The shah thrust his field marshal’s baton under his arm and slowly made his way down the mountain. Just as the gendarmes were about to chase away the peasants at the bottom, a group of elders from the surrounding villages appeared. Dressed in their most festive garments, they walked towards Reza Shah, carrying a bowl of water, a mirror and the Koran. When they were a hundred yards away, the oldest man threw the water in the direction of the shah and the other men bowed their heads.
“Salaam, sultan of Persia!” the man exclaimed. “Salaam, God’s earthly shadow!”
He knelt and kissed the ground.
“Come forward!” commanded the shah, pointing his baton at the place where he wanted the old man to stand.
“Listen, graybeard! I don’t need your prayers. Use your head and give me some advice. That idiot of an engineer doesn’t know how to route the railway track. How can I get the train past the cave without doing any permanent damage?”
The old man turned and went back to confer with the others.
After a while he came back.
“Well?”
“For centuries our fathers have built houses here on Saffron Mountain, using only a pick-axe and spikes. No one has ever damaged the mountain. They chipped away the rock only in places where it was absolutely necessary. If Your Majesty wishes, I will call together all of the young men in the village. They will clear a path for your train.”
A look of relief spread over the shah’s face. Then it clouded over again.
“No, it’ll take too long. I don’t have that much time. I want it done fast.”
“As Your Majesty wishes. In that case, I will call all of the young men on Saffron Mountain and, if necessary, all of the young men from the neighbouring mountains. We have experience, we know the mountain. Give our men the opportunity to prove themselves.”
The shah was silent.
“Give us the strongest pick-axes in the country.”
“And then?”
“Then we will clear a path, so the train can go around the cave and reach the other side of the mountain.”
That evening the muezzins from all the villages called from the roofs of their mosques, “Allahu akbar. La ilaha illa Allah. In the name of Allah, our forefathers and Reza Shah, we call on all strong men. Hurry, hurry, hurry to the mosque. Whatever you’re doing, stop right now and hurry to the mosque.”
All evening and all night young men from the neighbouring villages poured into the mosque in Saffron Village.
Early the next morning hundreds of men walked behind the village elder and stood in the designated spot at the foot of the mountain. One of those men was the seventeen-year-old Aga Akbar. He didn’t have the faintest idea who Reza Shah was or what he had in mind, much less what his plans for the country were. Like the other men, he had no idea why the railway tracks had to reach the other side of the mountain so quickly. All he knew was that a train had to go around the cave and that it was their job to save the cuneiform inscription.
Reza Shah stood high on a rock and looked down at the men. The villagers had heard the legends about the shah.
In those days the people in the towns and villages thought of him as a saviour. A powerful man. A champion of the poor. A reformer who wanted to give the country a face-lift.
But his reputation in Tehran was very different. There he was known for his brutal treatment of the opposition.
The shah had ordered that all the opium, tea and sugar be removed from the house of an important mullah, and had kept him under house arrest for three weeks. To the mullah this was tantamount to the death penalty. The shah had ordered the imams to remove their turbans and appear in public with their heads bare. His policemen went through the streets plucking chadors off the women who were still wearing them. When the imams in the holy city of Qom rose up in revolt, Reza Shah ordered that a cannon be placed at the gates of the golden mosque. Then he taunted the leader of the Shiites: “Come out of your hole, you black rat!”
A rat? A black rat? What did he mean by that? He just called our great spiritual leader a black rat! Suddenly hundreds of young imams with rifles appeared on the roof of the golden mosque.
“Fire!” the shah screamed at his officers.
Dozens of imams were killed and dozens arrested. The sacred shrine was partially destroyed. A wave of shock ran through the Islamic world. Shopkeepers turned off their lights. The bazaar closed. People wore black. But the shah wouldn’t listen to reason.
“Are there any more out there?”
No, not a soul was left on the streets and rooftops. Everyone was sitting inside, behind locked doors.
Aga Akbar knew none of these stories. He thought the shah was simply a high-ranking military officer. A general in a strange-looking tunic, with a stick under his arm.
The village elder walked over to the shah, bowed and said, “The men are prepared to sacrifice themselves to realise Your Majesty’s dream.”
Reza Shah didn’t answer. He looked at the peasants. His face was filled with doubt. Would they really be able to solve his problem?
Just then a pair of armoured cars drove up and stopped near the men. Two generals leapt out and raced over to the shah, each holding his cap in one hand and his rifle in the other.
“Everything is ready, Your Majesty!” called one of the generals.
“Unload them!” ordered the shah.
The generals hurried back to the armoured cars.
The soldiers threw open the doors and unloaded hundreds of English pick-axes.
“You!” the shah yelled at the village elder standing before him. “Here are the pick-axes you asked for! If any of your men are lazy, I’ll put a bullet through your head!”
He wheeled around. “Don’t just stand there,” he said to the chief engineer. “Get started!”
The shah headed for his jeep. Suddenly he stopped, as if he’d forgotten something. He returned to his elevated position on the rock and beckoned one of the generals with his baton. In turn, the general beckoned seven soldiers, who were lined up with seven bulging bags in their arms. The soldiers marched over to the shah, deposited the bags on the ground in front of him and snapped back to attention.
“Open them!” he commanded one of the soldiers.
The soldier opened the bags, one by one. The shah took out a handful of brand-new bills.
He turned to the peasants. “Start smashing those rocks!” he ordered. “This money will be your reward. I’ll be back next week!”
“Jawid shah … Long live the shah!” the men shouted three times.
The shah climbed down again and went over to his jeep.
The engineer quickly led the peasants, each equipped with a pick-axe, to the place where the work on the tracks had come to a halt. The peasants made jokes, flexed their muscles and swore they would reduce even the hardest rocks on Saffron Mountain to rubble. They had no idea what was in store.
Years later, a faded black-and-white photograph proudly displayed on Aga Akbar’s mantle showed him with a pick-axe resting on his right shoulder and a spike—as thick as a tent stake—between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.
Akbar is turned at a slight angle. The photographer had focused on the pick-axe and spike, but the young Aga Akbar had flexed his muscles, so that