The Mu’tamíd, who knew their anguish, interceded. The Báb addressed a few words in His own handwriting to Mullá ‘Abdu’l-Karím-i-Qazvíní, who had taken up quarters in the madrisih of Ním-Ávard. The Mu’tamíd sent the message by a trusted courier. An hour later, Mullá ‘Abdu’l-Karím was ushered into the Báb’s presence. No one except the governor knew. He received writings from the Báb and was instructed to transcribe them in collaboration with Siyyid Husayn-i-Yazdí and Shaykh Hasan-i-Zunúzí. He returned to them carrying the news: the Báb was alive, safe, and hidden at the heart of provincial power. Of all the believers in Isfahán, these three alone were permitted to see Him.

Then came the conversation that laid bare the fault line between worldly ambition and divine purpose.

One day the Mu’tamíd sat with the Báb in his private garden, within the courtyard of his house. He spoke with the imagination of a man who had the means to reshape the political order of Persia. “The almighty Giver has endowed me with great riches,” he began. “I know not how best to use them. Now that I have been led to recognize this Revelation, it is my ardent desire to consecrate all my possessions to the furtherance of its interests. I will proceed to Tihrán and win Muhammad Sháh to this Cause, his confidence in me is firm. I will induce him to dismiss the profligate Hájí Mírzá Áqásí, whose folly has brought this land to the verge of ruin. I will obtain for You the hand of one of the sisters of the Sháh, and will myself prepare the nuptials. And I will incline the hearts of rulers and kings to this Cause, and uproot every trace of that corrupt ecclesiastical hierarchy that has stained the fair name of Islám.”

The Báb answered with gratitude, and with correction that cut to the bone.

“May God requite you for your noble intentions. So lofty a purpose is to Me even more precious than the act itself. Your days and Mine are numbered, however; they are too short to enable Me to witness, and allow you to achieve, the realization of your hopes. Not by the means which you fondly imagine will an almighty Providence accomplish the triumph of His Faith. Through the poor and lowly of this land, by the blood which these shall have shed in His path, will the omnipotent Sovereign ensure the preservation and consolidate the foundation of His Cause.”

Then the Báb told him what no statesman could plan for.

“Of the span of your earthly life there remain only three months and nine days, after which you shall, with faith and certitude, hasten to your eternal abode.”

The Mu’tamíd received that sentence with joy. He wrote his testament. He settled his affairs. He bequeathed everything he possessed to the Báb.

As his remaining days narrowed, he drew closer. He sought the Báb’s presence more and more, and in those intimate hours he gained a deeper understanding of the spirit that animated this Faith. One day he said: “As the hour of my departure approaches, I feel an undefinable joy pervading my soul. But I am apprehensive for You. I tremble at the thought of being compelled to leave You to the mercy of so ruthless a successor as Gurgín Khán.”

The Báb answered: “Fear not. I have committed Myself into the hands of God. My trust is in Him. Such is the power He has bestowed upon Me that if it be My wish, I can convert these very stones into gems of inestimable value, and can instil into the heart of the most wicked criminal the loftiest conceptions of uprightness and duty. Of My own will have I chosen to be afflicted by My enemies, ’that God might accomplish the thing destined to be done.’”

A slight attack of fever, lasting a single night, ended the life of Manúchihr Khán. He died serene and certain.

Before the end came, the Báb had already acted. He summoned Siyyid Husayn-i-Yazdí and Mullá ‘Abdu’l-Karím, told them of the prophecy He had given the governor, and instructed them to disperse the believers to Káshán, Qum, and Tihrán, to scatter and wait for whatever God would decree.

Then everything the Mu’tamíd had feared came to pass.

His nephew, the rapacious Gurgín Khán, succeeded him. He discovered the testament bequeathing everything to the Báb, and destroyed it. He seized the property. He ignored every wish his predecessor had expressed.

A few days after the death, someone who knew the secret informed Gurgín Khán that the Báb was still in the Imárat-i-Khurshíd, had been there all along. Gurgín Khán sent a message directly to Muhammad Sháh: “Four months ago it was generally believed in Isfahán that the Mu’tamídu’d-Dawlih had sent the Siyyid-i-Báb to the seat of your Majesty’s government. It has now been disclosed that this same siyyid is actually occupying the Imárat-i-Khurshíd. My predecessor himself extended the hospitality of his home and guarded that secret from both the people and the officials of this city. Whatever it pleases your Majesty to decree, I pledge myself to perform.”

The Sháh understood what had happened. The Mu’tamíd had meant to arrange a royal audience. Death had interrupted. Muhammad Sháh issued an imperial mandate: the Báb was to be sent in disguise, in the company of a mounted escort headed by Muhammad Big-i-Chaparchí, of the sect of the ‘Alíyu’lláhí. He was to be treated with utmost consideration. The departure was to be kept strictly secret.

Gurgín Khán delivered the mandate into the Báb’s hands. He summoned Muhammad Big and gave him the Sháh’s orders. “Beware,” he warned, “lest anyone discover his identity or suspect the nature of your mission. No one but you, not even the members of his escort, should be allowed to recognize him. Should anyone question you, say that he is a merchant whom we have been instructed to conduct to the capital, and of whose identity we are completely ignorant.”

Soon after midnight, the Báb left Isfahán.

He had entered the city with a letter so gracious that the governor opened his province to Him. He had silenced its scholars, awed its clerics, terrified its clergy into issuing a death warrant they could not enforce. He had been sheltered at the private heart of provincial power by a man who learned to love Him, was told the hour of his own death, and died at peace.

Now He left in disguise, at midnight, under a false name, a merchant no one was supposed to recognize.

And the men escorting Him to Tihrán did not yet know that they were carrying the future of Persia on the road ahead of them.