Episode XXIV: The Martyr of Tabriz

Extinguish that light, choke the stream at its source, and the country will recover its peace.

That is the thought that takes hold of the Amír-Nizám, the Grand Vazír of Nasiri’d-Dín Sháh, after Shaykh Tabarsí, after Nayríz, after the first tremors of Zanján. The imperial army has triumphed everywhere. The companions of Mullá Husayn and Vahíd have been mowed down. And yet the spirit behind them has not broken. If anything it has blazed more fiercely. The remnants of the scattered band cling to their Faith with a passion that no amount of slaughter has been able to weaken. And above all, He who kindled that flame is still alive, still able to exercise the full measure of His influence from His prison in the mountains.

So the Amír-Nizám summons his counsellors, shares his fears, and lays out his plan.

“Behold,” he tells them, “the storm which the Faith of the Siyyid-i-Báb has provoked. Nothing short of his public execution can enable this distracted country to recover its tranquillity and peace. Who dare compute the forces that have perished at Shaykh Tabarsí? No sooner had that mischief been suppressed than the flames of another sedition blazed in Fárs. No sooner had we quelled the south than another insurrection broke out in the north. If you are able to advise a remedy, acquaint me with it, for my sole purpose is to ensure the peace and honour of my countrymen.”

Silence. Not a single voice ventures a reply, except one. Mírzá Áqá Khán-i-Núrí, the Minister of War, objects. To put to death a banished siyyid for the deeds of others would be an act of manifest cruelty. He recalls the example of the late Muhammad Sháh, who had always refused to act on the calumnies of the Báb’s enemies.

The Amír-Nizám is sorely displeased. “Such considerations are wholly irrelevant. The interests of the State are in jeopardy. Was not the Imám Husayn himself executed by those who had seen him receive marks of exceptional affection from Muhammad, his Grandfather? Did they not refuse to consider the rights which his lineage had conferred upon him? Nothing short of the remedy I advocate can uproot this evil.”

One voice of conscience. Overruled.

The Amír-Nizám sends his orders to Navváb Hamzih Mírzá, the governor of Ádhirbayján, a prince known for his kindness and rectitude. He is careful not to reveal his real purpose. The Navváb, assuming his Captive is being returned home, sends an escort to Chihríq with instructions to treat the Báb with the utmost consideration.

But forty days before that escort arrives, the Báb has already prepared.

He gathers all His documents and Tablets, His pen-case, His seals, and His agate rings into a coffer and entrusts them to Mullá Báqir, one of the Letters of the Living. With the coffer He sends a letter addressed to Mírzá Ahmad, His amanuensis, and the key. He urges Mullá Báqir to take the utmost care of that trust and to conceal its contents from anyone except Mírzá Ahmad.

When that coffer is later opened, those present find among its contents a scroll of blue paper, of the most delicate texture. On it the Báb, in His own exquisite handwriting, a fine shikastih script, has penned, in the form of a pentacle, some five hundred verses, all consisting of derivatives from the word “Bahá.” The scroll is spotless, the penmanship so fine and intricate that viewed at a distance it appears as a single wash of ink on the paper. It looks printed rather than written. No calligraphist, those who see it believe, could rival it.

The trust is to be delivered into the hands of Bahá’u’lláh in Tihrán.

He is not being carried blindly toward surprise. He is putting His house in order, and He is pointing it toward a Name.

---

The escort conducts the Báb to Tabríz with respect. The Navváb has arranged for Him to be lodged at the home of a friend and treated with deference. Three days pass.

Then a fresh order arrives from the Grand Vazír, carried by Mírzá Hasan Khán, the Vazír-Nizám, the Amír-Nizám’s own brother. The command: execute the Prisoner on the very day the farmán reaches the prince. Whoever professes to be His follower is likewise to be condemned. The Armenian regiment of Urúmíyyih, whose colonel is Sám Khán, is ordered to carry out the sentence in the courtyard of the barracks in the centre of the city.

The Navváb is appalled. He tells the Vazír-Nizám plainly: “The Amír would do better to entrust me with services of greater merit. The task I am called upon to perform is a task that only ignoble people would accept. I am neither Ibn-i-Zíyád nor Ibn-i-Sa’d, that he should call upon me to slay an innocent descendant of the Prophet of God.”

His refusal reaches the Amír-Nizám, who sends fresh instructions through his brother. “Relieve us from this anxiety that weighs upon our hearts,” the Grand Vazír urges, “and let this affair be brought to an end ere the month of Ramadán breaks upon us, that we may enter the period of fasting with undisturbed tranquillity.”

The prince pretends to be ill. He refuses to meet the Vazír-Nizám again. So Mírzá Hasan Khán acts on his own authority. He orders the Báb’s immediate transfer from that house to a room in the barracks. He sends ten of Sám Khán’s men to guard the door.

The Báb is stripped of His turban and sash, the twin emblems of His noble lineage, and driven into confinement. He knows it is a step further on the road to the goal He has set Himself to reach.

---

That day, Tabríz erupts. The great convulsion that its people have always associated with the Day of Judgment seems at last to have come upon them. Never has the city known a turmoil so fierce or so strange.

As the Báb approaches the courtyard of the barracks, a youth suddenly leaps forward through the crowd. His face is haggard. His feet are bare. His hair is dishevelled. Breathless with excitement, exhausted by fatigue, he flings himself at the Báb’s feet, seizes the hem of His garment, and cries: “Send me not from Thee, O Master. Wherever Thou goest, suffer me to follow Thee.”

“Muhammad-‘Alí,” the Báb answers, “arise, and rest assured that you will be with Me. Tomorrow you shall witness what God has decreed.”

Two other companions rush forward and declare their loyalty. These, together with Muhammad-‘Alíy-i-Zunúzí, are seized and placed in the same cell where the Báb and Siyyid Husayn, His amanuensis, are confined.

That night, Siyyid Husayn later testifies, the face of the Báb is aglow with joy, a joy such as has never shone from His countenance. Indifferent to the storm raging around Him, He converses with gaiety and cheerfulness. The sorrows that have weighed on Him seem to have vanished entirely. Their weight appears to have dissolved in the consciousness of approaching victory.

“Tomorrow will be the day of My martyrdom,” He tells them. “Would that one of you might now arise and, with his own hands, end My life. I prefer to be slain by the hand of a friend rather than by that of the enemy.”

Tears stream from their eyes. They shrink from the thought. They refuse. They fall silent.

Muhammad-‘Alí springs to his feet. He announces himself ready to obey.

The others intervene and force him to abandon that thought. But the Báb has already spoken: “This same youth who has risen to comply with My wish will, together with Me, suffer martyrdom. Him will I choose to share with Me its crown.”

---

Early in the morning, Mírzá Hasan Khán orders his farrásh-báshí to bring the Báb before the leading mujtahids of the city and obtain the authorization required for His execution.

As the Báb is being led from the barracks, Siyyid Husayn asks what he should do.

“Confess not your faith,” the Báb tells him. “Thereby you will be enabled, when the hour comes, to convey to those who are destined to hear you the things of which you alone are aware.”

He is still speaking, still in confidential conversation with Siyyid Husayn, when the farrásh-báshí interrupts, seizes Siyyid Husayn by the hand, drags him aside, and rebukes him.

The Báb turns to the farrásh-báshí. “Not until I have said to him all those things that I wish to say can any earthly power silence Me. Though all the world be armed against Me, yet shall they be powerless to deter Me from fulfilling, to the last word, My intention.”

The farrásh-báshí is stunned. He makes no reply.

---

Muhammad-‘Alíy-i-Zunúzí is brought before the mujtahids. They urge him to recant, reminding him of the position his stepfather, Siyyid ‘Alíy-i-Zunúzí, occupies.

“Never will I renounce my Master,” he answers. “He is the essence of my faith and the object of my truest adoration. In Him I have found my paradise, and in the observance of His law I recognise the ark of my salvation.”

“Hold your peace!” thunders Mullá Muhammad-i-Mamaqání. “Such words betray your madness. I can well excuse the words for which you are not responsible.”

“I am not mad,” Muhammad-‘Alí retorts. “Such a charge should rather be brought against you who have sentenced to death a man no less holy than the promised Qá’im. He is not a fool who has embraced His Faith and is longing to shed his blood in His path.”

Then the Báb Himself is brought before Mamaqání. The mujtahid does not examine Him. He does not question Him. He recognizes the face and reaches for the death-warrant he has already written. “No need to bring the Siyyid-i-Báb into my presence,” he says, handing it to his attendant. “This death-warrant I penned the very day I met him at the gathering presided over by the Valí-‘Ahd.”

From there they take the Báb to the house of Mírzá Báqir, the second mujtahid. His attendant is already waiting at the gate, death-warrant in hand. “No need to enter,” he tells them. “My master is already satisfied that his father was right in pronouncing the sentence of death.”

Mullá Murtadá-Qulí, the third mujtahid, has likewise issued his written testimony and refuses to meet the condemned Man face to face.

Three death-warrants. Not one of them required an encounter. Not one of them required the mujtahid to look at the Man he was sentencing to die.

---

The farrásh-báshí delivers his Captive to Sám Khán. The authorization of the civil and ecclesiastical authorities has been secured. The sentence may proceed.

Meanwhile, Muhammad-‘Alí bursts into tears as they try to place him in the room where Siyyid Husayn has been confined. He entreats them to let him remain with his Master. He is handed over to Sám Khán, with orders to execute him as well if he persists in refusing to deny his Faith.

And now Sám Khán himself begins to falter. He is seized with fear that his action will bring upon him the wrath of God. He approaches the Báb.

“I profess the Christian Faith,” he says, “and entertain no ill will against you. If your Cause be the Cause of Truth, enable me to free myself from the obligation to shed your blood.”

“Follow your instructions,” the Báb replies, “and if your intention be sincere, the Almighty is surely able to relieve you from your perplexity.”

Sám Khán orders his men to drive a nail into the pillar between the door of Siyyid Husayn’s room and the entrance to the adjoining one. Two ropes are fastened to that nail. The Báb and Muhammad-‘Alí are separately suspended. Muhammad-‘Alí has begged to be placed so that his own body shields his Master. He is hung in such a position that his head reposes on the breast of the Báb.

A regiment of soldiers arranges itself in three files of two hundred and fifty men each. Each file is ordered to fire in turn until the whole seven hundred and fifty have discharged their volleys.

On the roof of the barracks and the tops of adjoining houses, some ten thousand people have crowded to witness the scene.

The rifles fire.

The smoke of seven hundred and fifty rifles turns the light of the noonday sun to darkness.

And when it clears,

There, standing before the astounded multitude, alive and unhurt, is Muhammad-‘Alí. The cords from which they were suspended have been rent to pieces by the bullets. But their bodies have not been touched. The tunic Muhammad-‘Alí is wearing has remained unsullied, without a mark, despite the thickness of the smoke. The Báb has vanished from sight.

“The Siyyid-i-Báb has gone from our sight!” ring out the voices of the bewildered crowd.

They search. They find Him, eventually, seated in the same room He had occupied the night before, engaged in completing His interrupted conversation with Siyyid Husayn. His face bears an expression of unruffled calm. His body has emerged unscathed from the shower of bullets.

“I have finished My conversation with Siyyid Husayn,” the Báb tells the farrásh-báshí. “Now you may proceed to fulfil your intention.”

The farrásh-báshí cannot proceed. He refuses to resume what he has already attempted. That same moment he leaves the scene and resigns his post. He tells everything he has witnessed to his neighbor, Mírzá Siyyid Muhsin, one of the notables of Tabríz. Mírzá Siyyid Muhsin, as soon as he hears the story, embraces the Faith.

Sám Khán is likewise stunned. He orders his men to leave the barracks immediately. He swears, as he walks out of that courtyard, never again to take part in any act that involves the least injury to the Báb, even if his refusal costs him his own life.

---

No sooner has Sám Khán departed than Áqá Ján Khán-i-Khamsíh, colonel of the bodyguard, volunteers to carry out the execution.

On the same wall. In the same manner. The Báb and Muhammad-‘Alí are suspended again.

The regiment forms its line.

As the soldiers prepare to fire the final volley, the Báb addresses the gazing multitude. These are His last words:

“Had you believed in Me, O wayward generation, every one of you would have followed the example of this youth, who stood in rank above most of you, and willingly would have sacrificed himself in My path. The day will come when you will have recognised Me; that day I shall have ceased to be with you.”

The rifles fire. This time the bullets do their work. The bodies of the Báb and His companion are shattered and blended into one mass of mingled flesh and bone.

The martyrdom of the Báb takes place at noon on Sunday, the twenty-eighth of Sha’bán, in the year 1266 A.H., thirty-one lunar years, seven months, and twenty-seven days from the day of His birth in Shíráz.

---

The very moment the shots are fired, a gale of exceptional severity sweeps over the city. A whirlwind of dust of incredible density obscures the sun and blinds the eyes of the people. From noon until night, the entire city remains in darkness.

And still the hearts of the people of Tabríz do not move. They have seen Sám Khán’s regiment fail. They have watched the farrásh-báshí resign. They have examined the tunic that remained stainless despite seven hundred and fifty bullets. They have read the expression of undisturbed serenity on the face of the Báb as He resumed His conversation with Siyyid Husayn. None of them trouble themselves to ask what these signs mean.

That evening, the mangled bodies of the Báb and Muhammad-‘Alí are removed from the courtyard and placed beside the moat outside the city gate. Four companies, each of ten sentinels, take turns keeping watch.

The next morning, the Russian consul in Tabríz comes to the moat with an artist. He orders a sketch of the remains.

Haji ‘Alí-‘Askar later describes what he saw in that sketch. No bullet had struck the Báb’s forehead, His cheeks, or His lips. A smile seemed still to linger upon His countenance. But His body had been severely mutilated. The arms and head of His companion were visible, and Muhammad-‘Alí seemed to be holding Him in an embrace. Haji ‘Alí-‘Askar turned his face away. He went home, locked himself in his room, and for three days and three nights could neither sleep nor eat. That short and tumultuous life, its sorrows, its banishments, and the awe-inspiring martyrdom that crowned it, seemed to be re-enacted before his eyes.

---

On the afternoon of the second day after the martyrdom, Haji Sulaymán Khán arrives at Bagh-Míshih, a suburb of Tabríz. He had left Tihrán as soon as he heard of the danger to the Báb’s life. He has come to deliver Him. He arrives too late.

But he resolves that at least the bodies will not remain in the hands of the enemy. Acting on the advice of his host, the Kalantar, he waits. That night, Haji Alláh-Yár bears the remains from the edge of the moat to a silk factory owned by a believer of Milán. They are laid the next day in a specially constructed wooden case and transferred to a place of safety.

The sentinels, covering their failure, claim that wild beasts carried away the bodies while they slept. Their superiors, unwilling to compromise their own honor, conceal the truth.

Haji Sulaymán Khán reports the matter to Bahá’u’lláh, who instructs that the remains be brought to the capital.

---

Word of the martyrdom spreads. When it reaches Mírzá Áqá Khán-i-Núrí, the same Minister of War who had once protested the execution, he goes to Bahá’u’lláh. He expresses the hope that the fire he has always feared would one day bring untold calamity upon Him is at last extinguished.

“Not so,” Bahá’u’lláh replies. “If this be true, you can be certain that the flame that has been kindled will, by this very act, blaze forth more fiercely than ever, and will set up a conflagration such as the combined forces of the statesmen of this realm will be powerless to quench.”

And the consequences descend.

Plague and famine ravage Persia. Prince and peasant alike feel the sting. The gaunt spectre of starvation stalks abroad, and the prospect of a slow and painful death haunts the vision of a people who watched with sullen indifference while the tragedy was enacted before them.

As for the regiment that volunteered to fire the second volley: two hundred and fifty of its members die that same year in an earthquake between Ardibíl and Tabríz. They are resting under the shadow of a wall on a hot summer day. The wall collapses. Not one survives. The remaining five hundred mutiny three years later and are themselves shot, their bodies pierced with spears and left exposed. The people of Tabríz, remembering the circumstances of the Báb’s death, begin to whisper: “Could it be the vengeance of God that has brought the whole regiment to so dishonourable and tragic an end?” The leading mujtahids, seized with fear, order that anyone expressing such doubts be punished.

And the prime movers, the Amír-Nizám and his brother, the Vazír-Nizám, are, within two years, subjected to a dreadful punishment that ends in their own deaths. The blood of the Amír-Nizám stains, to this day, the wall of the bath of Fín.

---

They tried to choke the stream at its source.

The flame they struck down blazed forth more fiercely than ever. And the statesmen who lit the pyre were powerless to quench it.