Episode XXIII: Flames Over Nayriz

A regiment and a mob were closing on the house. From the upper floor, Vahíd sat beside a window with a sword before him and a saddled horse waiting below.

“This very sword,” he told the terrified companions who had gathered around him, “was given me by the Qá’im Himself. God knows, had I been authorized by Him to wage holy warfare against this people, I would, alone and unaided, have annihilated their forces. I am, however, commanded to refrain.”

Then his eyes fell on the horse his servant Hasan had brought to the front of the house. “This very steed,” he continued, “the late Muhammad Sháh gave me, that with it I might conduct an impartial investigation into the nature of the Faith proclaimed by the Siyyid-i-Báb.” The Shah had chosen him above every other ecclesiastical leader in Tihran because he alone could be trusted. He had ridden to the Báb determined to refute His claims, to break His arguments, to bring Him back to the capital as proof of his triumph. “When I came into His presence, however, the opposite of that which I had imagined took place. In the course of my first audience with Him, I was utterly abashed and confounded; by the end of the second, I felt as helpless and ignorant as a child; the third found me as lowly as the dust beneath His feet.”

That window in Yazd was the end of a long road. It had begun in Burújird and Kurdistán, where Vahíd was teaching the Cause when word reached him that Mullá Husayn had departed for Mázindarán. He rushed to the capital, prepared to ride to the fort of Tabarsí. But Bahá’u’lláh arrived from Mázindarán and told him it was impossible to join his brethren. The news crushed him. His only consolation in those days was to visit Bahá’u’lláh frequently and receive His counsel.

So Vahíd turned to the work still open to him. He set out for Qazvín, continued to Qum and Káshán, met his fellow believers, and reinforced their efforts. From there he pressed on to Isfahán, Ardistán, and Ardikán, in each city proclaiming the fundamental teachings of his Master with zest and fearlessness, winning over a considerable number of supporters wherever he stopped. He reached Yazd in time for Naw-Rúz. He was a man of renowned influence who possessed, in addition to his house in Yazd where his wife and four sons had settled, a home in Daráb, the abode of his ancestors, and another in Nayríz, superbly furnished.

He arrived in Yazd on the first of Jamádiyu’l-Avval, 1266, the fifth day of which, the anniversary of the Báb’s Declaration, coincided with Naw-Rúz. Every leading cleric and notable in the city came to greet him. Among them sat Navváb-i-Radaví, the meanest and most prominent of his adversaries. The Navváb looked over the lavish reception and let his malice show. “The Sháh’s imperial banquet,” he remarked loud enough for the room to hear, “can scarcely hope to rival the sumptuous repast you have spread before us. I suspect that in addition to this national festival we are celebrating, you commemorate another one besides it.”

Vahíd’s retort was bold and sarcastic. The entire company laughed. They knew the Navváb’s avarice and wickedness, and they applauded the appropriateness of the reply. The Navváb, who had never been ridiculed before so large and distinguished a gathering, burned with it. The hatred he had been nursing blazed with new intensity.

But Vahíd had not come to trade insults. He seized the occasion. Before that same assembly of civil and ecclesiastical dignitaries, he proclaimed, fearlessly and without reserve, the basic principles of his Faith and demonstrated their validity. Most of his listeners had only vague knowledge of the Cause. Some were irresistibly drawn and embraced it on the spot. The rest, unable to challenge his arguments publicly, denounced him in their hearts and swore to destroy his influence by every means in their power. That very day their forces combined. That very day the episode began.

Word spread like wildfire through Yazd and the surrounding district. From Ardikán and Manshad, from distant towns and villages, crowds poured toward Vahíd’s house. “What are we to do?” they asked. “In what manner do you advise us to show forth the sincerity of our faith?” From morning to night, for forty days, Vahíd was absorbed in resolving their questions and directing their steps. His house became the rallying center of an innumerable host of devotees, men and women alike, who yearned to demonstrate the spirit of the Faith that had fired their souls.

The commotion gave the Navváb his pretext. He drew in the governor of the city, young, inexperienced, easily manipulated, and induced him to send a force of armed men to besiege Vahíd’s house. While the regiment marched, a mob composed of the city’s most degraded elements moved toward the same place, determined by threats and curses to intimidate its occupants.

That was the scene at the window. Vahíd, seated above, his sword before him, his horse below, telling the men around him that the very author of his faith had forbidden him to fight.

His words calmed them. He told them to be patient, that the Almighty would inflict, with His own invisible hand, a crushing defeat upon their enemies.

Then the impossible happened. Muhammad-‘Abdu’lláh, a man no one suspected of being still alive, erupted from hiding with a band of companions who had likewise disappeared. They raised the cry of “Yá Sáhibu’z-Zamán!” and flung themselves upon the besiegers. Muhammad-‘Abdu’lláh fought with such courage that the entire detachment abandoned their arms and fled, together with the governor, into the fort of Narin.

That night Muhammad-‘Abdu’lláh sought out Vahíd and assured him of his devotion to the Cause. He laid out plans for subjugating the enemy. Vahíd thanked him for averting an unforeseen calamity, but warned him what would follow. “Until now our contest with these people was limited to an argument centering round the Revelation of the Sáhibu’z-Zamán. The Navváb, however, will henceforth be induced to instigate the people against us, and will contend that I have arisen to establish my undisputed sovereignty over the entire province and intend to extend it over the whole of Persia.” He urged Muhammad-‘Abdu’lláh to leave the city immediately.

Muhammad-‘Abdu’lláh refused. “It would be cowardly of me,” he said, “to abandon my friends to the mercy of an irate and murderous adversary. What, then, would be the difference between me and those who forsook the Siyyidu’sh-Shuhada on the day of Ashura, and left him companionless on the field of Karbilá?” He marched to the fort of Narin and drove its forces behind its walls, keeping the governor confined inside.

Meanwhile the Navváb raised a general upheaval. The mass of the city’s inhabitants prepared to attack Vahíd’s house. So Vahíd summoned Siyyid ‘Abdu’l-‘Azim-i-Khú’í, known as the Siyyid-i-Khal-Dar, a man of commanding dignity who had once fought at the fort of Tabarsí, and ordered him to mount Vahíd’s own steed. He was to ride through every street and bazaar with a public appeal. “Let them know that I disclaim any intention of waging holy warfare against them,” Vahíd instructed. “Let them be warned, however, that if they persist in besieging my house and continue their attacks upon me, in utter defiance of my position and lineage, I shall be constrained, as a measure of self-defense, to resist and disperse their forces. If they choose to reject my counsel and yield to the whisperings of the crafty Navváb, I will order seven of my companions to repulse their forces shamefully and to crush their hopes.”

The Siyyid-i-Khal-Dar leaped onto the steed. Escorted by four chosen companions, he rode through the market and pealed out, in accents of compelling majesty, the warning he had been given. Then he added words of his own. “Beware, if you despise our plea. My lifted voice, I warn you, will prove sufficient to cause the very walls of your fort to tremble, and the strength of my arm will be capable of breaking down the resistance of its gates!”

His stentorian voice rang like a trumpet. The terrified population declared with one voice their intention to lay down their swords and cease to molest Vahíd.

But the Navváb would not stop. He redirected the attack toward Muhammad-‘Abdu’lláh and his men stationed near the fort. The governor sallied out and combined his forces with the Navváb’s recruits. Muhammad-‘Abdu’lláh had begun to scatter the mob when a bullet struck his foot and threw him to the ground. His brother carried him to safety and then, at his insistence, to Vahíd’s house.

The enemy followed. They surrounded the house, determined to seize him. The clamor forced Vahíd to act. He ordered Mullá Muhammad-Riday-i-Manshadí, one of the most enlightened clerics of Manshad, a man who had discarded his turban and volunteered to serve as Vahíd’s doorkeeper, to sally forth with six companions. “Let each one of you raise his voice and repeat seven times the words ‘Alláh-u-Akbar,’ and on your seventh invocation spring forward at one and the same moment into the midst of your assailants.”

Mullá Muhammad-Rida, whom Bahá’u’lláh had named Rada’r-Rúh, sprang to his feet. His companions, frail of form and untrained in swordsmanship, were fired with a faith that made them the terror of their adversaries. Seven of the most formidable among the enemy fell that day, the twenty-seventh of Jamádiyu’th-Thání. When they returned to the house, Muhammad-‘Abdu’lláh lay wounded before them. He was eventually seized and slain by the enemy.

That night Vahíd made his preparations. He told his companions to disperse and exercise the utmost vigilance. Then he turned to his wife and told her to take the children and her belongings to her father’s house, but to leave behind whatever was his.

“This palatial residence,” he told her, “I have built with the sole intention that it should be eventually demolished in the path of the Cause, and the stately furnishings with which I have adorned it have been purchased in the hope that one day I shall be able to sacrifice them for the sake of my Beloved. Then will friend and foe alike realize that he who owned this house was endowed with so great and priceless a heritage that an earthly mansion, however sumptuously adorned and magnificently equipped, had no worth in his eyes; that it had sunk, in his estimation, to the state of a heap of bones to which only the dogs of the earth could feel attracted.”

In the mid-watches of that night, he arose. He collected the writings of the Báb that were in his possession and the copies of all the treatises he himself had composed. He entrusted them to his servant Hasan and ordered him to carry them to a place outside the city gate where the road branches toward Mihríz. Wait for me there, he said. And he warned him: if you disregard my instructions, you will never see me again.

Hasan mounted his horse. But the cries of sentinels at the fort’s entrance reached his ears. Fearing capture, he chose a different route from the one Vahíd had instructed. As he passed behind the fort, the sentinels recognized him, shot his horse, and seized him.

Vahíd left his two eldest sons, Siyyid Ismá’íl and Siyyid ‘Alí-Muhammad, in the care of their mother. He departed with his two other sons, Siyyid Ahmad and Siyyid Mihdí, and two companions, Ghulam-Rida, a man of exceptional courage, and Ghulam-Riday-i-Kuchík, who had distinguished himself in marksmanship. He chose the same route he had told Hasan to take. Arriving at the meeting point, he found no one. He knew immediately that Hasan had disobeyed and been captured. He was reminded of Muhammad-‘Abdu’lláh, who had similarly acted against his will and suffered for it.

They learned afterward that on the morning of that same day Hasan was blown from the mouth of a cannon. A certain Mírzá Hasan, who had been the prayer leader of one of Yazd’s quarters and a man of renowned piety, was captured an hour later and subjected to the same death.

The enemy rushed to Vahíd’s house. They plundered its contents and demolished it completely.

Vahíd, though unaccustomed to walking, covered seven farsangs on foot that night while his sons were carried part of the way by his two companions. The next day he hid in the recesses of a nearby mountain. His brother, who lived in the area and loved him deeply, secretly sent provisions. That same day the governor’s mounted attendants arrived in pursuit, searched the brother’s house, seized a large quantity of property, and, failing to find Vahíd, turned back.

Through the mountains he made his way into the district of Bavánat-i-Fárs. Most of its inhabitants were already among his admirers. They readily embraced the Cause, among them the well-known Haji Siyyid Ismá’íl, the Shaykhu’l-Islám of Bavánat. A considerable number accompanied him as far as Fasa, where the people refused his Message.

All along his route, wherever he stopped, his first thought upon dismounting was to find the nearest masjid. There he would summon the people and announce the tidings of the new Day. Utterly careless of the journey’s fatigue, he would ascend the pulpit and fearlessly proclaim the Faith. If a village responded, he stayed one night and left believers behind. Otherwise he departed at once. “Through whichever village I pass,” he said, “and fail to inhale from its inhabitants the fragrance of belief, its food and its drink are both distasteful to me.”

At the village of Runiz, in the district of Fasa, he paused. From Nayríz, the news of his approach set the entire population of the Chinár-Sukhtih quarter in motion. People from other quarters joined them, driven by love and admiration. The majority slipped out at night, fearing the governor, Zaynu’l-Ábidín Khán. From Chinár-Sukhtih alone more than a hundred students came, led by Haji Shaykh ‘Abdu’l-‘Alí, Vahíd’s own father-in-law, a judge of recognized standing, together with the most distinguished notables of the town. Among them: Mullá ‘Abdu’l-Husayn, a venerable man of eighty, highly esteemed for his piety and learning. Mullá Báqir, the prayer leader of the Chinár-Sukhtih quarter. Mírzá Husayn-i-Qutb, the chief of the Bázár quarter, with all his relatives. Mírzá Abu’l-Qásim, a relative of the governor himself. Haji Muhammad-Taqí and his son-in-law. Mírzá Nawrá and Mírzá ‘Alí-Rida, both from the Sadat quarter.

Some by day, others by night, they went as far as Runiz to welcome him and assure him of their devotion. Though the Báb had revealed a Tablet addressed specially to the new believers of Nayríz, they remained ignorant of its deeper meaning. It fell to Vahíd to enlighten them.

Zaynu’l-Ábidín Khán, the governor, sent a messenger after the departing crowds: anyone who continued giving allegiance to Vahíd would lose his life, his wife, and his property. Not one turned back. Their defiance filled the governor with such alarm that he transferred his residence to the village of Qutrih, eight farsangs from Nayríz, where a massive fortress could shelter him and where the inhabitants were trained marksmen.

Vahíd moved on from Runiz to the shrine of Pír-Murád outside Istahbanat. Despite an interdiction from that village’s clerics, twenty of its people came to meet him and accompanied him the rest of the way. On the fifteenth of Rajab, in the forenoon, he reached his native quarter of Chinár-Sukhtih. He did not go home. Still wearing the dust of the road, he entered the masjid, climbed the pulpit, and spoke.

No less than a thousand people from Chinár-Sukhtih and five hundred from other sections of Nayríz had thronged the building. The spell of that address was such as Nayríz had never experienced. “We have heard and we obey!” cried the jubilant multitude with unrestrained enthusiasm, pressing forward to assure him of their devotion.

When the first flush of excitement had passed, Vahíd addressed them plainly. “My sole purpose in coming to Nayríz is to proclaim the Cause of God. I thank and glorify Him for having enabled me to touch your hearts with His Message. No need for me to tarry any longer in your midst, for if I prolong my stay, I fear that the governor will ill-treat you because of me. He may seek reinforcement from Shíráz and destroy your homes and subject you to untold indignities.”

“We are ready and resigned to the will of God,” they answered with one voice. “God grant us His grace to withstand the calamities that may yet befall us. We cannot, however, reconcile ourselves to so abrupt and hasty a separation from you.”

Men and women joined hands to escort him to his house. Wild with excitement, they pressed around him with cheers and acclamations all the way to his door. In the days that followed, Vahíd spent most of his time in the masjid, continuing to teach with his customary eloquence. Every day the audience grew.

That growth was intolerable to Zaynu’l-Ábidín Khán. He raised an army, about a thousand men, cavalry and infantry, well trained and well supplied. His plan: a sudden attack to capture Vahíd.

Vahíd moved first. He ordered the twenty companions who had come from Istahbanat to occupy the fort of Khájih, near the Chinár-Sukhtih quarter. He appointed Shaykh Hádí, son of Shaykh Muhsin, to lead them, and urged his followers to fortify its gates, turrets, and walls.

The governor transferred his seat to his own house in the Bázár quarter, with his forces occupying the nearby fort. Its towers overlooked the town. He compelled Siyyid Abú-Talíb, the chief of that quarter and one of Vahíd’s companions, to vacate his house, fortified its roof, stationed men under Muhammad-‘Alí Khán’s command, and ordered them to open fire.

The first to suffer was Mullá ‘Abdu’l-Husayn, the eighty-year-old man who had walked out to welcome Vahíd. He was offering his prayer on the roof of his house when a bullet struck his right foot. Vahíd sent him a written message expressing grief at the injury and cheering him with the thought that at this advanced stage of his life, he had been the first chosen to suffer in the path of the Cause.

The suddenness of the attack shook a number of companions whose faith had not fully ripened. In the dead of night, a few slipped away and joined the enemy. As soon as Vahíd learned of their defection, he arose at dawn, mounted his steed, and rode with his remaining supporters to the fort of Khájih.

His arrival drew an immediate assault. Zaynu’l-Ábidín Khán sent his elder brother, ‘Alí-Asghar Khán, with a thousand armed and well-trained men to lay siege. Inside the fort: seventy-two companions. At sunrise, a number of them sallied forth under Vahíd’s command and, with extraordinary speed, scattered the besiegers.

Three of the companions died in that fight. Taju’d-Dín, a man renowned for his fearlessness, whose trade was making woollen caps. Zaynil, son of Iskandar, a farmer. Mírzá Abu’l-Qásim, a man of distinguished merit.

But the rout was complete. ‘Alí-Asghar Khán was killed. Two of his sons were captured. Zaynu’l-Ábidín Khán fled with his shattered forces to Qutrih, begging the prince in Shíráz for urgent reinforcements, and sending five thousand túmans as a personal inducement.

The governor’s messenger, Mullá Báqir, set out by unfrequented roads. He dismounted near a tent at a place called Hudashtak. While he was talking with its occupants, Haji Siyyid Ismá’íl, the Shaykhu’l-Islám of Bavánat, arrived. He had received Vahíd’s permission to attend to urgent business and was traveling back. When he noticed a richly equipped horse tethered nearby and learned it belonged to one of the governor’s men on his way to Shíráz, he mounted it, unsheathed his sword, and told the tent’s owner: “Arrest this scoundrel, who has fled from before the face of the Sáhibu’z-Zamán. Tie his hands and deliver him to me.” The terrified men obeyed. Haji Siyyid Ismá’íl spurred toward Nayríz, dragging the captive behind him, and delivered him to Vahíd. Mullá Báqir was eventually put to death.

The governor sent still more appeals to Shíráz, loading his messengers with presents for the prince, writing to the leading clerics and siyyids of the city, grossly misrepresenting Vahíd’s aims. The prince granted everything. He sent ‘Abdu’lláh Khán, the Shujá’u’l-Mulk, with the Hamadání and Silakhúrí regiments, multiple officers, and heavy artillery. He ordered his representative in Nayríz to recruit every able-bodied man from the surrounding villages, Istahbanat, Íraj, Panj-Ma’adin, Qutrih, Bashnih, Dih-Cháh, Mushkán, Rastaq, and the warriors of the Visbaklaríyyih tribe.

An innumerable host surrounded the fort. They dug trenches and set up barricades along them. The bombardment opened. A bullet struck the horse of one of Vahíd’s men guarding the gate. Another pierced the turret above it. But one of the companions, aiming at the officer commanding the artillery, shot him dead, and the roar of the guns fell silent. The attackers retreated into their trenches. Neither side ventured out that night.

On the second night, Vahíd summoned Ghulam-Riday-i-Yazdí and ordered him to take fourteen companions and drive off the enemy. Those chosen for the sortie were, for the most part, men of advanced age whom no one would have imagined capable of bearing such a fight. Among them was a shoemaker, more than ninety years old, who showed enthusiasm and vigor no youth could exceed. The rest were mere boys, wholly unprepared for the perils of a sally. But age meant nothing to men whom a dauntless will and an immovable faith had wholly transformed.

They were told to divide immediately after leaving the fort’s cover and, raising simultaneously the cry of “Alláh-u-Akbar!” to spring into the midst of the enemy.

The signal was given. They mounted, rode out, and plunged headlong into the opposing forces. Undaunted by cannon fire and the rain of bullets, that fearless band held the field for no less than eight hours, demonstrating skill and bravery that amazed the veterans arrayed against them. From the town, reinforcements rushed to their aid. The women of Nayríz, who had climbed to the rooftops, raised their voices above the gunfire. Their exulting cheers swelled the roar of the cannons and the cries of “Alláh-u-Akbar!” that the companions shouted in the frenzy of battle. The uproar from the women, the audacity and self-confidence of the fighters, utterly demoralized the opposing forces.

When the companions retraced their steps to the fort, they carried with them sixty of the enemy dead.

Among those who fell on that day from among the companions were twenty-seven named souls: Ghulam-Riday-i-Yazdí and his brother. ‘Alí, son of Khayru’lláh. Khájih Husayn-i-Qannad, son of Khájih Ghání. Asghar, son of Mullá Mihdí. Karbilá’í ‘Abdu’l-Karím. Husayn, son of Mashhadí Muhammad. Zaynu’l-Ábidín, son of Mashhadí Báqir-i-Sabbagh. Mullá Ja’far-i-Mudhahhib. ‘Abdu’lláh, son of Mullá Músá. Muhammad, son of Mashhadí Rajab-i-Haddad. Karbilá’í Hasan, son of Karbilá’í Shamsu’d-Dín-i-Maliki-Duz. Karbilá’í Mírzá Muhammad-i-Zari’. Karbilá’í Báqir-i-Kafsh-Duz. Mírzá Ahmad, son of Mírzá Husayn-i-Káshi-Sáz. Mullá Hasan, son of Mullá ‘Abdu’lláh. Mashhadí Haji Muhammad. Abú-Talíb, son of Mír Ahmad-i-Nukhud-Biriz. Akbar, son of Muhammad-i-‘Ashur. Taqíy-i-Yazdí. Mullá ‘Alí, son of Mullá Ja’far. Karbilá’í Mírzá Husayn. Husayn Khán, son of Sharíf. Karbilá’í Qurbán. Khájih Kázim, son of Khájih ‘Alí. Áqá, son of Haji ‘Alí. Mírzá Nawrá, son of Mírzá Mu’ina.

Open battle had failed.

So the governor reached for the weapon that had already decided so many contests: a Qur’án, a solemn pledge, and a lie. For a few days the attackers suspended all hostility. Then they sent a written appeal to the besieged. The army now understood, they claimed, that the companions harbored no political motive and had done nothing to subvert the State. All the Bábís seemed to uphold was that a man had appeared whose words were inspired and whose testimony was certain. If representatives from the fort would emerge and meet them in camp, they could settle the matter within a few days. If the companions proved their claims, the army would embrace the Faith. If not, they would be allowed safe return. This Qur’án, affixed with their seals, was the witness to their sincerity. “The malediction of God and His Prophet rest upon us if we should attempt to deceive you.”

Vahíd received the Qur’án and kissed it. “Our appointed hour has struck,” he said. “Our acceptance of their invitation will surely make them feel the baseness of their treachery.” He turned to his companions: “Though I am well aware of their designs, I feel it my duty to accept their call and take the opportunity to attempt once again to unfold the verities of my beloved Faith.” He ordered them to continue discharging their duties, to place no reliance on the enemy’s professions, and to suspend hostilities until further notice.

He bade farewell to his companions and, accompanied by five attendants, among them Mullá ‘Alíy-i-Mudhahhib and the treacherous Haji Siyyid Abid, set out for the enemy camp. Zaynu’l-Ábidín Khán, ‘Abdu’lláh Khán the Shujá’u’l-Mulk, and the entire staff came out to receive him. They conducted him to a specially pitched tent and introduced him to their officers. He seated himself upon a chair. All the company stood, except the governor and the Shujá’u’l-Mulk and one other officer, whom he motioned to sit.

“I am come to you,” Vahíd declared, “armed with the testimony with which my Lord has entrusted me. Am I not a descendant of the Prophet of God? Wherefore should you have risen to slay me? For what reason have you pronounced my death-sentence, and refused to recognize the undoubted rights with which my lineage has invested me?”

The majesty of his bearing, combined with his penetrating eloquence, confounded his hearers. For three days and three nights they entertained him lavishly and treated him with marked respect. In congregational prayer they followed his lead. They listened attentively to his every discourse. Outwardly they bowed to his will. Secretly they were planning his death and the extermination of his companions.

They knew that if they harmed him while the fort remained defended, they would face a fury still greater than what they had already endured. They trembled at the vengeance of the women no less than at the bravery of the men. They realized that all the resources of their army had been powerless to subdue a handful of immature boys and decrepit old men. Nothing short of a bold stratagem could ensure their victory.

At last they made their demand. Vahíd must write, in his own hand, a message to his companions informing them that peace had been achieved, and urging them either to join him at army headquarters or to return to their homes. Though reluctant, he was eventually forced to submit.

He wrote that letter. And then, in a second, confidential letter, he warned his companions of the enemy’s evil designs and charged them not to be deceived. He entrusted both letters to Haji Siyyid Abid, with instructions to destroy the first message and deliver only the warning. He urged Haji Siyyid Abid to tell the companions to choose the ablest among them, sally forth in the dead of night, and scatter the enemy’s forces.

Haji Siyyid Abid immediately betrayed him. He communicated everything to Zaynu’l-Ábidín Khán, who promised abundant reward. The traitor delivered only the first letter, the one calling for peace, and told the companions that Vahíd had converted the entire army and was advising them to go home.

Bewildered, the companions felt unable to disregard their leader’s expressed wishes. They reluctantly dispersed. Several discarded their arms. The fortifications were left unguarded.

Zaynu’l-Ábidín Khán, anticipating the evacuation, sent a detachment to intercept anyone trying to enter the town. The companions were suddenly surrounded by a growing multitude of armed men. Finding themselves hemmed in, they fought to reach the Masjid-i-Jami’. Those who still had swords and rifles used them. Others fought with sticks and stones. The cry of “Alláh-u-Akbar!” rose again, fiercer and more urgent than ever. A few were martyred forcing their way through. The rest, wounded, harassed by reinforcements pouring in from every side, reached the shelter of the masjid.

But it was no shelter. A notorious officer named Mullá Hasan, son of Mullá Muhammad-‘Alí, had concealed himself in one of the minarets and opened fire on the fugitives as they approached. A certain Mullá Husayn recognized him, raised the cry of “Alláh-u-Akbar!” and scaled the minaret. He aimed his rifle and hurled the man to the ground. But the companions, unable any longer to hold the masjid, were compelled to scatter and hide wherever they could, desperate to learn what had become of their leader.

Only after the companions were broken and dispersed did the governor dare touch Vahíd.

Zaynu’l-Ábidín Khán and his officers debated how to evade their solemn oath. In the midst of their deliberations, Abbás-Qulí Khán, a man notorious for his ruthlessness, stood and declared that since he himself had taken no part in any oath, he was free to act. “I can arrest at any time and put to death whomever I deem guilty of having violated the laws of the land.” He called upon all those whose kinsmen had perished to execute the sentence. The first to step forward was Mullá Rida, whose brother Mullá Báqir had been captured by the Shaykhu’l-Islám. The next was a man named Safar, whose brother Sha’bán had died. The third was Áqá Khán, whose father, ‘Alí-Asghar Khán, the governor’s own elder brother, had fallen.

They snatched the turban from Vahíd’s head. They wound it around his neck. They bound him to a horse and dragged him through the streets of Nayríz. The scene recalled the fate of the Imám Husayn, whose body was once abandoned to the fury of horsemen who trampled it without mercy. The women of Nayríz, stirred to the highest pitch of excitement by the shouts of triumph, pressed from every side around the corpse. To the beat of drums and cymbals they danced, scornful of the words Vahíd had spoken in his final agony, words that the Imám Husayn, in a former age and in the same circumstances, had also uttered:

“Thou knowest, O my Beloved, that I have abandoned the world for Thy sake, and have placed my trust in Thee alone. I am impatient to hasten to Thee, for the beauty of Thy countenance has been unveiled to my eyes. Thou dost witness the evil designs which my wicked persecutor has cherished against me. Nay, never will I submit to his wishes or pledge my allegiance to him.”

The man who had entered Nayríz to proclaim the Cause in a masjid was murdered as a public spectacle in its streets.

Then the full vengeance fell. No less than five thousand men were commissioned for the task. The men were seized, chained, and slaughtered. The women and children were subjected to brutalities no pen dares describe. Property was confiscated. Houses were destroyed. The fort of Khájih was burned to the ground. The majority of the men were conducted in chains to Shíráz, where most of them died cruel deaths. Those whom the governor had thrown into dark subterranean dungeons for his personal profit were, once that profit had been extracted, delivered to his servants, who perpetrated unspeakable cruelties upon them.

They were first paraded through the streets of Nayríz. Then came the tortures designed to extract whatever material advantage remained. They were branded. Their nails were pulled out. Their bodies were lashed. Incisions were made in their noses, and strings were driven through them. Nails were hammered into their hands and feet. In that state, each was dragged through the streets, an object of contempt and mockery.

Among them was Siyyid Ja’far-i-Yazdí, a man who had once wielded such influence that Zaynu’l-Ábidín Khán himself had treated him with extreme deference. Now the governor ordered the turban of his lineage befouled and flung into the fire. Shorn of the emblem of his descent, Siyyid Ja’far was exposed to the public, who overwhelmed him with abuse and ridicule.

Another was Haji Muhammad-Taqí, a man whose reputation for honesty had been so great that his opinion was regarded by the courts as the determining word in their judgments. In the depth of winter, he was stripped of his clothing, thrown into a pond, and lashed. Siyyid Ja’far, Shaykh ‘Abdu’l-‘Alí, Vahíd’s father-in-law and the leading cleric of Nayríz, and Siyyid Husayn, one of the town’s notables, were doomed to the same treatment. While they were exposed to the cold, the scum of the populace was hired to heap cruelties upon their shivering bodies. Many a poor man who came for the promised reward revolted when he learned what was required, rejected the money, and turned away with loathing.

Vahíd was martyred on the eighteenth of Sha’bán, 1266 A.H.

Ten days later, the Báb was shot in Tabríz.