Crafting History: Essays on the Ottoman World and Beyond in Honor of Cemal Kafadar 9781644698471

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CRAFTING HISTORY Essay s o n th e O tto ma n Wo r l d a n d B e y o n d in H o n o r o f C e ma l Ka f a d a r

Series Editor Hakan T. Karateke (University of Chicago) Other Titles in this Series A History of Ottoman Libraries İsmail E. Erünsal Uncoupling Language and Religion: An Exploration into the Margins of Turkish Literature Laurent Mignon Excavating Memory: Bilge Karasu’s Istanbul and Walter Benjamin’s Berlin Ülker Gökberk The Ottoman Twilight in the Arab Lands: Turkish Memoirs and Testimonies of the Great War Selim Deringil Disliking Others: Loathing, Hostility, and Distrust in Premodern Ottoman Lands Edited by Hakan T. Karateke, H. Erdem Çıpa, and Helga Anetshofer Waiting for Müteferrika: Glimpses of Ottoman Print Culture Orlin Sabev Investigating Turkey: Detective Fiction and Turkish Nationalism, 1928–1945 David Mason

For more information on this series, please visit: academicstudiespress.com/ottomanandturkishstudies

CRAFTING HISTORY Essay s o n th e O tto ma n Wo r l d a n d B e y o n d in H o n o r o f C e ma l Ka f a d a r Edited by RACHEL GOSHGARIAN, ILHAM KHURI-MAKDISI, and ALİ YAYCIOĞLU

BOSTON 2023

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022934569 Copyright © 2023 Academic Studies Press All rights reserved. ISBN 9781644698464 (Hardback) ISBN 9781644698471 (Adobe PDF) ISBN 9781644698488 (ePub) Book design by Lapiz Digital Services Cover design by Ivan Grave On the cover: pages from Mecmaʿu’l-ʿacâʾib, Nadir Eserler Kütüphanesi, Istanbul University Library, F.1423 © Istanbul University. Reproduced by permission.

Published by Academic Studies Press 1577 Beacon Street Brookline, MA 02446, USA [email protected] www.academicstudiespress.com

Contents

Introduction  Rachel Goshgarian, Ilham Khuri-Makdisi, and Ali Yaycıoğlu Cemal Kafadar, A Çelebi for Our Times Ahmet Karamustafa

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Part One: Texts 1

Narrating Ottoman Politics in the Fifteenth Century: Perspectives from Some Byzantine and Ottoman Histories Aslıhan Akışık-Karakullukçu and Dimitri Kastritsis

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Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His History of the Ottoman House Himmet Taşkömür and Hüseyin Yılmaz

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Book-Picking in a Conquered Citadel Serpil Bağcı and Zeynep Yürekli

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A Sufi Mirror: Shaykh Alwan al-Hamawi’s (d. 1530) Advice for the Ottoman Ruler Timothy J. Fitzgerald

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La Jetée and the Illustrated Ottoman History: An Inquiry into Word, Image, and Audience Emine Fetvacı

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How Did Evliya Çelebi Write His Travel Account? Hakan T. Karateke

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Book Ownership Across Centuries: The Case of Military Men in Bursa, 1620–1840 Hülya Canbakal, Meredith Quinn, and Derin Terzioğlu

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Blending Piety and Philology: A Seventeenth-Century Mecmu‘a as the Mirror of Istanbul’s Persianate Urban Milieu Aslıhan Gürbüzel and Ekin Tuşalp Atiyas

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An Uncanny Discourse on Sex and Marriage from the Early SixteenthCentury Ottoman Empire Leyla Kayhan Elbirlik and Selim S. Kuru

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Part Two: Lives 10 Uç Beys, Dervishes, and Yürüks: The Cultural Politics of the Turahanoğlu of Thessaly219 Theoharis Stavrides 11 A Short Account of Long Entanglements: Şeyh Bedreddin, ‘Abdurrahman al-Bistami, and his Durrat taj al-rasa’il235 Cornell H. Fleischer 12 A Tale of Two Boils: Selim I, Melek Ahmed Pasha, and Changing Perceptions of Medical Practice and Masculinity in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire H. Erdem Çıpa and Jane Hathaway

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13 In the Balsam Orchard with Salih Çelebi Celalzade (d. 1565): First-Person Narrative and Knowledge in Ottoman Egypt Aleksandar Shopov

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14 The Eunuch, a Complete Statesman: Functional Historiography in the Face of Social and Political Precarity  Jocelyne Dakhlia

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15 Reorientation in Worldviews: Milescu and Cantemir Isenbike Togan

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16 The Hamidian Visual Archive, 1878–1909: A User’s Manual Ahmet Ersoy and Deniz Türker

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Part Three: Places 17 Ottoman Montology: Hazardous Resourcefulness and Uneasy Symbiosis in a Mountain Empire Ali Yaycıoğlu 18 Ottoman Mountains: Mobility in a Forbidding Environment Molly Greene 19 A Code(x) of His Own: Deacon Mikayēl, Armeno-Turkish, and Creative Conventions of “Collecting” in Seventeenth-Century Kaffa Rachel Goshgarian

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Contents

20 On Self and Empire: A Seventeenth-Century First-Person Narrative from the Mughal Domains Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam

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21 Cabinetmaking for the Sultan: Nineteenth-Century Istanbul in the Life Narratives of German-Speaking Journeymen  Richard Wittmann

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22 Conjuring Emotions in Nineteenth-Century Istanbul through the Journalistic Writings of Ahmad Faris Al-Shidyaq (1805–87) and Basiretçi Ali (1845?–1910) Ilham Khuri-Makdisi and Aslı Niyazioğlu 23 Reşat Ekrem Koçu and İstanbul Ansiklopedisi: Writing on Place Shirine Hamadeh and Çiğdem Kafescioğlu

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Part Four: Processes 24 Early Modern Reflections on Bayezid II’s Reign İklil Selçuk and Cihan Yüksel 25 The Ottoman Fleet at the Battle of Mississippi: What Videogames Can Teach Us About History Giancarlo Casale and Nicolas Trépanier

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26 Continuity and Change in the Ottoman Early Modern Era: An Analysis of ‘Adet-i Kadime and Hâdis551 Özer Ergenç 27 Between Soldier and Civilian: Janissaries in Seventeenth-Century Istanbul and Aleppo Charles Wilkins and Eunjeong Yi

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28 Confessionalization and Religious Nonconformity in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire: The Cases of Kizilbash/Alevi and the Sabbatean Communities588 Ayfer Karakaya-Stump and Cengiz Şişman 29 De-a‘yanization: A Black Hole in Ottoman History  H. Şükrü Ilıcak 30 Bitter Triumph of “the Declined” Dynasty? Notions of Universal Monarchy, Caliphate, and World Religions in Comparisons between Sultan Abdulhamid and Emperor Meiji  Cemil Aydin

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Notes on Contributors 641 Acknowledgments652

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Introduction Rachel Goshgarian, Ilham Khuri-Makdisi, and Ali Yaycıoğlu

It would not be an overstatement to say that Cemal Kafadar has transformed the field of Ottoman history. As a result of his pathbreaking books and articles, the field is experiencing a turn within itself as well as recasting its relationship with world history. He has trained a plethora of students and shared ideas with many colleagues through collective projects over the last thirty years at Princeton, Harvard, and beyond. This volume is a tribute to Cemal Kafadar from us—his students, colleagues, and friends—as we hope to participate in this turn and showcase some of the works he has formally supervised, casually discussed over tea, and generally inspired over the years. What is the nature of the turn initiated by Cemal Kafadar? As the editors of this volume, we would like to begin by underlining the remarkable intellectual pluralism that Kafadar has cultivated. His scholarship invites historians of the Ottoman world, medieval Anatolia, and the modern Middle East to cross disciplinary boundaries between political, social, economic, environmental, and material history. He fosters a holistic vision of the past; one where economy and culture, spirituality and materiality, warfare and business, life and dreams, built and natural environments, space and place, order and disorder, individual and society, self and others are to be understood and examined as components of a complex reality. Prose and poetry, documents and codices, hagiographies and chronicles, archives and architecture, texts, and paintings—together, they

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constitute the wide-ranging spectrum of sources for historians, devoid of hierarchy. His approach to the past signifies an intimate and engaged endeavor to appreciate the lived experience in its entirety, as complicated, multidimensional, and plural. It is this holistic, non- or anti-hierarchical framework that sets Cemal Kafadar apart from other historians and that lies at the heart of the turn that he has inspired. It is our hope that the pluralism our mentor has nurtured manifests itself clearly in this volume, to which many of his students and colleagues have contributed. In this compilation, readers will find a number of articles engaging with a wide range of questions, approaches, perspectives, and sources. His students and friends, individually or in pairs, researched and crafted contributions to this volume with a variety of conceptual premises, theoretical approaches, and interpretive tools. They all share a common inspiration: conversations and seminars with, or writings and lectures by, Kafadar. If truth be told, we do not think that Cemal Kafadar has created an école in Ottoman history, whereby his students are meant to follow a particular approach through a specific sourcedriven or theoretically inspired path. Quite the contrary, we know that Kafadar has constructed a vibrant, stimulating, and capacious intellectual space, where we, his students and friends, cherish the vast possibilities he has generated for the writing of history, regardless of our different theoretical groundings, temporal and spatial foci, our interests in specific sources or genres, and our approaches to reading them. This volume is the product of the pluralistic intellectual context that Kafadar has created with generations of students and friends, approaching and engaging with him from a wide range of intellectual and personal backgrounds and orientations. As Kafadar has explained, “History is not to be concerned with what is gone but rather with what existed once” [emphasis added]. One of the crucial features of the transformation he has initiated in the field of Ottoman history—and beyond—is an appreciation of the lived experience, or perhaps better put, the experiences of our fellow human beings who lived in the past. “Understating how people added meaning and joy, depth and amusement, how they carved autonomous spaces for living lives and expressing themselves and how they presented their productivity and creativity, as well as their mischievousness and roguery are part of doing history . . . and in fact [this is] my preference as a historian, of course without forgetting the walls that they crashed into or built, or the hardships they suffered and caused.”1

1 Cemal Kafadar, Kim var imiş biz burada yoğ iken: Dört Osmanlı: Yeniçeri, Tüccar, Derviş ve Hatun (Istanbul: Metis Yayınları, 2010), 14–15. Quote translated by Ali Yaycıoğlu.

Introduction

In “doing” history with him, we have learned from him how to consider the lived experience seriously, and with humility. This approach often times requires a deep re-evaluation of accepted categories, models and theories. In fact, Kafadar’s way of studying and crafting history is an invitation to all scholars to participate in a genuine and humble conversation with previous people, a dialogue that encourages a distancing from our honest wonder (hayret) about their ways.2 Ultimately, Kafadar’s intellectual example presents us all with a genuine opportunity to attempt to understand the lived experiences of the past, one that must coincide with a sincere recognition of our own ontological and epistemological limits. We must humbly acknowledge that we can never fully grasp the variegated meanings of existence or the experiences of the past and must strive to recognize that our own distance simply prohibits us from inhabiting other times and places, as we shoulder our contemporary terms and priorities. Kafadar not only enjoins us to engage, rigorously and hermeneutically, with past modes of living, thinking and feeling; he also beckons us towards an unapologetic humanism. We hope that the essays in this volume, inspired by Kafadar’s appreciation and excitement for the unexpected found in the experiences of individuals and communities of earlier times, are a worthy contribution to the conversations he has so brilliantly and enthusiastically started over the course of many years, and which continue to nourish us. Cemal Kafadar’s way of appreciating the lived experience is also an inherent recognition of “the walls that they crashed into or built, the hardships they suffered and caused.” He warns all of us “not to allow historical experience to be understood as natural (big fish eats little fish; this is natural!).”3 While, on the one hand, Kafadar refuses to “normalize history,” he also suggests that history offers possibilities for emancipation: “If history writing is not emancipating, it means that it serves for domination.”4 Indeed, Kafadar’s own scholarship has strived to unearth the lives of seemingly ordinary people, whose stories have traditionally been viewed as mere entryways into more “serious” discussions about institutions, or as fragments of grand narratives related to political and economic transformations. Although he never negates the notion that writings by—or about—modest people can shed light on institutions, or political and economic developments, Kafadar invites us to go further, to appreciate each individual in their own right, to see them as a human being living a unique life,

2 Ibid., 26. 3 Ibid., 25. Quote translated by Ali Yaycıoğlu. 4 Cemal Kafadar, Kendine Ait bir Roma: Diyar-ı Rum’da Kültürel Coğrafya ve Kimlik Üzerine (Istanbul: Metis Yayınları, 2017), 15. Quote translated by Ali Yaycıoğlu.

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during a particular moment, in a specific place, within distinct cultural and social contexts, dealing with the physical and metaphysical concerns of their own daily life. If Kafadar has been concerned with the ongoing dialectic between domination and emancipation, he also candidly admits that one of his priorities has been to understand how people experienced and expressed joy in the past. It should come as no surprise, then, that joy is an emotion that we also very much associate with Kafadar’s thinking, writing, teaching, and friendship. In many ways, joy is the essential element that sparks from the intellectual atmospheres he creates. Kafadar emits joy. And his joy—for people, in the past and the present—inspires our interactions with other human beings, living in the past, as well as in the present. It moves through our research, in our individual— and collective—readings, and our analyses and discussions of sources and documents. It inspires us to share findings and build new frameworks. It accompanies us as we write articles and books, and produce documentaries. This kind of joy is reminiscent of the joy of craftspeople shaping things, with care and attention. We engage in lively conversation, mutual support, and friendly competition, all the while trying to live up to the high standards of the craft, knowing that the best work is full of joy for the process, attention to detail, and the knowledge that each craftsperson is part of a changing tradition and a collaborative cohort. Echoing Marc Bloch’s The Historian’s Craft,5 Kafadar has recently associated history with carpentry.6 As a carpenter, the historian should know the material well, whether it is a narrative text, a document, or a visual representation. And, when crafting it, they should do justice to details, implicit and explicit meanings, as well as to the material’s inconsistencies, deviations, and paradoxes. Kafadar’s emphasis on history as craft calls for rigor and meticulousness towards the material, combined with joy. Where does Kafadar situate himself within different intellectual or historiographical traditions, then? Reading Cemal Kafadar, one moves from Lucien Febvre to E. P. Thompson, from Natalie Zemon Davis to Carlo Ginzburg and Umberto Eco, from Niyazi Berkes to Halil İnalcık. In fact, many intellectual and historiographical traditions intersect within Kafadar’s scholarship, as Ahmet Karamustafa’s essay in this volume illustrates. As editors

5 Marc Bloch, The Historian’s Craft, trans. Peter Putnam (New York: Knopf, 1953). 6 “Tarihçinin marangozdan hiçbir farkı da, üstünlügü de yoktur.” Interview with Cemal Kafadar by Emre Can Dağlıoğlu, Emrah Göker, and Ümit Kurt Kırmızılar, September 19, 2016, https://www.kirmizilar.com/tr/index.php/tartisma/item/222-cemal-kafadar-tarhcininmarangozdan-hicbir-farki-da-ustunlugu-de-yoktur?fbclid=IwAR1XAy9Sg8AZhJ64f2Hv2n3 vKzcrrnRQQzRELRL70JZURXPXY9-9tYq8h-0.

Introduction

of this volume, we intend to underline the fact that Kafadar realizes the craftlike rigor of historical traditions dear to him, with a sense of inclusivism—or perhaps democratic participation—against what might be perceived of as an intellectual or social rigidity, embedded in these traditions. Kafadar’s colleagues know well his love for Istanbul, Turkey, and the Turkish language. This love for a city, a country and a language provide a gateway to love for other cities, countries and languages. History, for Kafadar, is not a guide that tells us to how to love a place or language, but rather a companion that allows us to try and see, experience, and love many places, peoples, languages, literatures, arts, and architectures. History can teach us about people and their environments; in studying history and literature, we can understand how those before us developed different forms of attachments to places, peoples, and literatures. As these attachments often compete (and sometimes clash), one of the historian’s priorities is to uncover the historical contexts within which different claims evolved into plurality and interaction, rather than endorsing one claim over others, in a linear or teleological fashion. In a recent book where he examines how people, particularly Turkish-speaking people in the Medieval and Early Modern era, gave meanings to Anatolia, Kafadar asks: “What was the association of the Turkish-speaking people, who would come under the rule of the Ottomans and the Ottoman state, to Turkishness? To being Turkmen, Oghuz, Mongol, Tajik? What was their preoccupation (dert) with the lands they claimed?”7 In his seminal article, “A Rome of one’s Own,” Kafadar gives us a brilliant lesson on how to historicize a cultural geography, and invites us to understand how and why historical actors could feel attachment and belonging to a place and/or a people in different ways and to different degrees.8 One could imagine that Kafadar’s writings on historical and cultural geography are also a testimony of his own dert with his city, country, and language, driving his mission as a historian-activist. Kafadar has been actively fighting against urban and environmental erasure in Istanbul. In this struggle, he walks arm-in-arm with the gazes and words of fellow Istanbulites, living in different periods, experiencing different trials and tribulations. In this walk, Kafadar challenges not only the powerholders who have developed megalomanic urban projects in accordance with their political fantasies

7 Cemal Kafadar, Kendine ait bir Roma, 22. Quote translated by Ali Yaycıoğlu. 8 Idem, “A Rome of One’s Own: Reflections on Cultural Geography and Identity in the Lands of Rum,” Muqarnas 24 (2007): 7–25 (expanded and updated Turkish translation in, Kendine Ait bir Roma, 59–139).

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and economic interests, but also those who yearn for the past with different notions of what has been “lost,” and seem to have specific kinds of nostalgias and frustrations. Kafadar’s activism has never been embedded within a conservationist agenda. His is a struggle for the plurality of rights to the city, which includes the entitlement of enjoying it, without—or beyond—social, cultural, ethnic, historical, or religious hierarchies, without privileging either rural or urban topographies, the sea, the hills, the architecture, the landscape, the past (any or all of its pasts), or the present. While Kafadar opposes the gentrification of space and the commodification of history, he reminds us of a simple, yet significant principle, which prevailed in many premodern societies including the Ottoman world: the notion that the esthetics of everyday life are a public good, and maintaining them is a public duty.9 This volume, which contains several chapters on Istanbul, is also a salute to Kafadar’s fight for the rights of the people of Istanbul to their city. Finally, we would like to note that this volume was curated and compiled in the midst of a global pandemic and a series of political crises. The authors included in this volume have managed to contribute their pieces while living through massive political turmoil and authoritarianism in Turkey, the United States, and elsewhere. Since March 2020, Covid-19 has killed millions of people, locked down hundreds of millions in their homes, resulting in an unprecedented public health and economic crisis that has hit blue-collar workers, undocumented immigrants, people of color, and the poor particularly hard. This crisis has triggered new debates about the fate of our current social and economic institutions, as various optimistic and pessimistic analysts compete to predict the drastic uncertainties of the future. As the Covid crisis persists, millions have poured out into the streets of the US and in many other countries in order to engage in massive demonstrations protesting the brutal murder of an African-American man, George Floyd, by a white policeman in Minneapolis on May 25, 2020. His murder was captured on video and its spread, via the internet, alerted people all over the world to the kind of inhumanity routinely experienced by African Americans in the United States, and beyond. The ensuing protests are part of a much longer story of resistance in the US, and in other regions of the world, rejecting white supremacy and advocating for the equal treatment of Black people, and all people of color. At the same time, the city of Beirut, once a part of the Ottoman Empire, a city that has inspired countless writers, poets and musicians in the twentieth

9 Idem, “İstanbul’u Savunmak bir İsyan Ahlakı’dır,” interview by Samet Altıntaş, Dergâh 257 (November 2019), 16–18.

Introduction

and twenty-first centuries, home to so many of our colleagues and friends (including contributors to this volume), has once again suffered tremendous, unimaginable damage. While the causes behind the protests for Black Lives Matter, the mismanagement and lack of planning that have led to countless deaths due to Covid-19 in the US, and the recent events in Beirut might seem unlinked, they seem to be connected by a callous disregard for the lives of the human beings that governing structures are meant to care for and protect. In early January 2021, the US Capitol was invaded by Donald Trump supporters in protest of the results of the presidential elections. This event highlighted an unprecedented moment in US history, illustrating that democratic institutions, developed over two centuries, are much more fragile than we might assume. The pandemic-timed outbreak of war over the long disputed region of Artsakh (or Nagorno-Karabagh) and the ensuing aggressions against people, history, cultural heritage, and the environment in the South Caucasus has been remarkably under-discussed in intellectual circles, in spite of the rhetoric of violence coupled with problematic and threatening historical justifications used by regional leaders and the devastation it caused. The unfortunate—and sadly, successful—labeling of this war as ethno-religious in intent seems to have drawn attention away from the real and continuing threat of authoritarian political consolidation in the region.  In this moment of crisis, we are all sad, apprehensive, and angry. And, yet, like everyone, we are searching for joy of the kind that might sustain us. For us, compiling this volume in recognition of Cemal Kafadar, alongside our peers, has inspired hope for the future and reminded us to find happiness and meaning in living. In this particular moment of crisis, Cemal’s way of doing history encourages us to imagine life beyond the anxieties of decline and the comforts of mechanistic progress. He continuously urges us to carry on, in engaging past lived experiences with both rigor and respect. He asks us to appreciate individuals, and the complexities of their own meanings and feelings. He asks us to sit with people in the past, drink tea or ayran with them, such that after engaging with them as human beings we might try to know, we can actually try to craft sentences that could help others to better approach them. We hope that our collective work will contribute to a general appreciation of life and of lives, both past and present. This volume includes thirty-one articles written by forty-seven authors. Some authors have written their pieces individually, others have collaborated with one or two colleagues. We have divided the volume into four sections: Texts, Lives, Places, and Processes, and organized the chapters according to these sections, chronologically ordered. Of course, this structure could never reflect a perfect grouping of these contributions, since many of them address more than one of

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these orientations. Still, we hope that this order of things will make this large volume easier to read. We also think that text, lives, places, and processes do reflect the main pillars of Kafadar’s scholarship. In this regard, we hope that this structure is in conversation with Kafadar’s ongoing intellectual project. We regret that we were not able to include Kafadar’s most recently graduated and current students, and hope that they will continue to celebrate Cemal Kafadar, by producing another edited volume, or by opting to honor him in a completely different way. The future is unknown and exciting! Ultimately, this volume is not really a festschrift for Cemal Kafadar, but, simply, a celebration of a milestone in his career. He has completed thirty years of teaching, research, and mentorship at Harvard University. We wish him many more productive, healthy, and happy years, surrounded by students, friends and colleagues, who, we are sure, will always recognize and cherish the overwhelming generosity of his intellectual and personal engagement.

Cemal Kafadar’s Teaching and Scholarship, 1981–2022 Teaching Harvard University (Cambridge, MA) Vehbi Koç professor of Turkish Studies, 1990–present. Boğaziçi Üniversitesi (Istanbul) Visiting professor, spring 2005 and spring 2009. École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales (Paris) Visiting professor, December 1998–January 1999. Bilim ve Sanat Vakfi (Fındıkzade, Istanbul) Seminar series, fall 1998. Koç University (Istanbul) Visiting professor, January 1994. Princeton University (Princeton, NJ) Assistant professor, Department of Near Eastern Studies, 1987–89. Lecturer, Department of Near Eastern Studies, 1985–87.

Introduction

Monographs and Edited Volumes Edited with Gülru Necipoğlu and Cornell Fleischer. Treasures of Knowledge: An Inventory of the Ottoman Palace Library (1502/3–1503/4). 2 vols. Supplements 14. Leiden: Brill, 2019. Kendine Ait Bir Roma: Diyar-i Rum’da Kültürel Coğrafya ve Kimlik Üzerine. İstanbul: Metis, 2017. Edited with Nevra Necipoğlu. Angeliki E. Laiou Hatıra Sayısı (In Memoriam Angeliki E. Laiou). Special issue, Journal of Turkish Studies 36 (2011). Harvard: Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations. Kim Var İmiş Biz Burada Yoğ İken Dört Osmanlı: Yeniçeri, Tüccar, Derviş ve Hatun. Istanbul: Metis, 2009. Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1995. Turkish translation: İki Cihan Âresinde: Osmanlı Devleti’nin Kuruluşu. Translated by A. Tunç Şen. Istanbul: Metis, 2019. Earlier Turkish translation by Ceren Çıkın. Istanbul: Birleşik, 2010. Greek translation: Ανάμεσα σε δύο κόσμους: η κατασκευή του οθωμανικού κράτους. Translated by Antonis Anastasopoulos. Athens: Cultural Foundation of the National Bank of Greece [MIET], 2008. Edited and Translated. Rüya Mektupları, Asiye Hatun (1641–1643). Istanbul: Oğlak, 1994. Edited with Halil İnalcık. Süleymân the Second and His Time. Istanbul: Isis, 1993.

Articles, Essays, and Published Presentations "Vampire Troubles Is More Serious Than the Mighty Plague: The Emergence and Later Adventures of a New Species of Evildoers." In The Land between Two Seas: Art on the Move in the Mediterranean and the Black Sea 1300–1700, edited by Alina Payne, 126–151. Leiden: Brill, 2022.

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“The City Opens Your Eyes Because It Wants to be Seen: The Conspicuity and Lure of Early Modern İstanbul.” In Companion to Early Modern İstanbul, edited by Shirine Hamadeh and Çiğdem Kafescioğlu, 25–60. Leiden: Brill, 2021. “Sunuş: Vak’anüvis Felsefeden Ne Anlar? Hadise Olmuş Olmamış, Felsefeye Ne Yazar?” In Claude Romano, Zamansal Macera: Hadisevi Hermeneutiği Tanıtan Üç Makale,  edited and translated by Kadir Filiz, 7–15. Istanbul: Ayrıntı Yayınları, 2021. “Yeşil Okuma: Bir Hoş Usul.” In Prof. Dr. Zeren Tanındı’ya Armağan Kitabı: İslam Dünyasında Kitap Kültürü ve Sanatı / Festschrift for Prof. Dr. Zeren Tanındı: Art and Culture of Books in the Islamic World, edited by Aslıhan Erkmen and Şebnam Tamcan, 309–323. Istanbul: Lale, 2021. “Between Amasya and Istanbul: Bayezid II, His Librarian, and the Textual Turn of the Late Fifteenth Century.” In Treasures of Knowledge: An Inventory of the Ottoman Palace Library (1502/3–1503/4), vol. 1, edited by Gülrü Necipoğlu, Cemal Kafadar, Cornell Fleischer, 79–153. Leiden: Brill, 2019. Partial Turkish translation in Z: Kültür-Sanat-Şehir 5 (Winter 2021): 88–90. With Ahmet Karamustafa. “Books on Sufism, Lives of Saints, Ethics, and Sermons.” In Treasures of Knowledge: An Inventory of the Ottoman Palace Library (1502/3–1503/4), vol. 1, edited by Cornell Fleischer, Cemal Kafadar, Gülrü Necipoğlu, 439–507. Leiden: Brill, 2019. “Prelude to Ottoman Decline Consciousness: Monetary Turbulence at the end of the Sixteenth Century and the Intellectual Response.” Osmanlı Araştırmaları 51, no. 1 (2018): 265–295. “How Dark is the History of the Night, How Black the Story of Coffee, How Bitter the Tale of Love: The Changing Measure of Leisure and Pleasure in Early Modern İstanbul.” In Medieval and Early Modern Performance in the Eastern Mediterranean, edited by Arzu Öztürkmen and Evelyn Birge Vitz, 243–269. Turnhout: Brepols, 2015. “Evliya Çelebi in Dalmatia: An Ottoman Traveler’s Encounters with the Arts of the Franks.” In Dalmatia and the Mediterranean: Portable Archaeology and the Poetics of Influence, edited by Alina Payne, 59–78. Leiden: Brill, 2013.

Introduction

“Sohbete Çelebi, Çelebiye Mecmûa . . .” In Mecmûa: Osmanlı Edebiyatının Kırkambarı. Eski Türk Edebiyatı Çalışmaları VII, edited by Hatice Aynur, Müjgân Çakır, Hanife Koncu, Selim S. Kuru, and Ali Emre Özyıldırım, 63–72. Istanbul: Turkuaz, 2012. “Osmanlı Tarihinde Gerileme Meselesi.” In Osmanlı Tarihini Yeniden Yazmak, edited by Mustafa Armağan, 97–150. Istanbul: Timaş, 2011. (Translation of “The Question of Ottoman Decline,” by Cengiz Şişman). “Osman Bēg and His Uncle: Murder in the Family?” In Studies in Ottoman History in Honor of Professor V.L. Ménage, edited by Colin Heywood and Colin Imber, 157–164. Piscataway: Gorgias Press, 2010. “Asiler, Azizler, Aşıklar.” Kebikeç 28 (2009): 25–33. Turkish version of the catalogue essay for a selection of films titled “Rebels, Saints and Troubadours,” curated for the 28th İstanbul International Film Festival, April 2009. “The Ottoman Empire.” In European Political Thought 1450–1700: Religion, Law and Philosophy, edited by Howell A. Lloyd, Glenn Burgess, and Simon Hodson, 243–256. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007. “A Rome of One’s Own: Reflections on Cultural Geography and Identity in the Lands of Rum.” Special issue, “History and Ideology: Architectural Heritage of the ‘Lands of Rum,’” edited by Sibel Bozdoğan and Gülru Necipoğlu, Muqarnas 24 (2007): 7–25. “Janissaries and Other Riffraff of Ottoman Istanbul: Rebels without a Cause?” In Identity and Identity Formation in the Ottoman World: A Volume of Essays in Honor of Norman Itzkowitz, edited by Baki Tezcan and Karl K. Barbir, 113– 134. Madison: University of Wisconsin, 2007. “The City That Ralamb Visited: The Political and Cultural Climate of Istanbul in the 1650s,” in Mehmed the Hunter’s Imperial Procession—Paintings Commissioned by the 17th Century Swedish Ambassador Claes Ralamb, edited by Karin Adahl, 18–25. Istanbul: Pera Museum, 2006. [“Ralamb’in Elçiliği döneminde Osmanlı Imparatorluğu.” In 17. Yüzyilda İsveç Büyükelçisi Claes Ralamb’in Yaptırdığı Tablolarla Avci Mehmed’in Alay-i Hümayunu, edited by Karin Adahl, 18–25. Istanbul: Pera Museum, 2006.]

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“Sinema ve Tarih.” Transcription of panel with Agah Özgüç, Giovanni Scognamillo, Deniz Bayrakdar. In Türk Film Araştırmalarında Yeni Yönelimler, vol. 5, Sinema ve Tarih, edited by Deniz Bayrakdar and Elif Akçalı, 15–40. Istanbul: Bağlam, 2006. “Halil Inalcık’ın Osmanlı Tariçiliğindeki Yeri [The Place of Halil İnalcık in Ottoman Historiography],” in Türk Tarihçiliğinde Dört Sima: Halil İnalcık, Halil Sahillioğlu, Mehmet Genç, İlber Ortaylı (Four Figures in Turkish History—Writing, papers presented at symposium held in Istanbul on 28 May 2005), edited by Erol Özvar, 13–17. Istanbul: Kültür A.S., 2006. “Dünya Tarihinde Yeni Gelişmeler ve Osmanlı Tarihçiliği.” In Osmanlı Medeniyeti: Siyaset-İktisat-Sanat, edited by Coşkun Çakır, 37–63. Istanbul: Klasik, 2005. “Tarih Yazıcılığında Kamu Alanı Kavramı Tartışmaları ve Osmanlı Tarihi Örneği.” In Osmanlı Medeniyeti: Siyaset-İktisat-Sanat, edited by Coşkun Çakır, 65–86. Istanbul: Klasik, 2005. “Kuruluş Tartışmaları Sentezleniyor.” In Osmanlı Kuruluş Tartışmaları, 32–49, presentation followed by panel discussion with Oktay Özel, Yunus Uğur, and others, 49–74. Istanbul: Bilim ve Sanat Vakfı, 2005. “Osmanlı Siyasal Düşüncesinin Kaynakları Üzerine Gözlemler.” In Modern  Türkiye’de Siyasi Düşünce,  edited by Mehmet Alkan, vol. 1, 23–28. Istanbul: İletişim, 2001. “The Question of Ottoman Decline.” Harvard Middle East and Islamic Review 4, nos. 1–2 (1999): 30–75. “Historical Background of the Ottoman Empire.” Introduction essay to exhibition catalogue of Dragocjenosti Otomanske umjetnosti: 15–19. st. / The Treasures of the Ottoman Art: 15th–19th Centuries, edited by Biserka Rauter Plancic, 35–54. Zagreb: Galerija Klovicevi Dvori, 1999. “Boşnak Ozan Avdo ve Homeros.” In Ziyad Ebüzziya Kitabı: Darçağda bir Çelebi, edited by Ömer Faruk Şerifoğlu, 267–274. Istanbul: Timaş, 1998.

Introduction

“The Ottomans and Europe.” In Handbook of European History 1400–1600: Late Middle Ages, Renaissance and Reformation, edited by Thomas A. Brady Jr., Heiko A. Oberman, and James D. Tracy, vol. 2, 589–635. Leiden: Brill, 1994. “Eyüp’te Kılıç Kuşanma Törenleri.” In Eyüp: Dün/Bugün (11–12 Aralık 1993), edited by Tülay Artan, 50–61. Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları, 1994. “The Myth of the Golden Age: Ottoman Historical Consciousness in the post Süleymânic Era.” In Süleymân the Second and his Time, edited by Halil İnalcık and Cemal Kafadar, 37–48. Istanbul: Isis, 1993. “Women in Seljuk and Ottoman Society up to the Mid-19th Century.” In Women in Anatolia: 9000 Years of the Anatolian Woman, edited by Günsel Renda et al., 192–205. Istanbul: Turkish Republic Ministry of Culture, 1993. “The New Visibility of Sufism in Turkish Studies and Cultural Life.” In The Dervish Lodge: Architecture, Art, and Sufism in Ottoman Turkey, edited by Raymond Lifchez, 307–322. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992. “Mütereddit bir Mutasavvıf: Üsküp’lü Asiye Hatun’un Rüya Defteri, 1641– 1643.” Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Yıllık 5 (1992): 166–222. “On the Purity and Corruption of the Janissaries.” Turkish Studies Association Bulletin 15, no. 2 (1991): 273–280.  “Les troubles monétaires de la fin du XVIe siècle et la prise de conscience ottomane du déclin” [trans. Jean-François Sené]. Annales: Histoire, Sciences Sociales 46, no. 2 (1991): 381–400. “Self and Others: The Diary of a Dervish in Seventeenth-Century Istanbul and First-Person Narratives in Ottoman Literature.”  Studia Islamica 69  (1989): 121–150.  “A Death in Venice (1575): Anatolian Muslim Merchants Trading in the Serenissima.” Journal of Turkish Studies 10 (1986): 191–217. [Reprinted in

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Merchant Networks in the Early Modern World, edited by Sanjay Subrahmanyam, 97–124. Aldershot and Brookfield: Variorum, 1996].

Opera Minora Translation of Ziya Gevher’s preface to the 1923 Turkish edition of Guglielmo Ferrero’s La Ruine de Civilisation Antique (Paris, 1921). Quaderni di Storia 88 (2018): 16–17. “Reading with Roy: The Scholarly Output of Professor Roy Mottahedeh.” In Justice and Leadership in Early Islamic Courts, edited by Abigail Krasner and Intisar Rabb, 173–177. Cambridge, MA: Islamic Legal Studies Program, Harvard Law School, 2017. “Su Gibi Aziz Ayazmalar.” Z: Kültür-Sanat-Şehir, Su ve Şifa X, no. 2 (2017): 442–445. “Sıradan İnsanların Tarihi.” Milliyet Sanat, no. 575 (February 2007): 106–107. English language foreword to Istanbul Mahkemesi 121 Numaralı Şerʿiyye Sicili Tarih: 1231–1232 / 1816–1817, edited by Nejdet Ertuğ, text prepared by Şevki Nezihi Aykut. İstanbul: Sabancı Üniversitesi Yayınları, 2006. “Comments on this Issue’s Theme of Cultural Syncretism.” In Point of Reference, edited by Anna Greka and Mihailis Boutaris, 89. Cambridge, MA: Point of Reference [a registered nonprofit student organization of Harvard University], 1998. “Osmanlı İmparatorluğu’nda Din-Devlet İlişkisi,” presentation in “Birarada Yaşama”: Türkiye’de Din-Devlet İlişkisi Sempozyumu, 9–18, 73–74. Istanbul: Helsinki Yurttaşlar Konseyi, 1994.

Introduction

Encyclopedia Entries With Cornell Fleischer and Hakan Karateke. Historians of the Ottoman Empire. University of Chicago, 2003. https://ottomanhistorians.uchicago.edu/. “Eremya Çelebi Kömürciyan’ın Kamera Öncesi Kamerası” [“Eremya Çelebi Kömürciyan’s Caméra avant la Caméra”]. In Altyazı’nın Gayri Resmi ve Resimli Türkiye Sinema Sözlüğü. [Altyazı Magazine’s Unofficial and Illustrated Cinema Dictionary of Turkey]. Istanbul: Altyazı, 2015. “Tıfli’nin Kamera Öncesi Kamerası,” [“Tıfli’s Camera avant la caméra.”]. In Altyazı’nın Gayri Resmi ve Resimli Türkiye Sinema Sözlüğü. [Altyazı Magazine’s Unofficial and Illustrated Cinema Dictionary of Turkey]. Istanbul: Altyazı, 2015. “Gaza.” In TDV Islâm Ansiklopedis. https://islamansiklopedisi.org.tr/gaza. “Mehmed I., osmanischer Sultan (d. ca. 1421).” In Lexikon des Mittelalters. Munich/Zürich: Artemis Verlag, 1993. “Murad I., (Hüdavendigar), osmanischer Herrscher (1362–89) (1326–1389).” In Lexikon des Mittelalters. Munich/Zürich: Artemis Verlag, 1993. “Murad II., osmanischer Herrscher (1421–1451) (1404–1451). In Lexikon des Mittelalters. Munich/Zürich: Artemis Verlag, 1993. “Musa Çelebi, osmanischer Prinz (d. 1413).” In Lexikon des Mittelalters. Munich/ Zürich: Artemis Verlag, 1993. “Mustafa Çelebi (Beiname: Düzme ‘der Betrüger’), osmanischer Prinz (d. 1422).” In Lexikon des Mittelalters. Munich/Zürich: Artemis Verlag, 1993. “Mustafa (Beiname ‘Küçük’ oder ‘Mustafopoulos’), osmanischer Prinz (1409– 1423).” In Lexikon des Mittelalters. Munich/Zürich: Artemis Verlag, 1993. “Tanzimattan Önce Selçuk ve Osmanlı Toplumunda Kadın.” In Tanzimat’tan Cumhuriyete Türkiye Ansiklopedisi. Istanbul: İletişim, 1993.

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With Karateke, Hakan. “Late Ottoman and Early Republican Turkish Historical Writing.” In The Oxford History of Historical Writing, edited by Stuart Macintyre, Juan Maiguashca, and Attila Pók. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. With Kuyaş, Ahmet. “Gökalp, Mehmet Ziya.” In The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Islamic World. Oxford Islamic Studies Online. http://www. oxfordislamicstudies.com/article/opr/t236/e0276. Revised by Yarborough, Luke. “Diwan.” In The Oxford Encyclopedia of Islam and Politics Oxford University Press, 2014. https://www-oxfordreferencecom/v iew/10.1093/acref :oiso/9780199739356.001.0001/ acref-9780199739356-e-0151.

Unpublished Theses “When Coins Turned into Drops of Dew and Bankers Became Robbers of Shadows: The Boundaries of Ottoman Economic Imagination at the End of the Sixteenth Century.” PhD diss., McGill University, 1986. “Yenic̜ eri-Esnaf Relations: Solidarity and Conflict.” MA thesis, McGill University, 1981.

Reviews and Responses With Cornell Fleischer and Sanjay Subrahmanyam. “Fake Global History in the Age of Fake News.” K24, September 14, 2020. https://t24.com.tr/k24/yazi/ fake-global-history-in-the-age-of-fake-news,2849. With Cornell Fleischer and Sanjay Subrahmanyam. “How to Write Fake Global History.” Cromohs—Cyber Review of Modern Historiography. September 9, 2020. https://oajournals.fupress.net/index.php/cromohs/article/view/12032. “16. Yüzyılda Osmanlı Yahudileri.” Review of Jewish Life under Islam: Jerusalem in the Sixteenth Century, by Amnon Cohen and The Jews of the Ottoman Empire

Introduction

in the Late Fifteenth and the Sixteenth Centuries: Administrative, Economic, Legal and Social Relations as Reflected in the Responsa, by Aryeh Shmuelevitz. Tarih ve Toplum 32, August 1986, 59–62 [Turkish]. Review of Counsel for Sultans of 1581, by Mustafa Ali. Journal of Turkish Studies 7 (1983): 483.

Film Conception and Production “Invisible to the Eye,” on the mid-17th century account of İstanbul by Eremya Çelebi Kömürjian. Directed by Zeynep Dadak, 2020. “Inspirations,” on Sheikh Bedreddin. Directed by Nurdan Arca, 2005.

Broadcast Media (English) “Cemal Kafadar, Between Past and Present, Part I.” Ottoman History Podcast, episode 464, June 29, 2020. https://www.ottomanhistorypodcast. com/2020/06/kafadar-1.html “Cemal Kafadar, Between Past and Present, Part II.” Ottoman History Podcast, episode 474, September 1, 2020. https://www.ottomanhistorypodcast. com/2020/08/kafadar-2.html

Broadcast Media (Turkish) “Tarihin Siyaseti, Siyasetin Tarihi.” Conversation with Alphan Telek, Heinrich Böll Stiftung Derneğı Türkiye Temsilcliği, January 2021. https://soundcloud. com/heinrcihb-llstiftung-tr/cemal-kafadar?in=heinrcihb-llstiftung-tr/sets/ tarihin-siyaseti-siyasetin. “Salgınlar Tarihin Akışını Nasıl Değiştirdi.” Conversation with Ruşen Çakır. Medyascope, May 24, 2020. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=XbF2HXvz72g.

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“Iki Cihan Aresinde.” Conversation with Cengiz Özdemir and Ozan Sağsöz. Kültür ve Tarih Sohbetleri (140). Medyascope, August 6, 2019. https:// medyascope.tv/2019/08/06/kultur-tarih-sohbetleri-140-iki-cihanaresinde-prof-cemal-kafadar-ile-soylesi/. “Cemal Kafadar ile 17 yy. Çelebiler Çağı.” Conversation with Cengiz Özdemir and Ozan Sağsöz. Kültür ve Tarih Sohbetleri (57). Medyascope, June 20, 2017 [with English Subtitles]. https://medyascope.tv/2017/06/20/ kultur-ve-tarih-sohbetleri-57-cemal-kafadar-ile-17-yuzyil-celebiler-cagi/. “Şehir ve Zaman.” Conversation with Gülener Kırnalı and İlker Kocael, Toplum ve Siyaset (15). Medyascope, May 11, 2017. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=2XILyeRUJVU. “Cemal Kafadar ile İzliyorum: Kul Sohbetleri.” Conversation with Zeynep Dadak, Senem Aytaç, and Berke Göl. Altyazı, February 2, 2013. https:// altyazi.net/izliyorum/cemal-kafadar-ile-izliyorum-kul-sohbetleri/.

Interviews, Conversations, Newspaper Pieces (Turkish) “Küçük Bir Kartopu.” K24, January 21, 2021. https://t24.com.tr/k24/yazi/ kucuk-bir-kartopu,3047. “Cemal Kafadar ile Söyleşi.” Interview with Kadir Filiz. Sabah Ülkesi Kültür Sanat ve Felsefe Dergisi, no. 64, July, 2020. https://www.sabahulkesi. com/2020/07/03/cemal-kafadar-ile-tarihcilik-ve-felsefe-uezerine. “Osmanlı’yı ve II. Mehmet’i Nasıl Biliriz? O Demir Ütü.” Interview with Yücel Göktürk [reprinted excerpt from an earlier series of interviews with Yücel Göktürk]. “Şarkılı Tefrika,” May–September 2010.) Bir+Bir Dergisi, June 30, 2020. https://www.birartibir.org/a-dan-x-e/769-o-demir-utu. “Salgın ve Irk Yarası.” Interview with Serkan Ayazoğlu. Magma, no 46, February, 2020. https://www.magmadergisi.com/baykus/salgin-ve-irk-yarasi. “Orta Sayfa Sohbeti.” Interview with Samet Altıntaş. Dergâh Edebiyat Sanat Kültür Dergisi, no 357, October 2019, 16–18.

Introduction

“Cem Sultan-Bayezid Kavgası.” Atlas Tarih, August-September 2017. “Kimliklerimizin İçine Giriyor ‘Bizim Hikâyemizi’ Artık Devlet Bize Anlatıyor.” Interview with Serkan Ayazoğlu and Dr. Feray Coşkun. K24, August 17, 2017. https://t24.com.tr/k24/yazi/cemal-kafadar,1345. “Tanpınar ve Ustası.” K24, March 23, 2017. https://t24.com.tr/k24/yazi/ tanpinar,1143. “Tarihçinin Marangozdan Hiçbir Farkı da, Üstünlüğü de Yoktur.” Interview with Emre Can Dağlıoğlu, Emrah Göker, and Ümit Kurt. Modus Operandi 1, March 25, 2016. “Osmanlı Tarihine Nokta Koyamadık.” Interview with Cansu Çamlıbel. Hürriyet, October 5, 2015. https://www.hurriyet.com.tr/gundem/ osmanli-tarihine-nokta-koyamadik-30234040. “Muhafazakâr’ın Kör Kazması.” Interview with Serkan Ayazoğlu. Magma, June 18, 2015. https://www.magmadergisi.com/bilim-haberleri/cemalkafadar-soylesisi-2. “Yeniçeri Değil, Padişah Darbeci.” Interview with Esra Yalçınalp. Atlas Tarih, June–July 2013, 54–63. “3. Köprü’ye Deli Dumrul Denilmesini Tercih Ediyorum.” Radikal, April 11, 2013. http://www.radikal.com.tr/turkiye/kafadar-3-kopruyedeli-dumrul-denilmesini-tercih-ediyorum-1159015. “Haliç Metro Köprüsü Uykularımı Kaçırıyor.” Interview with Serkan Ayazoğlu. Arkitera, January 9, 2013. https://www.arkitera.com/haber/ halic-metro-koprusu-uykularimi-kaciriyor. “İstanbul’un Siluetine Hançer.” Zaman, August 31, 2012. [“Stabbing Istanbul’s silhouette.” Zaman English, September 5, 2012.] “Tarihçinin Odası—1: Cemal Kafadar ile Söyleşi.” Interview with Ayşe Yazıcıoğlu. Toplumsal Tarih Dergisi, no. 219, March 2012, 26–37.

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“Efsunlu Şehirden, Tarihi Yarımadaya: İstanbul Nedir, Neresidir, Neye Yarar?” Tarih Vakfı, Perşembe Konuşmaları, September 27, 2012. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=276hEAzKvPs. “Türkiye’nin Emperyal bir Projesi Olduğu Konuşuluyor.” Interview with Ezgi Başaran. Radikal, February 1, 2012. http://www.radikal.com.tr/yazarlar/ezgibasaran/turkiyenin-emperyal-bir-projesi-oldugu-konusuluyor-1074256/. “Dişi Aslan Aslan Değil mi?” Interview with Yücel Göktürk and Ulaş Özdemir. Bir+Bi 10 (March 2011), 40–46. “Marul, Etik, Estetik.” Interview with Yücel Göktürk and Ulaş Özdemir. Bir+Bir 9 ( January/February 2011), 36–40. “Bir Kara Delik.” Interview with Yücel Göktürk and Ulaş Özdemir. Bir+Bir 8 (November/December 2010), 46–50. “Off . . . Damardan!” Interview with Yücel Göktürk and Ulaş Özdemir. Bir+Bir 7 (October 2010), 42–49. “Üç Harf ile Beş Nokta.” Interview with Yücel Göktürk and Ulaş Özdemir. Bir+Bir 6 (September 2010), 42–48. “Rüya Gibi Her Hatıra.” Interview with Yücel Göktürk and Ulaş Özdemir. Bir+Bir 5 (August 2010), 46–52. “Mazi Denen o Yaban Ülke.” Interview with Yücel Göktürk. Bir+Bir 4 ( June/ July 2010), 45–49. “Gecenin Fethi.” Interview with Yücel Göktürk and Ulaş Özdemir. Bir+Bir 3 (May 2010), 44–48. “Karacaoğlan Experience.” Interview with Yücel Göktürk and Ulaş Özdemir. Bir+Bir 2 (April 2010), 45–48. “Cemal Kafadar ile Dünyada Türk Tarihçiliği Üzerine.” Interviewed and edited by Abdülhamit Kırmızı, Yunus Uğur, Ebubekir Ceylan, Günhan Börekçi, and

Introduction

Kahraman Şakul. Türkiye Araştırmaları Literatür Dergisi 8, no. 15 (2010): 393–424. https://dergipark.org.tr/en/download/article-file/653214. “Tarih Aynı Zamanda İnsanların Eğlendiği Bir Alan Olmalı.” Interview with Ahmet Gürata. Kebikeç 27 (2009): 109–130. “Osmanlı Tarihçiliğinin Daha Zevkli, Daha Heyecanlı ama Çok Daha Aor bir Dönemine Giriyoruz.” Interviewed and edited by Polat Safi, Cumhur Bekar, and Fatih Durgun. Kılavuz (April 2008), 65–85. “Bursa’nın Kültür Tarihinde Modernleşme Çizgileri.” Bursa’da Yaşam, May 2005, 25. “Amerika’nın Gidişatı, Türkiye’deki Özgürlük Tartışmalarını bir Adım Geriye Götürebilir.” Interview with Nuriye Akman (part 2). Zaman, 12 April 2004. “Osmanlı, Modernleşme Serüvenini Kendi Dinamikleriyle 16. Yüzyılda Yaşadı.” Interview with Nuriye Akman. Zaman, 11 April 2004. “Cemal Kafadar ile Söyleşi: Ortaçağ Anadolusu ve Osmanlı Devleti’nin Kuruluşu Üzerine.” Conversation with Ahmet Kuyaş. Cogito: Osmanlılar Özel Sayısı (1999), 62–75. “Osmanlı Azad’ı Bekliyor.” Milliyet, 10 March 1999. “FP Demokrat Olabilecek Mi?” Milliyet, 26 October 1998. “Osmanlılar Kuruluştan İcerici.” Interview with Nilüfer Kuyaş. Milliyet, 24 October 1997. “Orta Sayfa Sohbeti.” Interview in Dergâh Edebiyat Sanat Kültür Dergisi, no. 80 ( July 1996): 12–22. “Osmanlı’da Birey Yoktu Denilemez.” Interview with Nilüfer Kuyaş. Milliyet, 14 July 1995. “Amerika’nın Paul Kennedy’si varsa Osmanlı’nın da Mustafa Ali’si vardı.” Sabah, January 12, 1994.

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Cemal Kafadar: A Çelebi for Our Times Ahmet Karamustafa

When, some forty-five years ago in spring 1974, I sent in my acceptance letter to attend Hamilton College, I could not have imagined that I was simultaneously sowing the seed of a lifelong friendship and an intertwined intellectual trajectory with Cemal Kafadar. I did, of course, know him in high school already, since he was a year ahead of me at Robert College, but at that point ours was at best only a fleeting acquaintance. At Hamilton, on the other hand, we were both philosophy majors, with firm interests, among others, in history, literature, and anthropology; and, naturally, we both continued to inhabit Turkey mentally, following closely political and cultural developments in the homeland in the turbulent 1970s via pre-internet channels in the form of letters, newspapers, journals, and books. The couplet of Ahmed-i Dai that Kafadar quotes in his Kendine Ait Bir Roma,1 “Kişi kim ayrılır kendi ilinden / gidermez zikrini daim dilinden” (Whoever leaves her / his homeland never ceases to talk about it) sums up our state as co-patriot international college students in a remote corner of upstate New York. It may have been remote, but Hamilton provided us with excellent intellectual nourishment. Apart from an abiding concern with clarity of thought, expression

1 Cemal Kafadar, Kendine Ait Bir Roma: Diyar-ı Rumda Kültürel Coğrafya ve Kimlik Üzerine (İstanbul: Metis Yayınları, 2017), 30.

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and argumentation as well as a productive lifelong entanglement with epistemology and metaphysics, the philosophy major instilled in us the skills we needed for critical thinking as well as a healthy skepticism of overarching claims and grand narratives. And our explorations in history, social science, and literature broadened our gaze to subjects not related to Turkey (Hamilton did not have any faculty with expertise in the Middle East at that point). As for Turkish culture, Cemal and I quickly discovered shared interests. We were already well-read in republican-era Turkish literature, both prose (Kemal Tahir was a favorite novelist of us both) as well as poetry, and we continued to follow the contemporary literary scene in Turkey as broadly as we could, with a particular interest in poetry, bringing back as many books as we could from our summer trips to Turkey. Initially, Cemal was much better read than me in the poetry of İkinci Yeni (especially Edip Cansever, Turgut Uyar, and Cemal Süreya), but I managed to catch up soon! The journals Dergah, Birikim, and Hareket (I believe it was Cemal who introduced me to this last one because I had not heard of Nurettin Topçu before) were staple reading for us, and I distinctly remember some of Cemal’s favorite authors during his college years: Reşat Ekrem Koçu, Ahmet Tanpınar (his XIX. Asır Türk Edebiyatı Tarihi), and above all, Niyazi Berkes. Berkes’s The Development of Secularism in Turkey, a landmark work of historical sociology, was a major influence on Cemal, and his desire to study with Berkes was one of the reasons why he chose to attend the Institute of Islamic Studies at McGill University for his graduate studies. It turned out that Berkes retired from McGill just as Cemal arrived in Montreal in 1977, so he could not take courses with Berkes after all. I started the PhD program at the Institute a year after Cemal, and we did at least eventually get to meet Berkes in person. But Cemal’s larger goal, and mine, in choosing to study at the Institute of Islamic Studies was to gain expertise in Islamic history in its broadest sense. Our liberal arts education at Hamilton had equipped us with excellent grounding in the humanities as well as social sciences and allowed us to deepen our linguistic proficiency in English and German, but by the time we were upperclassmen in college we had both independently come to feel the need to situate our keen interest in Turkish culture in its broader Middle Eastern and Islamic context and felt ready to acquire the necessary tools (historical, literary, linguistic) to plunge into that vast territory. So it was that both of us shifted over from philosophy to history and Islamic studies. Studying at the premier Anglophone university in Montreal during the height of the Quebecois nationalist movement during the late 1970s and early 1980s had its challenges, but Cemal and I thrived at the Institute of Islamic Studies, though our intellectual trajectories diverged. We both added Arabic, Persian,

Cemal K afadar: A Çelebi for Our Times

and French to our language repertoires at different levels of competence and acquired the philological skills also to tackle Ottoman Turkish along the way (on this latter front, Cemal had the fortune of benefitting from the incomparable expertise of Şinasi Tekin, of blessed memory, at Harvard). Already before he started his graduate work, Cemal knew that he wanted to specialize in Ottoman history. Side by side with his skills in abstract thinking, he had a penchant for the historically specific, for the quotidian lives of human individuals from all walks of life. But I think it is fair to say that the focus of his empirical gaze from the time I got to know him was the social and cultural history of the Ottoman Empire, rooted in his unwavering attachment to Istanbul, his beloved city. In fact, at least in retrospect, it is clear to me (and to Cemal, too, I think) that many of the threads that run through his academic work were already detectable during his college years. His fascination with Janissary history and culture (the credit for which goes mostly to Reşat Ekrem Koçu!), his entanglement and struggle with the Ottoman decline paradigm one of whose pillars was a particular interpretation of the Janissary revolts, his attempt to rethink and rewrite Ottoman history afresh, outside (but still in relation to) the story of European modernity, all without losing sight of concrete Ottoman individuals and their stories—these themes and foci were already in place, at least in nucleus, when I joined him at McGill. In his MA thesis on “Yeniçeri—Esnaf Relations,”2 and his doctoral dissertation, on “the Boundaries of Ottoman Economic Imagination,”3 Cemal proceeded to subject aspects of Janissary history and the decline paradigm to intense scrutiny, paying particular attention to socioeconomic history of the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and to its reflection in contemporaneous Ottoman chronicles: Mustafa Ali (1541–1600), Selaniki Mustafa (d. around 1600), and Seyyid Lokman (d. after 1601). Again, in retrospect, I would say that in his MA and PhD theses, Cemal had started the work of deconstructing the long-established decline narrative while simultaneously exploring alternative approaches. Of course, the 1980s, which witnessed the birth of postmodernism, was a decade particularly well suited for questioning “master narratives” of all kinds. In particular, the publication of Edward Said’s Orientalism in 1978 and the Iranian revolution of 1979 deeply affected both faculty and students at the Institute. After all, as the only graduate institute of Islamic studies in North 2 Idem, “Yeniçeri-Esnaf Relations: Solidarity and Conflict” (MA thesis, McGill University, 1981). 3 Idem, “When coins turned into drops of dew and bankers became robbers of shadows: The Boundaries of Ottoman Economic Imagination at the end of the Sixteenth Century” (PhD dissertation, McGill University, 1986).

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America (no undergraduates were enrolled in our courses, even in language study), the Institute was arguably one of the bastions of orientalist scholarship (even though most of its students, like me and Cemal, came from Muslim majority countries), and Said’s trenchant criticism was impossible to ignore; indeed, one of our professors, the late, eminent Mamluk historian Donald Little whose history seminars we both attended, wrote one of the first responses to the book. At the same time, the riveting revolution in Iran, which unfolded in front of our eyes on a daily basis, was visibly shaking the foundations of modernization theory as well as many of the established tropes in the study of religion in general and Islam in particular. Under these conditions, when the very bases of the grand narrative of western civilization came under intense scrutiny and criticism in the academy, and the historiography of European history itself was undergoing significant shifts with the ascendancy of the category “early modern,” perhaps it was not surprising that a budding Ottomanist would wrestle with prevalent periodizations of Ottoman history. After Cemal started his teaching career, first at Princeton then, from fall 1990 onward, at Harvard, the fruits of his engagement with Ottoman studies began to appear in print. It is not my intention in this short piece to describe and analyze his publications in detail, but I do want to highlight some salient features of his intellectual activities over the past three decades.

Historiography Cemal’s focus on the discourse of Ottoman decline continued to simmer in the background for about a decade until it resurfaced in his “The Question of Ottoman Decline”4—in the interim, he was busy attending to the historiography of earlier eras of Ottoman history that he had not ventured into in great depth during his graduate years. In “The Myth of the Golden Age: Considerations on the Image of Suleyman the Magnificent in Ottoman Historical Consciousness,”5 he went back to early and mid-sixteenth century. Then, reaching even further back in time in a surprise move, he tackled the historiographical debates about the construction of the Ottoman Empire in his monograph Between

4 Idem, “The Question of Ottoman Decline,” Harvard Middle East and Islamic Review 4 (1997–1998): 30–75. 5 Idem, “The Myth of the Golden Age: Considerations on the Image of Suleyman the Magnificent in Ottoman Historical Consciousness in the Post-Süleymanic Era,” in Süleyman the Second and His Time, ed. Halil İnalcık and Cemal Kafadar (İstanbul: The Isis Press, 1993).

Cemal K afadar: A Çelebi for Our Times

Two Worlds.6 Consciously or not, Cemal’s ongoing struggles to rethink and reconceptualize Ottoman history led him to extend his reach all the way from his entry point into the Ottoman realm in late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries back to the first two hundred years of Ottoman history. In terms of sources, this meant expanding his knowledge of early Ottoman chronicles and adding expertise in early Turkish epics and hagiography. During these same years, he was also reconsidering the interface between European and Ottoman history, as demonstrated in his “The Ottomans and Europe.”7 I am not sure, but it was likely also in this period that he was busily processing the ever-ascendant paradigm on early modernity in relation to Ottoman studies and moving toward a global (and not just European) early modern context for re-envisioning the empire’s place in history.

Microhistory Cemal’s lasting concern for the history of the individual, not much in evidence in his graduate theses, surfaced very early in his postgraduate career. “A Death in Venice (1575)”8 contained such a focus on Ayaşlı Hüseyin Çelebi, as did “On the Purity and Corruption of the Janissaries”9 on the Janissary Mustafa, though both these articles were imbedded in and bound up with Cemal’s deconstruction of the decline narrative. The dose of microhistory increased significantly in “Self and Others: The Diary of a Dervish in Seventeenth-Century Istanbul” (1989) and Üsküplü Asiye Hatun’un Rüya Defteri (article to book, 1992–1994). The collection of these four in Kim Var İmiş Biz Burada Yoğ İken10 is eloquent testimony to this individual focused social history strand in Cemal’s scholarship, which I suspect experienced a significant boost as he developed reading courses on primary source materials, especially one on the indefatigable traveler Evliya Çelebi, who remains one of his favorite historical figures. I should note here

6 Idem, Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Berkeley and California: University of California Press, 1995). 7 Idem, “The Ottomans and Europe,” in Handbook of European History 1400–1600: Late Middle Ages, Renaissance and Reformation, ed. Thomas A. Brady, Heiko A. Oberman, and James D. Tracy (Leiden: Brill, 1994). 8 Idem, “A Death in Venice (1575): Anatolian Muslim Merchants Trading in the Serenissima,” Journal of Turkish Studies 10 (1986): 191–218. 9 Idem, “On the Purity and Corruption of the Janissaries,” Turkish Studies Association Bulletin 15, no. 2 (1991): 273–280. 10 Idem, Kim var imiş biz burada yoğ iken: Dört Osmanlı: Yeniçeri, Tüccar, Derviş ve Hatun (İstanbul: Metis Yayınları, 2009).

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that Cemal’s keen interest in specific individuals and his ability to bring them to life, often in spite of the paucity of relevant sources, rests squarely on his wideranging and unceasing exploration of unpublished archival documents and texts, and such unparalleled affinity and facility for primary sources continues to be the hallmark of his scholarly profile. He is a historian who calibrates and recalibrates his understanding of Ottoman realities through new findings in the archives and manuscript libraries and who loves to be surprised and humbled by his sources, never abandoning his sense of wonder and excitement along the way.

Cultural Landscapes Microhistorical probing is, of course, in a symbiotic relationship with larger questions of social and cultural identity, and Cemal’s virtual peregrinations through Ottoman Anatolia and the Balkans in the historical record (coupled by his actual travels in the same territory over the years!) equipped him with the evidence to crack the macro level issue of Rumi identity. In “A Rome of One’s Own: Reflections on Cultural Geography and Identity in the Lands of Rum,”11 he traces the contours of the multicolored and multilayered landscape of Rumi identity from, roughly, the fourteenth through the seventeenth centuries. In the Turkish version of the same long essay published a decade later, Kendine Ait Bir Roma, he buttresses his study with preliminary observations on late early modern as well as modern developments such as the formation of national identities, in order, I suspect, to ease the entry of modern Turkish readers into the complex exploration of Ottoman cultural identity that follows.

Tectonic Shifts in Social History Although Cemal has never stopped holding his historical lens to the Janissaries and even published a couple articles on them—“On the Purity and Corruption of the Janissaries” and “Janissaries and Other Riffraff of Ottoman Istanbul”12— his focus on Janissary social history led him to think deeper on new forms and

11 Idem, “A Rome of One’s Own: Reflections on Cultural Geography and Identity in the Lands of Rum,” Muqarnas 24 (2007): 7–25. 12 Idem, “Janissaries and Other Riffraff of Ottoman Istanbul: Rebels without a Cause,” International Journal of Turkish Studies 13 (2007): 113–134.

Cemal K afadar: A Çelebi for Our Times

sites of early modern sociability, especially the coffeehouse, and eventually to produce the article “How Dark is the History of the Night, How Black is the History of Coffee?”13. Early modern occupation, even colonization of the night and its attendant phenomena are very much at the center of his current thinking, and the thought of writing an account of this global transformation in human history with Istanbul at its center continues to excite him visibly. Such attentiveness on his part to tectonic shifts in the foundations of social life in the early modern period is testimony to his ability to practice his own vision of the historical profession. The historian, as he points out in his Kim Var İmiş Biz Burada Yoğ İken, has to conduct the historical craft “on a swing” between social science and the humanities, between theory and macro level concerns on the one hand and empirical explorations in the historical record and the singular findings such research yields on the other.14 The trajectory that carried Cemal from Janissary culture via coffee and the coffeehouse to the colonization of the night and to the directly related question of new sites of sociability is a product of the playful and lively acrobatics he performs on that swing. There is much more to Cemal’s intellectual and social profile that this short summary of salient features in his publications does not, cannot, capture. There is, for instance, the work of naturalizing the place of Ottoman history in broader European and global early modern historical frames while decentering Eurocentric perspectives in Ottoman Studies that he has been conducting in both print and in numerous conference presentations and talks throughout his career. There is his ongoing participation, in positions of leadership, in collective publishing endeavors (such as the “Court Registers of Ottoman Istanbul” project and the just released volumes on the inventory of the Topkapı Palace Library under Bayezid II) in an attempt to increase academic and public access to the Ottoman historical record in any way possible. There is, too, his love affair with and expertise in cinema, which led him to develop a course on “Medieval History and Cinema” and to act as a highly engaged consultant in the production of at least two history-inspired documentaries in Turkey. I can also add his environmental activism on behalf of historical inner city horticultural spaces in Istanbul as well as the visible profile he maintains in Turkish cultural journals in the form of short and long interviews. And I am sure this listing leaves out some other areas of his public profile! 13 Idem, “How Dark is the History of the Night, How Black the Story of Coffee, How Bitter the Tale of Love: The Changing Measure of Leisure and Pleasure in Early Modern Istanbul,” in Medieval and Early Modern Performance in the Eastern Mediterranean, ed. Arzu Öztürkmen Yılmaz and Evelyn Birge Vitz (Turnhout: Brepols Publishers, 2014). 14 Idem, Kim var imiş biz burada yoğ iken, 18.

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I would like to end this sketch of Cemal as an intellectual with two additional observations. In an interview he gave to Kılavuz, Cemal states: “Yani her ne kadar hicret gurbet yaşadıysam da, ben Türk fikir hayatının içinde yaşıyorum, orada soluk alıyorum, onun sorunlarını düşünüyorum” (Even though I have lived away from my homeland, I live and breathe within Turkish intellectual life and think about its problems).15 And in an earlier interview in Türkiye Araştırmaları Literatür Dergisi (2011), he makes the following statement: “Çoğu gurbette geçen bunca yıl boyunca dilini, kültürünü, tarihini vatan edinmiş, onu zihninde taşımayı öğrenmiş bir insanım” (I am a person who has, in the course of many years mostly spent outside Turkey, made his language, culture and history his homeland, who has learned to carry it in his mind).16 In these statements, he captures an essential characteristic of his own cultural identity: his rootedness in Turkish and Ottoman culture and history, and, of course, in Istanbul. His gradual transformation of the language, culture and history of Turkey into his “homeland” during the last four plus decades after he first came to the US back in 1973, and the bicultural life he has been leading since then between Boston and Istanbul, has to be factored into any sketch of him as an intellectual. It is safe to say that while he has been addressing the Euro-American and Anglophone community of historians and scholars in his professional activities in English, Cemal has also been constantly engaged and conversant with the Turkish reading public and scholars of all stripes and persuasions who publish mostly or exclusively in Turkish. He has, to use his own simile, been on the “swing” between the Anglophone global and the Turkish local all his life, making the fruits of his explorations available to both sides with equal care and concern. But, in a festschrift prepared for him by his students, it is fitting to close with a last observation about another feature of Cemal’s intellectual profile: that of teacher and mentor. It will be well known to readers of this volume that over the past several decades, there has been two major PhD pipelines in Ottoman history in the US, one at the University of Chicago (first under Halil İnalcık, then Cornell Fleischer), and the other at Harvard. It has been a rare privilege and certainly an equally rare pleasure for Cemal to work with over forty gifted doctoral students so far, most now safely ensconced in the academic profession in the US, Turkey, and elsewhere. I have met quite a few of his students over the years—in person, in print or both—and had the chance to witness the close 15 Polat Safi, Cumhur Bekar and Fatih Durgun, “Prof. Dr. Cemal Kafadar: ‘Osmanlı tarihçiliğinin daha zevkli, daha heyecanlı ama çok daha zor bir dönemine giriyoruz,’” interview with Cemal Kafadar, Kılavuz 48 (2008): 84. 16 Abdulhamit Kırmızı et al., “Cemal Kafadar ile Dünyada Türk Tarihçiliği Üzerine,” interview with Cemal Kafadar, Türkiye Araştırmaları Literatür Dergisi 8, no. 15 (2011): 422.

Cemal K afadar: A Çelebi for Our Times

rapport and personal connection between them and their beloved mentor, who trained and nurtured them in his inimitably gentle, generous and caring manner. I am certain they would all agree with me that they were extremely fortunate to have been able to study with Kafadar—the volume you are holding in your hands is, I am sure, adequate testimony to the gratitude and affection they feel for him.

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Narrating Ottoman Politics in the Fifteenth Century: Perspectives from Some Byzantine and Ottoman Histories Aslıhan Akışık-Karakullukçu and Dimitri Kastritsis One of Cemal Kafadar’s key arguments in Between Two Worlds, a book that has stood the test of time because of its wealth of historiographical insight, is that the Ottoman enterprise developed in a cultural environment where storytelling played a central role. In his own words: [T]he transmission of [Ottoman historical] narratives over time, place, milieux, and media presents many problems that have not yet been dealt with. The currently rather sharp boundaries that exist in Turkish studies between historical and literary-historical scholarship must be crossed in order to deal with some important questions that arise from the existence of this intricately interrelated body of narratives.1 If the boundaries between different areas of Ottoman and Turkish studies pose a problem, how much greater are the difficulties when we consider that

1 Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Berkeley: University of California, 1995), 64.

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stories about the House of Osman were also told in Greek and other languages rarely considered by Ottomanists?2 A full examination of this complex body of narratives would require bridging many different kinds of boundaries, including those between the fields of Ottoman, Byzantine, medieval European, and Islamic studies. Needless to say, this is a task beyond the scope of our brief contribution. In the pages that follow, we hope to provide some initial insights into this body of rich literary material and its historical interpretation. We will focus on two major themes: the Ottoman practice of dynastic fratricide, whose beginning is often but not always associated with the reign of Bayezid I (r. 1389–1402); and Bayezid’s3 character and style of government, which were widely perceived to have caused his downfall at the hands of Timur.

A Complicating Narrative: Laonikos Chalkokondyles on Ottoman Fratricide By thorough inquiry, we found out that this (i.e. Orhan’s killing of his brothers) did not in this way establish the estimation about the brothers namely to treat them as enemies which they customarily practice still to this day. But we found out by questioning that (the practice of treating one’s brother as an enemy) was introduced by the rulers of the Oghuz and it also happened earlier.4 2 In addition to Laonikos Chalkokondyles, whose history will be considered below, some other cases are the Byzantine short chronicles, which sometimes contain traces of stories more or less closely connected to contemporary events; the chronicle of Doukas; and the Catalan romance loosely modeled on the life of Bayezid I’s brother Yakub Çelebi, which includes among other characters the vizier Çandarlı Ali Paşa. See Peter Schreiner, Die Byzantinischen Kleinchroniken, 2 vols. (Vienna: Verl. d. Österr. Akad. d. Wiss., 1975–1979); Doukas, Istoria Turco-Bizantina (1341–1462), ed. Vasile Grecu (Bucarest: Editura Academiei Republicii Populare Romine, 1958); Història de Jacob Xalabín, ed. Juan Carlos Bayo, trans. Barry Taylor (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2015); Dimitri Kastritsis, “Tales of Viziers and Wine: Interpreting Early Ottoman Narratives of State Centralization,” in Trajectories of State Formation across Fifteenth-Century Islamic West-Asia, ed. Jo Van Steenbergen (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2020), 224–254. 3 The presentation of names and other proper nouns poses difficulties in a joint contribution by a Byzantinist and an Ottomanist, based on both Greek and Turkish sources. For Turkish names, terms, and book titles, we have followed the style of the volume in which this chapter appears. Following the conventions of Byzantine studies, Greek titles and terms are given in Greek. 4 “Τοῦτο δὲ ἔγωγε ἀναπυνθανόμενος εὗρον οὐ γνώμην ταύτῃ περὶ τῶν ἀδελφῶν, χρῆσθαι σφίσιν αὐτοὺς ὡς πολεμίοις, ἀποφηνάμενον νομίζεσθαι παρ᾽αὐτοῖς ἔτι καὶ ἐς τόνδε τὸν χρόνον, ἀλλ᾽ ὑπὸ τῶν τοῖς Ὀγουζίοις ἡγεμόνων καθιστάμενον καὶ πρόσθεν γενόμενον διεπυθόμην.” Cf. Laonikos Chalkokondyles, Historiarum Libri Decem, ed. I. Bekker (Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae. Bonn: Weber, 1843), 21. Cf. Laonici Chalcocandylae Historiarum Demonstrationes,

Narrating Ottoman Politics in the Fif teenth Centur y

The fifteenth-century Hellene historian Laonikos Chalkokondyles (d. after 1464) inserts this brief commentary on the Ottoman custom “concerning brothers” to shed light on the preceding anecdote concerning Orhan’s (1324– 1362) fratricide and rise to the throne. However, Laonikos’ story complicates what is currently known about the details and specifics of early Ottoman fratricide,5 as his portrayal of these events contradicts other extant sources on Orhan and offers a stark contrast to the earliest Ottoman chroniclers. In Ottoman historicizing accounts, beginning with Ahmedi’s late fourteenth-century versified İskendername (Book of Alexander), the similarly versified Düsturname (Book of the Vizier) by Laonikos’ contemporary Enveri, and Şükrullah’s Persian Behcetü’t Tevarih (Beauty of Histories), Orhan’s rise to rulership does not entail lethal confrontation with his brothers.6 In subsequent versions of the story as elaborated by the later fifteenth-century and sixteenth-century chroniclers Uruç, Aşıkpaşazade, and Neşri, Orhan’s succession is described as having been sanctioned by Osman himself, prior to his death. Moreover, in these later versions Orhan also receives the benevolent support of his brother after their father’s passing.7 In Laonikos’ alternative account, Orhan, the youngest of

ed. Eugene Darkó, 2 vols. (Budapest: Academia Litterarum Hungarica, 1922–1927), vol. 1, 18–19. Cf. trans. Anthony Kaldellis, The Histories, Laonikos Chalkokondyles, 2 vols. (Washington DC: Harvard University Press, 2014), 1:32. The manuscript evidence for this passage is very corrupt and the Greek text presents problems. The Bonn edition follows the manuscript tradition more closely than Eugene Darkó’s critical edition. We reject Darkó’s emendation (ἀποφηναμένοις instead of ἀποφηναμένου) and instead suggest ἀποφηνάμενον. More recently, Anthony Kaldellis suggested to substitute καθιστάμενον instead of καθιστάμενων and we accept this latter emendation. We also suggest that the grammar and meaning of the Greek text may be more easily resolved if one takes into account that Laonikos was using Herodotean vocabulary. The common Herodotean phrase ἀποφαίνεσθαι γνώμην occurs in Hdt. 1.40, 2.120, 3.71, 7.8, 7.152, 8.49. We extend thanks to Diether Roderich Reinsch and Tamás Mészáros for help with this passage. 5 On Ottoman fratricide and Ottoman succession practices see Mehmed Akman, Osmanlı Devletinde Kardeş Katli (Istanbul: Eren, 1997); Ekrem B. Ekinci, “Fratricide in Ottoman Law,” Belleten 82, no. 295 (December 2018): 1013–1046; Mehmet Akman, “Kardeş Katli ve Hukuki Boyutu,” Düşten Fethe İstanbul, ed. Coşkun Yılmaz (Istanbul: Nadir Kitap, 2015), 219–231; Halil İnalcık, “Saltanat Veraseti Usulü ve Türk Hâkimiyet Telakkisiyle İlgisi,” AÜSBFD 14, no. 1 (1959): 69–94; Colin Imber, “The Ottoman Dynastic Myth,” in his Studies in Ottoman History and Law (Istanbul: Isis, 1996), 305–322. 6 For the editions of Ahmedi see infra n.46; Enveri, Düstûrnâme, ed. Necdet Öztürk (Istanbul: Çamlıca Basım Yayın, 2003); Şükrullah, Behcetü’t Tevârîh, ed. and trans. Hasan Almaz (Istanbul: Mostar, 2010). 7 Uruç, Die Frühosmanischen Jahrbücher des Urudsch, ed. F. Babinger (Hannover: H. Lafaire, 1925), 16; Oruç Beğ Tarihi, ed. Necdet Öztürk (Istanbul: Çamlıca Basım Yayın, 2014), 18–19; Âşıkpaşazâde Tarihi, ed. Necdet Öztürk (Istanbul, Bilgi Kültür Sanat: 2013), 51–53; Mehmed Neşri, Kitâb-ı Cihan-nümâ, ed. Faik Reşit Unat and Mehmed A. Köymen (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1987), 146–149.

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Osman’s three sons, flees to Mount Olympus after learning that his father died in Prousa (Ott., Bursa). Planning to capture the city, Orhan starts his descent from the mountain and chances upon grazing land on his way, which he distributes to his followers for them to plunder. Meanwhile, Orhan’s two anonymous brothers are engaged in war with each other. As Orhan sets out to defeat his brothers, many people from Prousa and from his siblings’ two camps also join him. Orhan subsequently kills his rivals to the throne and seizes kingship. Laonikos Chalkokondyles included this story in the opening pages of his extensive Herodotean-style universal history Ἀπόδειξις Ἱστοριῶν, where the aforementioned commentary succinctly lays the groundwork for all later incidents of Ottoman fratricide described in the narrative. With a composition date sometime after 1464, Laonikos is one of the earliest narrative sources on Ottoman history in any language and the only witness for many of the events and personalities he recorded. As early as 1509, the Italian author Theodore Spandounes who was of Byzantine extraction, briefly relates Laonikos’ version of Orhan’s fratricide in his Italian work on the origin of the Ottoman Sultans. This is a tractate in the genre of Turcica that was popular in the West at this time. Spandounes refers to Laonikos as an anonymous “Christian author.” He contrasts Laonikos’ narrative about Orhan’s fratricide with the narrative of the “Turkish” historians on the same topic. Spandounes notes the discrepancy between Laonikos and the “Turkish” historians, commenting that the latter ascribe the customary practice to a later period.8 Given this fact, it is remarkable that Laonikos’ version of Orhan’s deadly rivalry with his brothers was completely omitted from mainstream Ottoman scholarly historiography, both in the East and in the West.9 Leaving aside the question of historical truth, Laonikos’ presentation of these events merits close attention and a fuller treatment than it has hitherto received. This is all the more true given that the historian was a contemporary of Mehmed II the Conqueror (r. 1444–46 and 1451–81), whose notorious codification of fratricide is considered to have set the Ottomans apart from all previous Islamic and Turkic polities.10 Further, Laonikos includes

8 Theodore Spandounes: On the Origins of the Ottoman Emperors, ed. and trans. Donald M. Nicol (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 17. 9 Johan Leunclavius, Annales Sultanorum Othmanidarum (Frankfurt, 1596), 9. Although Leunclavius cites Laonikos as a source, he does not mention Orhan’s fratricide or include Laonikos’ story even as an alternative version. Leunclavius repeats Uruç’s claim that during Orhan’s reign brothers respected and honored each other. 10 On Mehmed II’s Kanunname and the Ottoman codification of sultanic and customary law, see Ahmet Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnâmeleri ve Hukuki Tahlilleri (Istanbul: Osmanlı Araştırmaları Vakfı, 1990) vol. 2; Halil İnalcık, “Kanunnâme” İA 24, 333–337; idem, “Osmanlı hukukuna giriş: örfi-sultani hukuk ve Fatih’in kanunları,” AÜSBFD 13, no. 2 (1958): 102–126;

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extensive portions of Ottoman Turkish lore in the Ἀπόδειξις and explicitly states that he relies on Ottoman informants for some of his source material. His narrative on the Ottoman dynastic descent from the Oghuz, for example, is similar to fifteenth and sixteenth-century Ottoman Turkish origin stories, indicating that Laonikos had an Ottoman informant. In fact, Laonikos uses the same word “ἐπυθόμην” (I learned) in multiple instances when he introduces information from his Ottoman sources.11 He also uses this word when discussing the Ottoman practice of fratricide in the passage on Orhan. Thus, it is safe to assume that Laonikos was familiar with the later fifteenth-century Ottoman controversy concerning fratricide and, in fact, preserves some elements of that debate in his own writing on the subject. Finally, his account also offers precious insights into the ways in which historical memory was invoked to legitimize, sanction, explain, and/or condemn the practice during Mehmed II’s reign. The aim of the following discussion is twofold. In the first instance, by evaluating and contextualizing the various references to fratricide that Laonikos records, we suggest comparison with the Ottoman accounts. Given the dearth of extant textual sources for the early Ottoman period, Laonikos’ detailed treatment of legendary Ottoman beginnings and subsequent events is useful. He preserves alternate versions of familiar stories and myths which did not “make the cut” and were, thus, not canonized in Ottoman tradition, and otherwise lost to posterity. Secondly and more profoundly, we also discuss the various ways in which Laonikos includes stories of fratricide as a custom which distinguishes the Ottomans from other ethnic groups. Categorizing different peoples according to their ethnicity in a way similar to Herodotus, Laonikos’ systematic use of the word “ἔθνος” (ethnic group) to organize the narrative is both classicizing and precociously modern. As already suggested, Laonikos describes Orhan’s fratricide as the first instance of the practice among the Ottomans. The Ottoman chronicle tradition makes no mention of this killing, and in fact the Ottoman chronicler Uruç (fl. 1481–1512) expressly notes in the context of Orhan’s reign:

Nicole Beldiceanu, Code de lois coutumière de Mehmed II (Wiesbaden  : Otto Harrassowitz, 1967); Yunus Koç, “Early Ottoman Customary Law: The Genesis and Development of Ottoman Codification,” Shattering Tradition: Custom, Law and the Individual in the Muslim Mediterranean (London: I. B.Tauris, 2005), 75–122; Abdülkadir Özcan, “Fatih’in Teşkilat Kanunnâmesi ve Nizam-ı Âlem için Kardeş Katli Meselesi,” İÜEFTD 33 (1982): 7–56; 11 See for example, Laonikos’ passages on the Ottoman budget when he states that he received the information from an Ottoman chancery secretary. Darkó, Laonici Chalcocandylae, 2:201; Kaldellis, The Histories, 2:270–271.

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At that time the padishahs and begs consulted with their brothers. Honoring and respecting each other, they did not kill one another. This was the case until the time of Bayezid Khan the Thunderbolt. Brother killed brother later, during the time of Bayezid Khan.12 Scholars have long recognized that Uruç and the so-called Anonymous Chronicles of the House of Osman are interrelated and fluid texts. There was no canonical original to which the copyist-redactors adhered, which explains why there are multiple and varied manuscript versions.13 It has been proposed that these manuscripts range in date from 1496 to 1549.14 Hence, they were redacted/ composed after Mehmed II’s reign and after the codification of fratricide. Uruç was neither a prominent intellectual nor did he live in the Ottoman capital at the turn of the sixteenth century. A resident of Edirne, according to Kafadar, he was a “critical voice” who possibly belonged to the “ghazi-dervish milieu” (along with Aşıkpaşazade and the anonymous scribes) and voiced resentment “toward Mehmed II’s systematic pursuit of an imperial project,” starting with the establishment of Constantinople as the new capital. As Kafadar has demonstrated, familial murder was perceived to be an important indicator of the changing political climate and both Uruç and the Anonymous Chronicles point to Bayezid I’s rule as the beginning of that project when the purity of frontier ghazi ethos was abandoned.15 To that end, these authors edited their narratives as needed to omit elements of familial strife before the time of Bayezid I. While Uruç and the Anonymous Chronicles set the bifurcation point to the time of Bayezid I rather than Orhan, their interpretive framework is similar in tenor to that of Laonikos. Both the Ottoman chroniclers and Laonikos single out fratricide as a unique historical phenomenon that defines the Ottoman polity. They also present the historical development of that polity over the long-term with a genealogy that goes back to the legendary Oghuz.

12 Uruç, Die Frühosmanischen, 16; Oruç Beğ Tarihi, 19, 13a. 13 V. L. Ménage, “The Annals of Murad II,” BSOAS 39, no. 3 (1976): 570–584; idem, “On the Recensions of Uruj’s ‘History of the Ottomans,’” BSOAS 30, no. 2 (1967): 314–322; idem, “Another text of Uruc’s Ottoman Chronicle,” Der Islam 47 (1971): 273–77; idem, “The Beginnings of Ottoman Historiography,” Historians of the Middle East, ed. P. M. Holt and B. Lewis (London: Oxford University Press, 1962), 168–179; Dimitri J. Kastritsis, An Early Ottoman History: The Oxford Anonymous Chronicle (Bodleian Marsh 313) (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2017). 14 V. L. Ménage, “On the Recensions of Uruj’s ‘History of the Ottomans,’” 314. 15 Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds, 105–109, 114.

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It is important to note that Ottoman chroniclers relied on the monumental compilation project of Yazıcızade Ali, undertaken at Murad II’s (r. 1421–44 and 1446–51) court, to flesh out the Oghuz foundation myths.16 Yazıcızade had translated into Turkish sections on the Oghuz from the Ilkhanid Rashid al-Din’s (d. 1318) Arabic-language history, together with Ibn Bibi’s and Aksarayi’s Persian histories of the Rum Seljuqs (both dating to the thirteenth century), and had elaborated a Turkic-Oghuz identity for the Ottoman Turks and a Kayı identity specifically for the Ottoman dynasty.17 Fuad Köprülü suggested that Yazıcızade also used a hypothetical Uygur Oguz-name based on manuscript evidence but this suggestion has not been universally accepted.18 Importantly for our purposes, Laonikos’ account of Ottoman fratricide and particularly his statement that it had antecedents under the Oghuz reveal parallels with the narrative of Yazıcızade. According to Yazıcızade, the eponymous founder of the Oghuz wars with his father and brothers for close to seventy-five years. The historian explains that this endemic warfare is due to religious difference. In this historical construct, Oguz is a monotheist from birth and converts his mother to the religion of Gök Tengri. Two of his wives refuse to convert to the faith and denounce Oguz to his father which leads to enmity between the different tribes. Yazıcızade further explains that the religious differences between the Ottomans and the Mongols in the fifteenth century stem from this ancient division of the tribes. Extending his rule over many tribal branches, Oguz eventually appoints his brother Gün Khan to lead the tribe after his death.19 Was Laonikos’ source, who relayed information on Ottoman fratricide to the historian, knowledgeable about Yazıcızade’s account? While Laonikos’ account does not strictly follow that of Yazıcızade, there are enough similarities between the two to reveal that these stories on the Oghuz were widely circulating in the fifteenth century. Similar to the early Ottoman authors, Laonikos also supplies a dynastic family tree for the Ottomans which goes back to the Oghuz. According to Laonikos,

16 Yazıcızade Ali, Tevârîh-i Âl-i Selçuk, ed. Abdullah Bakır (Istanbul: Çamlıca Yayınları, 2017), xxvii-xxix. 17 Adnan S. Erzi, “İbn Bîbî,” M.E.B. İslam Ansiklopedisi, vol. 5.2 (Istanbul: Milli Eğitim Basımevi, 1968), 715–717. Faruk Sümer, Oğuzlar (Türkmenler). Tarihleri-Boy Teşkilatı-Destanları (Ankara: Dil Tarih Coğrafya Fakültesi, 1972), 168. 18 Fuad Köprülü, Türk edebiyatında ilk mutasavvıflar (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1976), 249. Erzi, “İbn Bîbî,” 716. 19 Yazıcızade Ali, Tevârîh-i Âl-i Selçuk, 10–13.

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Osman, the eponymous founder of the dynasty, is a scion of the Oghuz peoples through Gündüzalp, Oguzalp,20 and Ertugrul. He notes that Gündüzalp was descended from these Oghuz. He was a fair man and led a branch of the Oghuz peoples. They remember this man to have been praised for his virtue, to have been most just, and they also remember that he was appointed as an arbitrator by the Oghuz peoples who chose him to administer justice for themselves.21 Laonikos also writes that Gündüzalp is so successful in resolving disputes that the Oghuz eventually appoint him as their ruler. This parallels Yazıcızade’s narrative on Gün Khan. He relates that Gün Khan set the law for his sons and their offspring, so that they would each have their separate ranks, rule, customs, designations, and titles, in order to avoid future rivalry and enmity among the descendants and the tribes.22 Yazıcızade and Laonikos emphasize the holding of a judicial court to mete out justice as well as amicable mediation under Gün Khan and Gündüzalp respectively. Given these closely related motifs concerning judicial practices under the Oghuz in both historians, it is clear that Laonikos had an informant who was knowledgeable concerning the historicizing construction of Ottoman identity that had taken place during the reign of Murad II. It is also significant that Ottoman chronicle tradition points to the reign of Bayezid I for the introduction of the practice of fratricide. In this light, it is worth exploring Laonikos’ portrayal of Bayezid I’s and other accounts of fratricide in the larger scheme of the Ἀπόδειξις. Laonikos very roughly divides the ten books of the Ἀπόδειξις according to the reigns of the Ottoman Sultans, borrowing this organizational scheme from Herodotus.23 The accession story

20 Significantly, Laonikos uses the name Alp. This was a pre-Islamic Turkic title meaning ‘hero, warrior’ which was adopted in the Turkic principalities of Asia Minor. Fuad Köprülü, Osmanlı Devleti’nin Kuruluşu (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1991), 84–89. 21 Darkó, Laonici Chalcocandylae, 1:9–10: “ἀπὸ τούτων δὲ τῶν Ὀγουζίων γενέσθαι Ἰονδουζάλπην, ἄνδρα ἐπιεικῆ τε καὶ τῆς τῶν Ὀγουζίων μοίρας ἡγησάμενον. τοῦτον δὲ ἐπ᾽ἀρετῇ εὐφημούμενον ἀπομνημονεύουσι δικαιότατόν τε ἅμα γεγονέναι καὶ τοῖς Ὀγουζίοις διαιτητὴν καταστάντα ἑλομένοις δικάσαι σφίσιν αὐτοῖς δίκην ἡντινοῦν, ὁπότε ἐπιδικάσαιτο τοῖς προσιοῦσιν αὐτῷ, ἀπαλλάττεσθαι ἀγαπῶντας ἑκατέρους, οἷς ἂν ἐπιδικάσαιτο.” Cf. Kaldellis, The Histories, 1:14–15. 22 Yazıcızade Ali, Tevârîh-i Âl-i Selçuk, 18–19. 23 Laonikos provides ethnographic and political information on numerous peoples connected in some way with the rise of the Ottomans and decline of the Hellenes. This is similar to Herodotus, who integrates wide-ranging information by means of a narrative structure focused on the military campaigns of the Persians against other peoples, and divides his books according to the dynastic succession of the Persian Kings.

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of each Ottoman ruler is accompanied by details of fratricide, with the sole exception of Murad I’s rise to power. Book two commences with the accession of Bayezid and the murder of his brother Yakub, in the aftermath of Murad I’s assassination by a Serb during the military campaign of Kosovo (1389). Laonikos writes that the governors of the Ottoman Porte immediately appoint Bayezid, the younger son of Murad, as ruler when his father dies. Bayezid, in turn, sends for his brother Yakub, not revealing that their father had died. Thinking he is being summoned by his father and unaware of the ruse, Yakub arrives at the Porte only to be killed.24 Significantly, Laonikos comments that “it is customary for the rulers of this race25 to treat their brothers in this fashion as they consider it necessary to kill by strangling and not by the sword.”26 In book four, Laonikos also notes that Mehmed I strangles his brother Musa.27 Similarly, he commences book five with a lengthy report on Murad II’s confrontation with Mustafa which lasts three years. According to the historian, when Murad II eventually captures his brother alive, Mustafa is strangled to death.28 Finally, Laonikos writes that Mehmed II drowns his brother immediately after securing the throne.29

24 Darkó, Laonici Chalcocandylae, 1:53; Kaldellis, The Histories, 1:92–93. Isidore of Kiev (c. 1385–1463), who also belonged to George Gemistos Pletho’s Mistra Circle along with Laonikos Chalkokondyles, referred to Ottoman fratricide in his orations addressed to Manuel II and John VIII Palaiologos c. 1423–27. Providing no explanation for this Ottoman custom, Isidore wrote “For in its nature that barbaric race considers even one’s own brother to be most hateful and the enemy” when he described the hostilities between Bayezid and his brother. Isidore of Kiev, “Imperial Oration to Manuel II and John VIII Palaiologoi,” in Παλαιολόγεια καὶ Πελοποννησιακά, ed. S. P. Lampros (Athens: B. N. Gregoriades, 1926), vol. 4, 173. 25 Laonikos extensively uses the word γένος and the concept of race/descent. He does not only use this terminology in relation to barbarian groups and to the Turks but employs it to refer to the Hellenes, Germans, French, and Hungarians among others. Relying on this concept of descent and the word γένος, Laonikos also strives to provide classical names for contemporary groups, contextualizing each in a classical past and linking them with ancient peoples. Thus, for example, Laonikos systematically refers to the French as Kelts and the Hungarians as Paionians and discusses their γένος/race and descent. 26 Darkó, Laonici Chalcocandylae, vol. 1, 53; Kaldellis, The Histories, 1:92–93: “ᾗ νομίζεται τοῖς τοῦ γένους τοῦδε βασιλεῦσιν ἐς τοὺς ἀδελφοὺς ποιεῖν, ὡς ἀγχόνῃ δεῖν τελευτᾶν τὸν βίον ὑπ᾽ αὐτοῦ, καὶ οὐ σιδήρῳ νενόμισται.” On the Mongol-Turkic taboo concerning the spilling of the blood of the ruling dynasty, see M. Fuad Köprülü, “Türk ve Moğol sülalelerinde hanedan azasının idamında kan dökme memnûiyeti,” THTD 1 (1941–1942): 1–9. 27 Darkó, Laonici Chalcocandylae, vol. 1, 172; Kaldellis, The Histories, 1:300–301: “. . . καὶ ἄγοντες παρὰ τῷ ἀδελφῷ, κατεχρήσατο αὐτίκα ἀγχόνῃ τὸν λαιμὸν βιασάμενος.” 28 Darkó, Laonici Chalcocandylae, 2:7; Kaldellis, The Histories, 1:376–377: “καὶ ζωγρήσας ἀγχόνῃ τε τὸν λαιμὸν αὐτοῦ ἐχρήσατο.” 29 Darkó, Laonici Chalcocandylae, vol. 2, 143; Kaldellis, The Histories, 2:160–163: “ὕδατι ἐπιστομώσας αὐτοῦ τὴν ἐμπνοήν.”

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This emphasis on the method of killing and the formulaic nature of Laonikos’ narrative is noteworthy, as it lays bare the historian’s sustained interest in the ritualistic aspects of fratricide. The repetition of the same words to describe the killings of different claimants to the throne allows for an interweaving of the historical details and structural information with precision. Although Laonikos’ terse narrative has led to a negative evaluation of his literary qualities, in these instances it functions almost as a logical equation. Laonikos does away with the emphatic nature of language and pares down the narrative to its building blocks, preserving the most shocking elements and repeating them in each instance in order to communicate a political evil independent of time and circumstance. Thus, Laonikos presents fratricide as a unique Ottoman custom which distinguishes the Ottomans from other ethnic groups; his adversarial account includes no explanatory framework for its justification. In his universal history, Laonikos uses customs (ἤθη) as an organizing principle to make sense of the wide temporal and geographic scope of his source material, creatively applying Herodotus’ four identity markers to associate and distinguish between different peoples and polities. In Herodotus’ famous story, the Athenians tell the Spartans that “the kinship of all Greeks in blood and speech, and the shrines of gods and the sacrifices that we have in common, and the likeness of our way of life” (ἤθεά τε ὁμότροπα) would secure Athenian loyalty to the Hellenic alliance in the face of Persian aggression (Hdt. 8.144). Alongside common descent, language, and religious practices, Herodotus singles out customs as the unifying and defining characteristic of the Hellenic ethnic identity. These same categories are also applied toward understanding barbarian peoples and their essential differences from the Hellenes. In similar manner, Laonikos systematically applies these Herodotean categories to all peoples, and particularly the Ottomans, in order to chart kinship relations between ethnic groups across Eurasia. He does not limit his discussion of the Ottomans to political and military affairs, but also relays specific ethnographic information. In Laonikos, the most basic structural division between different groups of people rests upon religious practices.30 He includes the Ottomans in the greater camp of barbarian peoples, who are invariably non-Christian. Further, the sections featuring ethnographic information on the Ottomans reveal familiarity with the work of Yazıcızade and other contemporary Ottoman sources. Based

30 In discussing Islam, Christianity, and paganism, Laonikos systematically employs the classical term θρησκεία which has the connotations of ritual and cult and never uses the term πίστις/ faith. The latter term was more commonly used in connection with religion in Byzantium.

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on their use of cognate languages, Laonikos associates the Ottomans with the Tatars of the Golden Horde and the Mongols. Similarly, Yazıcızade notes that the Mongols, Oghuz and Tajik use different dialects of the same language and share the same word stock.31 Laonikos also investigates multiple theories on the question of Ottoman descent and settles on the theory that the Ottomans are descended from the Oghuz, without resolving the larger question concerning the classical predecessors of all Turkic peoples.32 Previously, Yazıcızade had made use of Oghuz myths and refashioned them into historical accounts, constructing in the process a linear story of Ottoman Oghuz descent and linking the Ottomans with the Mongols and other Turkic peoples. In addition, Laonikos also categorizes different peoples by means of an Aristotelian scheme of political structures to account for political virtue and evil. In light of this fact, Laonikos’ emphasis on fratricide when describing each Ottoman ruler’s rise to power indicates that he considers this practice to be a specifically Ottoman custom, which distinguishes the Ottomans from other polities with which they are coreligionists, use cognate languages, share descent, and/or have similar political systems. What else can be gleaned concerning the political orientations of Laonikos and his Ottoman informants? While Yazıcızade had produced his historical magnum opus under the patronage of Murad II, historians have emphasized that the political views and linguistic identities of the intellectuals at Mehmed II’s court were markedly different from those in the employ of his father (Murad II). It is noteworthy that Yazıcızade’s opus was essentially a translation project of various chronicles composed in Arabic and Persian into the Turkish language. Mehmed II’s court historian Kritoboulos, on the other hand, dedicated his classicizing Greek history of Mehmed II’s reign to the Sultan himself, illustrating the increasing importance of Greeks, recruits, and devshirmes at the Ottoman court during this time.33 Appropriately, Kritoboulos does not mention Mehmed II’s fratricide in his eulogizing history; Laonikos, on the other hand, briefly writes that Mehmed II orders his wine bearer to drown his brother immediately after ascending the throne. He notes that the wine bearer himself dies not much later.

31 Yazıcızade Ali, Tevârîh-i Âl-i Selçuk, 4–5. 32 Darkó, Laonici Chalcocandylae, 1:1–11; Kaldellis, The Histories, 1:10–19. 33 Michael Kritoboulos, Critobuli Imbriotae historia, ed. D. R. Reinsch (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1983); D. R. Reinsch, “Kritobulos of Imbros—Learned Historian, Ottoman Raya and Byzantine Patriot,” Recueil des Travaux de l’Institute d’Etudes Byzantines 40 (2003): 297–311. Laonikos comments on this transformation that had taken place at the court of Mehmed II. See Aslıhan Akışık-Karakullukçu, “A Question of Audience: Laonikos Chalkokondyles’ Hellenism,” BZ 112, no. 1 (March 2019): 14.

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Laonikos had intended to supply the wine bearer’s name, but the passage was left incomplete in the manuscripts.34 In fact, the extant manuscripts of Ἀπόδειξις all derive from an unfinished original, so the paucity of Laonikos’ remarks in this passage in no way reflects the event’s importance for his account. The Greek historian Doukas (c. 1400–c.1462 or later) provides a more complete, albeit problematic, report which allows the reader to better evaluate Laonikos’ passage.35 According to Doukas, Mehmed II’s brother is an eight-month-old baby born to Murad II’s legal wife, daughter of the İsfendiyar ruler of Sinope. While Mehmed II’s stepmother is visiting her stepson in the palace to console him, the Sultan sends his “πρωτοοστιάριος” / “kapıcıbaşı?” / “gatekeeper?” Ali, one of the sons of Evrenos, to drown the baby. Doukas concludes the passage by writing that Ali himself is killed the next day, and that Mehmed then marries off the woman to his father’s “δούλος”/ “servant” Isaac against her wishes.36 This narrative however presents problems. Evrenos was the most prominent of the ghazi warlords in the Balkans.37 It is highly unlikely that his son would be a highranking servant in the Ottoman palace. Further, Ali, son of Evrenos, is recorded to have taken part in the campaign in Wallachia in 1462. Thus, he was not killed in 1451. According to Laonikos, on the other hand, the executioner is the wine pourer, one of the five chief eunuchs of the Topkapı palace under Mehmed II. Coming from one of the most prominent ghazi families, Ali would not have been either a eunuch or a kul at Mehmed II’s court. While Laonikos and Doukas include this affair in their respective histories, Enveri and Şükrullah, who were both affiliated with the court of Mehmed II’s grand vizier Mahmud Pasha (d. 1474), do not refer at all to this specific case of fratricide. Şükrullah concludes his historical narrative with Murad II’s death and does not include chapters on Mehmed II’s rule, stating explicitly that this would require a separate book commensurate with Mehmed II’s power, piety, and justice.38 However, Şükrullah does include a list of Murad II’s sons and their burial locations. This immediately follows the account of Murad II’s death and leads to the enthronement of Mehmed II. The author sugarcoats these passages concerning the deaths of the Ottoman princes with a couplet emphasizing that

34 Darkó, Laonici Chalcocandylae, 2:143; Kaldellis, The Histories, 2:160–61. 35 Doukas, Istoria Turco-Bizantina, 287. 36 Ibid. 37 Mélikoff, Irène, “Ewrenos,” EI2 (v. 2, fascs 11–14: 1958), 720; Mélikoff, I., “Ewrenos Ogẖullari,” EI2 (v. 2, fascs 11–14: 1958), 720–21; Heath W. Lowry and İsmail E. Erünsal, The Evrenos Dynasty of Yenice-i Vardar: Notes & Documents (Istanbul: Bahçeşehir University, 2010); Ayşegül Kılıç, Bir Osmanlı Akıncı Beyi. Gazi Evrenos Bey (Istanbul: İthaki, 2014). 38 Şükrullah, Behcetü’t Tevârîh, 394–5.

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it was God’s will.39 Şükrullah’s account of these events is opaque, and does not make clear whether the deaths were caused by fratricide. Later Ottoman sources from the time of Bayezid II are more forthcoming about the fratricide of the baby: Aşıkpaşazade, Uruç, and the Anonymous Chronicles all confirm the gist of the story. The relevant passages in Neşri also reveal that Şükrullah omitted the name and burial location of the baby from his list of Murad II’s offspring, hinting that this was a controversial topic during Mehmed II’s time.40 In short, among fifteenth-century historians, Laonikos provides the most extensive account of both the historical details and the ritualistic aspects of Ottoman fratricide. He stands out from the Ottoman historians for dating the first instance of the custom to the time of Orhan, and for identifying fratricide as a distinguishing characteristic of the early Ottoman polity. In his version, the Ottomans begin the practice soon after they make Prousa (Bursa) their first capital, and after they switch from a nomadic to a sedentary lifestyle. Laonikos’ narrative contains echoes of the kind of Ottoman social criticism associated with Mehmed II’s reign, only included in the Ottoman historiographical tradition in the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. In Laonikos’ account, fratricide culminates in Mehmed II’s killing of his baby brother. While the fifteenth-century historians Şükrullah, Enveri, and Kritoboulos censored this controversial incident out of their accounts, its inclusion in the Ἀπόδειξις Ἱστοριῶν indicates that Laonikos neither belonged to the circle of intellectuals associated with Mehmed II’s court, nor was he writing with that audience in mind. It is also certain that Laonikos’ Ottoman sources were well informed about the legendary Oghuz foundation stories that were circulating at the time, and belonged to that segment of Ottoman society which maintained a critical distance to Mehmed II’s court and policies.

Bayezid I’s Character and Style of Government: Ahmedi and the Anonymous Chronicles of the House of Osman As already suggested, by the late fifteenth century when comprehensive Muslim chronicles of the Ottoman dynasty were compiled, the practice of dynastic fratricide was largely attributed to the reign of Bayezid I, alongside his many other innovations. Given this fact, it is worth considering how some of these works represent Bayezid’s reign as a whole. In Ottoman historiography, Bayezid

39 Ibid., 393. 40 Neşri, Kitâb-ı Cihan-nümâ, 2:683. Neşri notes that the name of the baby was Little Ahmed.

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has been remembered not only as the first member of the dynasty whose accession to the throne was associated with royal fratricide, but more generally as a flawed ruler and who failed at empire-building.41 As Kafadar has suggested in Between Two Worlds, the compilations of the late fifteenth century resemble heads of garlic in that they contain distinct kernels enclosed within multiple subsequent layers.42 Some of these elements were modified or edited out by later scribes and compilers because they did not match the various narratives that had emerged by the end of the fifteenth century. Others survived for a variety of reasons as part of Turkish and Persian compilations, or in the case of Laonikos Chalkokondyles, as oral sources for an eventual history composed in Greek. In other texts, notably the Turkish anonymous Chronicles, elements edited out of “official” compilations survived as part of alternative narratives appealing to different segments of Ottoman society.43 Sultan Bayezid I (r. 1389–1402), who came to the throne on the battlefield of Kosovo by killing his brother Yakub and whose reign ended at the Battle of Ankara when he was captured by Timur, has been viewed by both Ottoman authors and modern historians as a tragic example of poor rulership. According to this view, it was Bayezid’s character flaws of excessive pride and endless ambition which led to the collapse of his empire. The personality of the Ottoman ruler has been presented vividly by Byzantine authors, especially Manuel II Palaiologos (r. 1391–1425), a major political actor and prolific intellectual.44 Manuel’s reign coincided closely with that of Bayezid, and as the Ottoman ruler’s tributary he was forced to deal on many occasions with the man who threatened the very existence of Byzantium. The writings of Manuel and other Byzantine intellectuals follow ancient Greek literary conventions in presenting Bayezid and other Ottoman rulers as a tyrant on the model of the ancient Persian kings. Viewed in this light, Bayezid’s defeat and captivity by Timur were divine punishment for his barbaric pride and ambition. Thanks to the translation into 41 For a detailed discussion of this theme, see Feridun M. Emecen, “İhtirasın Gölgesinde Bir Sultan: Yıldırım Bayezid,” Osmanlı Araştırmaları 43 (2014): 67–92. 42 Kafadar, Between Two Worlds, 102. 43 Die altosmanischen anonymen Chroniken, vol. 1, ed. Friedrich Giese, critical edition (Leipzig: Breslau, 1922); vol. 2, German translation (Leipzig: Breslau, 1925). On various alternative narratives, see Kafadar, Between Two Worlds, 102–17; Stéphane Yerasimos, La fondation de Constantinople et de Sainte-Sophie dans les traditions turques (Paris: IFEA, 1990); Zeynep Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography in the Ottoman Empire (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2012). 44 On Manuel’s life, see John W. Barker, Manuel II Palaeologus (1391–1425): A Study in Late Byzantine Statesmanship (New Brunswick: Rutgers, 1969). For an example of his presentation of Bayezid, see Julian Chrysostomides, Manuel II Palaeologus: Funeral Oration on his Brother Theodore (Thessaloniki: Association for Byzantine Research, 1985), 126–44.

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various European languages of several key accounts, Timur’s capture of Bayezid became a popular story in early modern Europe and inspired stage works that have become part of the western European literary tradition.45 What is more difficult to know, however, is how Bayezid’s imperial project and demise were viewed by his own subjects. Given the fact that not a single firmly datable Ottoman historical account has survived from the period before 1402, our only option is to identify “kernels” in some later accounts. At least in some cases, these might reflect reactions to his style of governance from the time period when he was still in power, or more likely assessments made shortly after his demise, while his regime and policies were still fresh in people’s minds. If so, they are of course colored by his downfall, which makes them social memories with all the problems that might entail. In every case, this body of literature should not be dismissed as a mere creation of the late fifteenth century, even though the manuscripts that have come down to us do mostly date from that time. Of course, the works that have come down to us contain accretions, sometimes including comments on the much more successful empire-building policies of Mehmed II (r. 1444–46, 1451–81). However, by digging deeper and focusing instead on the actual stories about Bayezid, it is possible to get a sense of how the ruler may have been remembered just after his downfall. The most striking case of such a layered, critical narrative of Ottoman history is without doubt the anonymous Chronicles, which will be discussed below. However, before turning to these texts, it makes sense to begin with a more firmly datable source in order to establish a specific point of comparison. In the early fifteenth century, at least two works on historical themes were composed in Ottoman courts: Ahmedi’s historical poem on the Ottoman dynasty, which forms part of the poet’s celebrated İskendername, and Abdülvasi Çelebi’s poem about Mehmed I’s 1413 victory over his brother Musa, included in the Halilname.46 Both contain information about the politics and political culture of

45 Most notably Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlane (1590) and the operas of Haendel (1724) and Vivaldi (1735), both based on a libretto by Agostin Piovene. Richard Knolles’ Generall Historie of the Turkes also focused on the story: see V. J. Parry, Richard Knolles’ History of the Turks, ed. Salih Özbaran (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfi Yurt Yayinlari, 2003), 75–77. See also Marcus Milwright, “So Despicable a Vessel: Representations of Tamerlane in Printed Books of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” Muqarnas 23 (2006): 317–344. 46 The standard edition of Ahmedi’s İskendername is a facsimile: Ahmedi, İskender-Nāme: İnceleme, Tıpkıbasım, ed. İsmail Ünver (Ankara: Türk Dil Kurumu Yayinlari, 1983). A new critical edition by Robert Dankoff is forthcoming which will address the problem of the stages of composition. Another has just appeared: İskendernâme, ed. Yaşar Akdoğan and Nalan Kutsal (İstanbul: Türkiye Yazma Eserler Kurumu Başkanlığı, 2019). For the historical poem about

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the time, but the more limited nature of Abdülvasi Çelebi’s work makes Ahmedi the obvious choice for our purposes here. Ahmedi’s İskendername is modeled on earlier Persian versions of the Islamic Alexander Romance, notably those of Firdawsi’s Shahnama and Nizami’s Khamsa, in which Alexander gradually becomes a mystic as he comprehends the vanity of worldly power. Although largely written under Bayezid, the İskendername was only completed after his death, and it can be difficult to determine the composition dates of the various sections. While it is generally accepted that Ahmedi’s poem on the Ottoman dynasty is the first extant, datable account of Ottoman history to have survived, and that it is based on a now-lost chronicle, the work in question is, in fact, of an epic-didactic nature and should be considered within the context of the larger, longer tradition of the Alexander romance more generally.47 As a poet working in the courts of Bayezid’s successors Emir Süleyman (1402– 11) and Mehmed I (1413–21), Ahmedi’s critique of Bayezid’s government was both partial and indirect. The poet seems to have been well aware of the delicate political situation of his patrons and of the fact that Bayezid was their father. As the Timurid threat began to recede, it became easier to present the Central Asian ruler as an oppressor, while also carefully critiquing Bayezid for policies that led to the 1402 debacle. Ahmedi’s account includes descriptions of several events related to Bayezid I’s reign, divided into two separate chapters, the first highly positive, the second much less so. The easiest explanation for the discrepancy is that the first chapter was initially written under Bayezid, while the second was composed after 1402. Although it has been suggested that the critical verses were also written at the same time as advice literature, this is an unlikely scenario. Bayezid would not have taken kindly to such criticism from a poet, all the more so since Ahmedi’s verses concern his foreign policy toward the Mamluks, the preeminent Muslim power of the time.48 After 1402, it would have

the Ottomans, a critical edition and translation is available: History of the Kings of the Ottoman Lineage and Their Holy Raids Against the Infidels, ed. Kemal Sılay (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, 2004). Sılay’s edition has been used here, but not his translation. For Abdülvasi Çelebi’s poem, see the edition by Ayhan Güldaş, Ḫalilname (Ankara: Kültürbakanligi, 1996), 254–78; English translation Dimitris J. Kastritsis, The Sons of Bayezid (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), 221–32. 47 For more on this see Dimitri J. Kastritsis, “The Alexander Romance and the Rise of the Ottoman Empire,” in Islamic Literature and Intellectual Life in Fourteenth- and Fifteenth-Century Anatolia, in A. C. S. Peacock and S. N. Yıldız (Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 2016), 254–71. 48 For the idea that Ahmedi’s critical verses were directed at Bayezid as advice literature, see Heath Lowry, The Nature of the Early Ottoman State (Albany: SUNY, 2003), 17. Emecen, “İhtirasın Gölgesinde Bir Sultan,” 75n3 correctly identifies the discrepancy between the earlier and later verses, which was first noted by Pál Fodor, “Aḥmedī’s Dāsitān as a Source of Early Ottoman History,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 38 (1984): 41–43.

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been much easier to criticize Bayezid’s foreign policy, especially since Ahmedi was now working for Emir Süleyman, a prince who sought to distance himself from his father in matters of foreign policy. It is worth taking a closer look at Ahmedi’s treatment of Bayezid’s reign, since it contains elements also present in the later, more extensive accounts. The first chapter on Bayezid begins with his enthronement after the “martyrdom” of his father at Kosovo, along with a comment about his concern with justice: When that martyr sultan (Murad I) attained martyrdom In his place (on the throne) sat Sultan Bayezid Like his father and grandfather, he became (known for being) just In all his affairs, he became (known for being) perfect49 The poet then discusses Bayezid’s patronage of the learned classes of Islam, notably a certain Şeyh Efendi who can be identified as Emir Sultan of Bukhara (d. 1429?), a prominent sufi patronized by Ottoman rulers from Bayezid I to Murad II, whose tomb in Bursa is still venerated today.50 Then he turns to the Ottoman ruler’s annexation of the beyliks of Anatolia. Although Bayezid’s campaigns were controversial, since they represented a hostile policy toward rival Muslim states and were carried out with the support of Christian armies, there is nothing especially negative in Ahmedi’s description. These campaigns are described matter-of-factly with a comment that “such was the manner in which the business of rulership presented itself to him.”51 After two more couplets describing the conquest (feth) of Karaman, the poet returns once more to a formulaic description of Bayezid’s qualities of good rulership. We are told that after Karaman, he returned to his capital (darü’l-mülk) and occupied himself with the pursuit of justice (‘adl ü dad), resulting in prosperity for the entire land of Rum.52 Ahmedi uses these formulaic comments about Bayezid’s good rulership as a transition to an equally commonplace theme: the ruler’s personal piety and abstemiousness. We are told that Bayezid became ascetic and abstained from drinking wine and listening to music.53 Although this may be little more than a literary topos, it is important in setting the scene for the discussion of what seems

49 Trans. Kastritsis from Sılay, History 45 (v. 254–55): “Çün şehadet buldı sultan-ı şehid / Yirine oturdı Sultan Bayezid // Ata dede gibi adil oldi ol / Dükeli işlerde kamil oldi ol.” 50 Hüseyin Algül and Nihat Azamat, “Emîr Sultan,” TDV İslam Ansiklopedisi 11, 146–48. 51 My translation from Sılay, History, 45 (v. 264): “böyle olur devlet işi çün ona.” 52 Ibid., 46 (v. 265–69). 53 Ibid., 46 (v. 271–72).

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to have been a real event during Bayezid’s reign: his reform of the corrupt kadis. Since the pious Bayezid was like the caliph Umar in his love for justice, he was unable to tolerate the fact that the kadis in his realm were practicing injustice, accepting bribes and changing the meaning of the sharia. So, he assembled them, interrogated and punished them as necessary until justice was restored.54 It is with this story of the corrupt kadis that Ahmedi’s first chapter on Bayezid’s reign ends: an example of Bayezid’s justice that contrasts nicely with Timur’s injustice later in the poem. If Ahmedi had presented his work to Bayezid, the historical section on the Ottoman dynasty would probably have ended around here, perhaps with the addition of a couplet or two to form a neat conclusion. As we have seen, however, the finished work submitted to Emir Süleyman contains a second chapter on Bayezid which is of a markedly different tone. Whereas the first (consisting of twenty-five couplets) is essentially a eulogy with nothing bad to say about the ruler, the second (consisting of nineteen couplets) bears the title “Bayezid Beg receives news of the death of Sultan Barkuk” and discusses the folly of Bayezid’s aggressive policies toward the Mamluks.55 Meditating on the main theme of the İskendername, the vanity of worldly power when everyone’s fate is death, Ahmedi compares Bayezid unfavorably with the legendary Persian king Anushirvan, a model of justice and wisdom. Bayezid’s taking of Malatya from the Mamluks is presented as part of the ruler’s strategic planning (tedbir), which allows the poet to make a pun by adding that it was actually divine predestination (takdir). After a short meditation on the role of divine predestination in human life, Ahmedi turns to a discussion of Timur’s campaign in Anatolia which resulted in devastation, injustice, and the end of Bayezid’s reign. The message is unambiguous and would have been clear to the poet’s post-1402 audience. The pious and victorious Bayezid (called simply Bayezid Beg) committed hubris by attacking the superior Mamluk ruler (called Mısr Sultanı, ‘the Sultan of Egypt’) thus provoking fate and leading to the disaster of Ankara. These verses could not have been written while Bayezid was still on the throne, not least because they show awareness of Timur’s campaign. On the other hand, the laudatory first chapter probably was written under Bayezid, for it contains little historical information beyond the fact that Bayezid was a victorious and pious ruler who reformed the corrupt kadis of his realm. Bayezid’s reform of the kadis is also discussed in other Ottoman accounts of his reign, albeit in different ways. Ahmedi appears to have relied on a now

54 Ibid., 46 (v. 273–78). 55 Sılay, History, 47–48 (v. 279–97).

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lost chronicle “used by others separately and more fully.”56 A different, more extensive if more legendary version may be found in the anonymous Chronicles of the House of Osman. The fact that the story of the kadis is just one of the stories about Bayezid in the anonymous Chronicles suggests that it would make sense to consider this body of stories as a whole. Needless to say, the material now contained in the manuscripts edited by Giese may ultimately derive from different sources. However, the overall narrative as it has come down to us has a certain inherent logic which also deserves consideration. So far, the tendency in historical scholarship has been to treat the various strands as independent of each other in order to extract information on social attitudes. While such a piecemeal approach is not without some merit, by adopting a broader, more inclusive perspective on the narratives we may gain further insights that might otherwise be lost. Upon examination, it becomes clear that although the overall presentation of Bayezid’s reign in the anonymous Chronicles is a negative one, in fact as in the case of Ahmedi the Ottoman ruler is presented as possessing both positive and negative traits. For although there are stories about Bayezid being quick to anger (gazablu), he is also presented as preoccupied with justice and legislation (yasaklu). These may appear to be opposite qualities, but in some cases are presented as related. The account begins with a description of Bayezid’s rise to the throne on the battlefield of Kosovo (1389), followed by a brief account of Bayezid’s campaigns, where there is more emphasis on the Balkans than on Anatolia.57 This forms a contrast with Ahmedi, where the emphasis is the other way around. The difference is probably due to the fact that the anonymous Chronicles can be attributed to Balkan elements of Ottoman society, whereas Ahmedi was an Anatolian poet despite emphasizing the Ottomans’ qualities as holy raiders (gazis) whose main field of action was the Christian Balkans. At any rate, this difference in perspective has implications: for although both accounts discuss Bayezid’s construction of pious foundations, in Ahmedi the emphasis is on Bursa, whereas in the anonymous Chronicles it is on his campaigning in the Christian Balkans. As in Ahmedi, Bayezid’s pious construction activity in Bursa is mentioned; but since it comes after a passage about his raids against Bosnia, the implication is that these foundations were built with the spoils. Moreover, right after Bursa the construction of an imaret in Edirne is mentioned, and 56 Halil İnalcık, “The Rise of Ottoman Historiography,” in P. M. Holt and B. Lewis ed., Historians of the Middle East, 161. Among the extant versions of this tradition is the “Oxford Anonymous” chronicle (pseudo-Ruhi, Bodleian Marsh 313). See Kastritsis, An Early Ottoman History, 92–93, where the similarity to Ahmedi’s account is quite clear. 57 Giese, Chroniken, 1:27–29.

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later of one in Kara Ferye (Veroia), again apparently as a direct consequence of extensive raids against the Christians. However, Bayezid’s engagement with the Christian world is also presented as the root of his downfall, for we are told that his marriage in Edirne to a Serbian noblewoman introduced wine-drinking and other courtly behaviors to the Ottoman court.58 This forms an interesting contradiction to Ahmedi’s account which presents Bayezid as giving up wine and becoming more pious. Nonetheless, the two accounts eventually converge around the story of the corrupt kadis, at which they arrive by different means. In the case of Ahmedi, Bayezid’s increasing piety and sense of justice lead to his outrage at the corruption of the kadis. In the anonymous Chronicles, the corruption of the Ottoman court is connected to the corruption of the ulema. This is blamed not only on Bayezid’s Serbian bride, but also on the Çandarlı family of viziers.59 In the anonymous Chronicles, the story of the corrupt kadis is one of three involving Bayezid’s black court jester, “an Abyssinian with a ready tongue who was unrivaled as a boon companion.”60 It follows from the preceding comments about the corruption of the ulema and “schoolteachers” (danişmend) of the time, including the Çandarlı family: And the wickedness of the judges also started to become apparent. Bayezid Khan became aware of what they were up to, issued an order and assembled all the judges. He placed them in a house in Yenişehir and ordered, “Set fire to the house and burn them all.” The vizier [Çandarlı] Ali Pasa was at a loss, for he could find no way to save the judges.61 In the end, the judges are saved by the court jester. But it would be a mistake to jump ahead and ignore the two other stories involving this colorful character, which play an essential role in defining his personality and point of view. As in the case of cinema (another of Cemal Kafadar’s many interests) such digressions in the form of stories, flashbacks, or even dream narratives may serve multiple purposes, from keeping the audience’s attention to preparing the ground for

58 Ibid., 29. This noblewoman Despina Olivera, the sister of Stefan Lazarević, is misidentified as the daughter of George Branković (Vılkoġlı), which provides a clue about the passage’s date of composition. 59 Giese, Chroniken, 1:30–31. 60 Ibid., 1:31: “padişahun bir mashara arabı vardı. Habeş idi, bir sözi iki olmaz idi, nedimlikde naziri yog idi.” 61 Ibid.

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what is to follow. Although all these strands can be traced to material circulating at the time of compilation, the way they are strung together is far from random and their organization is designed to produce a particular effect on the audience. With this in mind, let us return to our text. The story of the corrupt judges is interrupted by comments about how the black jester was the only man who could deal with Bayezid when he was angry, and that “a couple of stories were circulated in that connection.”62 The narrator then proceeds to tell the first of these in which the jester saves several people from Bayezid, who “was so quick to anger that he would kill and maim many people for committing even a minor transgression.”63 On this occasion, when the people are brought before the ruler, he is so enraged that he wishes to have them executed. In a stroke of genius, the black jester urges him to do so, saying: My sultan, kill them, have no mercy upon them. . . . My sultan, who needs these people? They say Timur is leading his army against us. So, kill them, go get your standard, I’ll play the drum and together the two of us will answer [Timur’s challenge].64 The jester’s words make Bayezid think again and he releases the accused men. Following a short poem about the importance of good judgment (re’y) in human affairs, the second story begins. On a certain occasion, Bayezid had pitched his tents in a wilderness in the vicinity of a large tree. He asked the court jester to climb the tree, then ordered his janissary guardsmen (solak) to cut down the tree while the jester was still in it. Fearing for his life and seeing that the guardsmen are blindly obeying orders and ignoring his cries, the jester resorts to defecating on their heads until they take flight and he is able to come down. Then he addresses Bayezid’s viziers, telling them that their commands are not even worth a piece of his own shit.65 Although the story ends with laughter, it has a serious side: authority should not take the form of blind obedience to a ruler’s whims, but should instead be based on one’s own judgment and the wider social good. Having prepared the ground with these two stories about Bayezid’s quickness to anger and his courtiers’ lack of independent judgment, the narrator is finally ready to return to the story of the corrupt kadis, which has a similar message but even wider implications. As in the earlier tale where the black jester saved 62 Ibid: “Anun latifelerinden bir iki latife bu aralıkda beyan oldı.” 63 Ibid: “Yıldırım Han katı gazablı idi. Bir sehelce suçdan ötürü nice kişileri helak iderdi.” 64 Ibid, 32. 65 Giese, Chroniken, 1:32–33.

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the men from execution by showing Bayezid that if he killed them he would be left alone to face Timur, the corrupt kadis are saved when the jester suggests that Bayezid eliminate them and replace them with monks from Byzantine Constantinople. The absurdity of the suggestion is obvious: for the Ottomans in the fifteenth century, Byzantine Constantinople was the most tangible symbol of the infidel civilization against they were fighting. Once again, the jester’s ruse is successful in making the impulsive Bayezid see reason. But in the end, the opportunity is exploited by the wily vizier Çandarlı Ali Paşa, who suggests that the kadis be given a regular source of income to prevent them from accepting bribes. This unlawful innovation (bida) leads to the further corruption of both the kadis and Ottoman society as a whole, since it encourages the creation of a scholarly class with close links to the central state.66 So what do these stories tell us about the perception of Bayezid I’s rule, and more generally the critique of royal authority in the Ottoman fifteenth century? First of all, it is clear that in blaming the Çandarlı family and other advisors, the anonymous Chronicles are following well-established patterns for critiquing political authority.67 However, Bayezid himself is also to blame, for despite his many good qualities, his impulsive nature and quickness to anger leave him open to manipulation by his corrupt advisors. While this quality is presented as an unnecessary excess, its flip side is a sense of justice presented positively elsewhere in the narrative. For example, following the story of the corrupt kadis, the anonymous Chronicles describe Bayezid’s 1397 campaign against Karaman, in the context of which the ruler is portrayed positively as justice-minded (yasaklu). When he besieges Konya, he does not allow his troops to plunder the harvested grain and hay outside the city walls, but rather provides guarantees so that the townsfolk are able to leave the walls and sell barley to the troops. Thanks to Bayezid’s evenhandedness, the residents of Konya are won over to the Ottoman cause and surrender the city and other parts of Karaman.68 In short, the anonymous Chronicles imply that although Bayezid’s character flaws are serious enough to result in his downfall, they are rooted in a positive attribute: his sense of justice. By the late fifteenth century when the Chronicles were compiled, the realities of political power and dynastic succession meant that princes from the

66 Ibid, 33. 67 Namely, the idea that a key responsibility of rulers is to keep their officials from exploiting the productive classes. See Linda T. Darling, A History of Social Justice and Political Power in the Middle East: The Circle of Justice from Mesopotamia to Globalization (Abingdon and New York: Routledge, 2013). 68 Giese, Chroniken, 1:34: “Yıldırım Han gayet yasaklu padişah idi.” On the campaign against Karaman, see Colin Imber, The Ottoman Empire 1300–1481 (Istanbul: The Isis Press, 1990), 40.

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early part of the century who had lost the struggle for power (e.g. Bayezid I’s sons Emir Süleyman and Musa) could be presented very negatively as incompetent or tyrannical. A sultan such as Bayezid I had to be presented more positively. For despite his character weaknesses and shortcomings as a ruler, the fact remained that he had played an important role in the formation of the Ottoman Empire, and was a direct ancestor of the reigning sultan.

Conclusion Based on the above discussion, it is clear that Byzantine Greek and Ottoman Turkish historiographies of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries provide precious insight into early Ottoman society in the broadest sense of the term, by preserving the stories that were circulating orally and in writing about foundation myths, fratricide, the Ottoman Sultans, their courts, lawmaking, and much else. Although these narratives are often treated as separate historiographical traditions on account of the language barrier, in many cases they were drawing from a common pool of source material. The stories that cross the linguistic divide are often politicized, and may allow us to reconstruct popular attitudes to the Ottoman state-building enterprise—although such reconstruction is not always easy or straightforward. The wealth of information that Laonikos includes concerning Ottoman fratricide is no doubt catered to a non-Ottoman audience; at the same time, he partially adopts the critical political vision of his Ottoman sources, which are reflected in the anonymous Chronicles and other texts. On the other hand, when considering Ottoman representations of Bayezid I and other rulers, it is necessary to move beyond overly simple ideas of good and bad rulership, which are of course present in most of the literature of the time. Instead, we should aim to uncover political agendas, social norms, and other layers by taking into account the specific historical circumstances that contributed to their formation. It is only by examining in a detailed, intertextual and interdisciplinary way the full range of narratives about the early Ottomans that we may hope to evaluate each one as part of a larger body of stories and discourses on the subject, which seem to have been circulating so widely in the fifteenth century.

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Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His History of the Ottoman House Himmet Taşkömür and Hüseyin Yılmaz

This study introduces a critical edition of two early Ottoman chronicles, Histories of Ottoman Sultans and the History of Mehmed b. Murad Han of the House of Osman, both composed by Chancellor and Grand Vizier Karamani Mehmed Paşa (d. 1481). Because the latter text chronologically follows the former, the two histories may well be considered as two sections of the same work. However, we have treated them as separate works in this study for they appear separately in the two extant copies where Histories of the Ottoman Sultans appears to be written as a prelude to the History of Mehmed.1 In reconstructing the text, we have taken the Ayasofya copy as the principle text and compared it to the one in Aşir Efendi’s collection, mainly by pointing out the orthographic differences between the two. The Ayasofya copy bears the seal of Bayezid II’s imperial library with reference notes from Atufi (d. 1541) for the library inventory. None of the works bear a title in the text. Atufi’s inventory entry for these works seem to be descriptive titles rather than the ones given by the author.2 1 Tawārīkh al-Salāṭīn al-ʿUthmāniyya, ff. 1b-8b; Tawārīkh Sulṭān Meḥemmed bin Murād Khān min Āl-i ʿOsmān, ff. 9b-21b. MS SK, Ayasofya 3204; Tarih-i Al-i Osman, ff. 1b-10a, 10b-24b, Aşir Efendi 234. 2 Gülru Necipoğlu, Cemal Kafadar and Cornell H. Fleischer, eds., Treasures of Knowledge: An Inventory of the Ottoman Palace Library (1502/3–1503/4), 2 Vols. (Muqarnas, Supplements, Volume 14.) Leiden: Brill, 2019. Vol. 2, 126, ff. 181 [2–7].

Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His Histor y of the Ottoman House

Atufi recorded the two works as follows: “Risalatun bi-al-ʿarabiyyati fi tawarikhi al-salatini al-ʿuthmaniyyati” and “Risalatun bi-al-ʿarabiyyati fi tawarikhi Sultan Mehemmed bin Murad Khan min Al-i ʿOsman.” The Ayasofya copy may well be a fair copy penned by the author as it is clean but lacks the frontispiece and other conventional decorative features. The Aşir Efendi copy, however, was written in legible Talik script and changed hands a number of times before it was finally acquired by Reisülküttab Aşir Efendi (d. 1804) and endowed to his library. The fact that the author had not yet titled the text and only mentions his name in passing suggest that the work may have survived in an incomplete draft copy, perhaps due to Karamani’s execution soon after the death of his patron, Mehmed II (d. 1481).3 Despite being one of the earliest of Ottoman histories, it has not received due attention from modern scholars. Written in ornate Arabic, the work was translated into Turkish by M. H. Yinanç and İ. H. Konyalı.4 Although Yinanç gives the text’s author as Tevki‘i Mehmed, it was Konyalı who appears to be the first scholar to attribute the work to Karamani Mehmed Paşa. Partly because of the text’s ambiguity about its author, except for a few hints, the work has almost no bearing in contemporary Ottoman historiography.5 This warrants a reintroduction of the work into the field with a detailed textual analysis. In this edition, however, in respect to space constraints, we limit the scope of this study to providing a critical edition of the Arabic text only.6 To date, Konyalı’s introduction to the translation remains the only analysis and study of the two texts. Konyalı translates the Ayasofya copy and focuses on the probable sources of the work, its literary qualities, and Karamani’s career. After comparing it to three earlier histories by Ahmedi (d. 1412–13), Şükrullah (d. after 1464) and Enveri (d. after 1465), Konyalı finds Karamani’s text more informative and precise regarding the dates of key events in early Ottoman history. Konyalı also compares the text to later histories and discovers that it has mostly been used as an anonymous source.7 In a short section on Aşıkpaşazade’s views, Konyalı criticizes the most celebrated of Ottoman chroniclers for unduly accusing Karamani of corruption.

3 The author’s name appears as Mehmed Paşa bin el-Arif el-Tevqii el-Siddiqi. See Ayasofya 3204, 15a; Aşir Efendi 234, 17a. 4 Mükrimin Halil Yinanç, “Millî Tarihimize Dair Eski Bir Vesika,” Türk Tarih Encümeni Mecmuası 2, no. 79 (1340): 85–94, 3, no. 80 (1340): 142–155; Karamanlı Nişancı Mehmed Paşa, Osmanlı Sultanları Tarihi, ed. İbrahim Hakkı Konyalı (Istanbul: Türkiye Yayınevi, 1949). 5 Karamanlı Nişancı Mehmed Paşa, Osmanlı Sultanları Tarihi, 330–31. 6 We are working on a detailed analysis of the text to be published separately. 7 Karamanlı Nişancı Mehmed Paşa, Osmanlı Sultanları Tarihi, 325–27.

59

60

H i m m e t Ta ş k ö m ü r a n d H ü s e y i n Y ı l m a z

Unlike many later histories written by statesmen, such as the one by Lütfi Paşa (d. 1563), Karamani’s Tawarikh does not provide any of the author’s major accomplishments. This may have been prompted by Karamani’s anxiety with regard to securing the sultan’s support in a courtly setting that was becoming increasingly insecure for the author, despite his holding the highest offices at the time. Combined, the two treatises offer a short chronicle of events from the Mongol invasions and the demise of the Abbasid Empire in the midthirteenth century to 1479. The work lacks the dramatizing story-telling features displayed in most early chronicles of the Ottoman dynasty. However, despite its concision, it was written in well-crafted Arabic prose, marked by a flowing narrative constructed with glorifying imagery and normative statements. For emphasis, important dates are chronogrammed and explanations of major events are accompanied with poetry from such famed figures as Abu al-Tayyib al-Mutanabbi (d. 965) and Abu Faraj al-Isfahani (d. 967). As such, the work’s primary audience was the literary elite of the Islamicate world of the time. Composed by an author who served as both head of the chancery and grand vizier at once, the text may cautiously be considered the first exclusive history of the Ottoman dynasty. Although the size of the text does not bode well for a dynastic history to make it distinctive among its peers, its format may well have been inspired by the increasingly popular scholarly works written in succinct and formulaic form, such as a political text written by Musannifek (d. 1470), the author’s teacher.8 Tuhfat al-Salatin was written in the form of a digest called mukhtasar, texts composed as handbooks for teaching and reference purposes. Karamani himself belonged to the ulema community whose primary literary language was Arabic. His histories in Arabic respond well to a rising Arabic literacy, one of the outcomes of the expanding Ottoman madrasa system that was becoming more closely integrated into the administrative bureaucracy in this period. One reason that the work did not reach a larger audience may be Karamani’s mixed legacy among the Ottoman ruling elite. Not only was he demonized by Aşıkpaşazade in his very popular chronicle for instituting corrupt innovations, therefore deviating from the righteous path of the Ottomans, his accomplishments as a chancellor and a grand vizier aggravated some very influential sectors of society and elements of the ruling elite. He was a key figure behind Mehmed II’s extensive institutionalizing reforms and law-making, to the extent that his contemporary Kıvami (d. after 1511?) stated in his history that

8 Hüseyin Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2018), 34.

Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His Histor y of the Ottoman House

the sultan had trusted the reins of the world entirely to his hands.9 His patron and promoter Mahmud Paşa (d. 1474) was executed in 1474. His Mevlevi lineage must have made other competing Sufi groups envious. His father Arif Ҫelebi (d. 1421) was a progeny of Rumi and the head of the Mevlevi order of his time who likely played a critical role in the formation of the Mevlevi-Ottoman alliance. The Mevlevi order remained outside the Ottoman territories until the reign of Murad II who ordered the building of a Mevlevi lodge in Edirne.10 Karamani was, in fact, one of the earliest, if not the first, Mevlevi official to reach high office in the Ottoman state. In a period dominated by devshirme statesmen, Karamani rose to the rank of grand vizierate. His Mevlevi, ulema, and Turkic background at once made him a well-connected bureaucrat-statesmen who created and promoted a strong network of influencers in the Ottoman ruling establishment. His teachers Musannifek and Alaeddin Tusi (d. 1482), as well as his friend Şeyh Vefa (d. 1491), all settled in Istanbul and became key figures at the Ottoman court. Considering the language and content of the work, as opposed to the more widely-read early Ottoman histories that were reminiscent of frontier epics, Karamani crafted a narrative that manifests Sufistic imageries of the learned establishment including the urban Sufi orders.

9 Yusuf Küçükdağ, “Karamani Mehmed Paşa,” TDV İslam Ansiklopedisi 24 (2001): 449–451. 10 A. Yaşar Ocak, “Turkiye Tarihinde Merkezi İktidar ve Mevleviler (XIII– XVIII. Yuzyıllar) Meselesine Bir Bakış,” Selçuk Üniversitesi Türkiyat Araştırmaları Dergisi 2 (1996): 17– 22.

61

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‫رسالة بالعربية في تواريخ السالطين العثمانية خلدهم هللا تعالى إلى يوم الدين‪ ،‬ورسالة بالعربية في‬ ‫تاريخ سلطان محمد بن مراد خان آل عثمان قدس هللا تعالى أرواحهم الطيبات‪.‬‬ ‫[‪1‬ب]‬ ‫‪11‬‬ ‫بسم هللا الرحمن الرحيم و به نستعين في التكميل و التتميم‬ ‫(‪[ )2‬ع‪ 1:‬ب] الحمد لوليه على إفضاله و الصلوة على نبيه محمد و آله و بعدُ‪ :‬فهذا كالم إجمالي في‬ ‫تواريخ السالطين العثمانية المتحلًين بالعدالة العُ َمرية‪ ،12‬الّلهم كما جعلت سرير السلطنة مزيّنا ً‬ ‫بوجودهم فأبّدهم‪ ،‬وكما (‪ )5‬صيّرت دار الخالفة مشحونة بفضلهم و جودهم‪ ،‬فخلّدهم‪)6( .‬‬ ‫نُقل عن بعض المؤرخين أنه لما استولى ال ُمغو ُل على بغداد (‪ )7‬وما يتبعها في ذلك الزمان من البالد‬ ‫وظهر منهم ما ظهر من‪ 13‬الفساد‪ ،‬هرب (‪ )8‬بقية الملوك السلجوقية من أماكنهم إلى الممالك‬ ‫الرومية وكان في نواحي (‪ )9‬بلدة أخالط من بالد أَرمنية قوم ذوو أوبار وأغنام وخدام وأحشام‪،‬‬ ‫وكان مقدمهم و رئيسهم واحدا ً من أرباب األنساب العالية واألحساب السامية و السيرة المرضية‬ ‫و السريرة السنية‪ 14‬ينتهي نسبه بأحد و عشرين واسطة إلى ُأو ْ‬ ‫غز‪[ 15‬ع‪2:‬أ] [أوغز] خان الذي‬ ‫هو من أوالد يافث بن نوح و كان اسمه قَيق الپ‪ ،‬فوافق هو في الهرب مع (‪ )14‬السلجوقية‪،‬‬ ‫فترك المنازل والمواطن األصلية‪ ،‬و توجه مع قومه و (‪ )15‬عشيرته نحو البالد الرومية‪،‬‬ ‫و كان ذلك في سنة ست و خمسين [‪2‬أ] و ستمائة‪ .‬فبلغ إلى قَرا َجه طاغ بقرب أنقَ َره‪ ،‬و نزل‬ ‫هناك‪ ،‬ثم ارتحل منها مع (‪ )2‬قومه إلى منزل آخر‪ ،‬فتوفى هناك‪ ،‬ودفن فيه‪ ،‬فقام مقامه في‬ ‫صرقُق الپ فانتقل هو أيضا ً بعد حين إلى جوار من (‪ )4‬اقتضت حكمته إفناء‬ ‫الرياسة (‪ )3‬ابنه َ‬ ‫‪16‬‬ ‫قوم و إحياء آخرين و دفن في قره يوك‪.‬‬ ‫(‪ )5‬وصار ابنه ُكوك الپ قائما ً مقامه فلما انتهت نوبته ودفن في شرانجانه (شرابخانه؟)‪ )6( ،‬تولّى‬ ‫رياسةَ القوم ابنُه ُكوند ُْز الپ‪ .‬و كان جارا ً للكفار‪ ،‬فاشتغل (‪ )7‬بالقتال معهم‪ ،‬فأجاب داعي‬ ‫سراَى فناب منابه ابنُه األمير (‪ )8‬الكبير البَ ِطل الباسل األمير أَر ُ‬ ‫غر ْل و كان‬ ‫ط ُ‬ ‫هللا في قِ ِزل َ‬ ‫رجالً طاهر الذيل ظاهر (‪ )9‬البذل ناهجا ً مناهج الرشاد مجاهدا ً في هللا حق الجهاد حكى أنه‬ ‫تحول من (‪)11‬‬ ‫نزل(‪ )10‬ليلةً في قرية في دار رجل فقيه‪[.‬ع‪2:‬أ] فلما جلس قال له الفقيه‪َّ ،‬‬ ‫مكانك فإن ورآء ظهرك كتابا ً يستحق التعظيم و التكريم‪ .‬قال‪ :‬و ما ذلك؟ (‪ )12‬فقال الفقيه‪ ،‬كالم‬ ‫هللا‪ 17‬القديم‪ ،‬المنزل على رسوله الكريم محمد عليه أفضل (‪ )13‬الصلوة والتسليم‪ .‬فلما نام أهل‬ ‫المنزل‪ ،‬قام األمير أرطغرل‪ ،‬واغتسل (‪ ،)14‬وتوجه نحو ذلك الكتاب الذي ال ريب فيه خاشعا ً‬ ‫سرته على هيئة المصلين إلى أن أصبح واستيقظ [‪2‬ب] أهل‬ ‫متواضعا ً قائما ً واضعا ً يديه فوق ُ‬ ‫البيت‪ ،‬فأخفى حاله و إجالله لكتاب هللا عنهم‪ .‬فنام‪ ،‬ورأى في منامه قائالً (‪ )2‬يقول من قِبل‬ ‫عظمت كالمنا و ما تركته خلفك (‪ ،)3‬سنعظمك في الدنيا‪ ،‬و ّ‬ ‫عز وجلّ‪َّ ،‬‬ ‫هللا ّ‬ ‫نعظم أعقابك و‬ ‫أخالفك‪.‬‬ ‫ثم إن الملك المرحوم (‪ )4‬السلطان عالء الدين السلجوقي توجه من قونيه إلى نواحي الروم للغزو‪،‬‬ ‫فعلم األمير ارطغرل ذلك‪ ،‬فأرسل إلظهار المودة رسوالً إلى السلطان المشار إليه‪ ،‬رحمه‬ ‫هللا و رضوانه عليه‪ .‬ثم سلك سبيل المبايعة واإلنقياد و وافق السلطان في الغزو والجهاد‪ ،‬و‬

‫غير م ‪11‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬غفر هللا الماضين منهم و بارك في عمره الباقين إلى أن يرث هللا األرض و من عليها وهو خير الوارثين ‪12‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬منهم ما ظهر من الفساد ‪13‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬األحساب السامية و السيرة السنية ‪14‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬أوغز ‪ ,‬مكرر ‪15‬‬ ‫”‪16 Karayün, or Karayük; Konyalı renders as “Karayüg.‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬كتاب هللا ‪17‬‬

‫‪62‬‬

‫‪63‬‬

‫‪Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His Histor y of the Ottoman House‬‬

‫الحت مجاري أفعاله و أقواله لدى السلطان [ع‪3:‬أ] آثار الكياسة و الشجاعة و لياقت الرياسة‬ ‫والمناعة‪ .‬ثم إن الملك المبرور المذكور حاصر القلعة الكافرية الموسومة بقراجه حصار‪ ،‬و‬ ‫فوض أمر جانبها الجنوبي إلى األمير ارطغرل‪ ،‬فبلغ إلى السلطان أن تاتار أخذوا في الطغيان‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫قلب السلطان‬ ‫و نقضوا عهدهم‪ ،‬و في تخريب الممالك بذلوا جهدهم‪ ،‬فشغل ذلك الخبر الكريه َ‬ ‫فوض إليه الجهاد‬ ‫النبيه‪ ،‬فنبّه األمير بذلك الخبر‪ ،‬و ترك عنده شرذمة من العسكر‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫الجرار‪ ،‬و ّ‬ ‫والقتال مع الكفار‪ ،‬و رجع بنفسه لدفع مؤنة األشرار الموسومين بتاتار‪.‬‬ ‫[‪3‬أ] فظفر األمير أرطغرل على الكفرة المتمردين وقطع دابر القوم الذين (‪ )2‬ظلموا‪ 18،‬والحمد هلل‬ ‫رب العالمين‪ .‬ثم اشتغل األمير أرطغرل بالغزو (‪ )3‬سنتين اثنتين وثلثة أشهر حتى‪20 19‬وقعت‬ ‫مفر عنها‪ ،‬و (‪ )4‬ال منجأ منها‪ ،‬ذلك تقدير العزيز العليم‪ .‬فانتقل إلى رياض‬ ‫الواقعة‪ 21‬التي ال ّ‬ ‫رحمة هللا (‪ )5‬الغفور الرحيم‪ ،‬وكان عمره ثالثة وتسعين سنة‪.‬‬ ‫فقام (‪ )6‬مقامه ولده الرشيد و خلفه السعيد[ع‪3:‬ب] المؤيد بتأييد هللا المنان (‪ )7‬أبو الفتح السلطان‬ ‫عثمان‪ ،‬شيّد هللا أركان دولة أخالفه إلى (‪ )8‬آخر الزمان‪ .‬فترقى من درجة الرياسة واإلمارة‬ ‫الصغرى إلى(‪ )9‬رتبة السلطنة واإلمامة الكبرى‪ ،‬ففتح البالد‪ ،‬و ساس (‪ )10‬العباد وقهر أهل‬ ‫الكفر والعناد‪ 22 ،‬و أعلى أعالم الغزو و الجهاد‪ )11( .‬ولما بلغ خبر وفات األمير أرطغرل‬ ‫المرحوم المبرور إلى (‪ )12‬السلطان عالء الدين المذكور‪ ،‬أرسل رسوالً مع التحف والهدايا‬ ‫(‪ )13‬إلى السلطان عثمان‪ ،‬وو ّكل إليه أمر الغزو والقتال مع أهل الكفر (‪ )41‬والكفران‪،‬‬ ‫وأرسل إليه سيفا ً صارما ً فيه بأس شديدٌ و مناف ُع (‪ )15‬للناس‪ 23‬مع ما يليق بالسالطين من‬ ‫تفرس فيه [‪3‬ب](‪ )1‬خيرا ً كثيرا ً و ملكا ً كبيراً‪ ،‬فضُرب الطبل في حريم‬ ‫الطبل و العَلَم‪ .‬ل ّما ّ‬ ‫العتبة العلية السلطانية(‪ )2‬العثمانية كما يُضرب للسالطين المؤيدين بالتأييدات الربانية‪)3( .‬‬ ‫فقام السلطان عثمان عند ذلك إعظاما ً لمن ورد منه تلك الهدية (‪ )4‬السنية‪ ،‬وإجالالً لمن أعلى‬ ‫مرتبته العلية‪[ .‬ع‪4:‬أ] ثم جلس على سرير (‪ )5‬السلطنة واثقا ً بتأييد ذي القوة المتين‪ ،‬فقام القوم‬ ‫برسم (‪ )6‬التهنئة لذلك الجلوس الميمون على المسلمين‪ ،‬المبغوض عند الكافرين‪ )7(.‬فصار‬ ‫القيام عند ضرب الكوس السلطاني في األسفار عادة لبعض(‪ )8‬العثمانيين‪ ،‬أعلى هللا أعالم‬ ‫دولتهم أبد اآلبدين‪ ،‬وال أبقى وجه األرض(‪ )9‬خاليا عنهم إلى يوم الدين‪ ،‬و كان ذلك الجلوس‬ ‫المبارك في سنة تسع و تسعين (‪ )10‬و ستمائة‪.‬‬ ‫ومما فتحه بتأييد هللا تعالى و توفيقه بلدة بالجوك مع(‪ )11‬توابعها و بلدة يكى شهر و إينه كول و يار‬ ‫‪24‬‬ ‫حصار‪.‬‬ ‫‪25‬‬ ‫ثم إن السلطان عالء (‪ )12‬الدين المذكور ذاق ما ك ُّل نفس ذائقته‪ ،‬وتوجه أكثر عساكره إلى مقر‬ ‫الدولة (‪ )13‬العثمانية المخفوفة بالتأييدات السبحانية إذ لم يبق من أقاربه وتوابعه (‪ )14‬من‬ ‫يستحق الملك والسرير سوى األمير الكبير المشار إليه مراراً‪ ،‬غفر (‪ )15‬هللا له‪ ،‬إنه كان‬ ‫غفاراً‪ ،‬فاشتغل السلطان عثمان بالجهاد في سبيل هللا [‪4‬أ] إلى أن يقضي هللا أمرا ً كان [ع‪4:‬ب]‬ ‫مفعوالً‪ ،‬وبعث العسكر لمحاصرة إزنيق وبروسا (‪ )2‬وعند ذلك قضى نخبه‪ ،‬وترك أهله‬ ‫وصحبه‪ ،‬واختار جوار هللا (‪ )3‬وقربه‪ .‬وكان ذلك في سنة عشرين وسبعمائة‪ .‬وكان (‪ )4‬مدة‬ ‫سلطنته إحدى وعشرين سنة‪.‬‬

‫األنعام‪18 45 :‬‬ ‫حتى ساقط في عاشر ‪19‬‬ ‫)ع‪( :‬ف ‪20‬‬ ‫سورة الواقعة ‪21‬‬ ‫في عاشر وأعلى أعالم الغزو والجهاد ‪22‬‬ ‫الحديد‪23 25 :‬‬ ‫وكان بلدة بالجوك دار ملكه ‪24‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬بعد انقراض زمانه اكثر أنصاره و أعوانه ‪25‬‬

‫‪H i m m e t Ta ş k ö m ü r a n d H ü s e y i n Y ı l m a z‬‬

‫فجلس في ذلك التاريخ (‪ )5‬ابنه المتحلي بالعدل واإلحسان السلطان‪ 26‬أورخان خان على سرير‬ ‫السلطنة‪ )6( ،‬واقتدى بأبيه النبيه في تأييد الدين وتبديد شمل (‪ )7‬الكافرين‪ ،‬فزاد الروضة‬ ‫اإلسالم في زمان ذلك اإلمام الهمام بهجة (‪ )8‬وصفا ًء وخضرة ً ونما ًء ونضرة ً روا ًء‪ ،‬وكثر‬ ‫فيما بين عساكره و (‪ )9‬توابعه األموال والغنائم‪ .‬وارتفع الفقر والفاقة‪ ،‬والعجز والحاجة من‬ ‫(‪ )10‬أولئك األكارم حتى أنهم كانوا ال يجدون من يعطونه ما يجب عليهم (‪ )11‬من الزكوات‬ ‫والصدقات‪ ،‬و يتفقدونه بالعطايا واإلنعامات‪ )12( .‬ثم إنه غفر هللا له فتح بمساعيه الجميلة‬ ‫صين أهلُه عن أن‬ ‫اُلُوبات مع توابعها في سنة (‪ )13‬خمس وعشرين وسبعمائة وبلدة بروسا‪ِ ،‬‬ ‫يكابدوا بؤساً‪ ،‬في سنة ست و عشرين و سبعمائة‪ ،‬و بلدة ازنيق (‪ )15‬في [ع‪5:‬أ] سنة إحدى و‬ ‫ثلثين و سبعمائة‪ ،‬و واليات قرسي بتمامها [‪4‬ب] في سنة خمس و ثلثين و سبعمائة‪.‬‬ ‫ثم إنه غفر هللا له بنى أبواب الخيرات و (‪ )2‬المبرات و البقاع الشريفة الفائض البركات في مدينتي‬ ‫ازنيق وبروسا‪ )3( ،‬و وقف عليها األمالك‪ ،‬و عيّن الوظائف واألرزاق للعلماء و (‪ )4‬الفقراء‬ ‫والقراء‪ .‬وكان ذا صورة محبوبة‪ ،‬وسيرة مرغوبة‪ ،‬وسخاوة (‪ )5‬غير محجوبة‪ ،‬ونعم شاملة‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫للرعية ال مقطوعة وال ممنوعة‪ )6( .27‬وكان له ابنان اثنان أكبرهما سليمان باشا واآلخر هو‬ ‫السلطان (‪ )7‬مراد خان‪ ،‬وأمر الولد األكبر بالعبور عن البحر واالشتغال بفتح (‪ )8‬روم إيلى‪،‬‬ ‫فعبر سليمان پاشا مع طائفة من العسكر عن البحر‪ ،‬وفتح (‪ )9‬كليبولي في سنة إحدى وخمسين‬ ‫وسبعمائة‪ .‬وهزم عسكر (‪ )10‬الالز في صحراء ميعال قره‪ ،‬وفتح قالعا ً كثيرة ً مثل إبسلة و‬ ‫ويزه (‪ )11‬و تكور طاعي و سيدي قواغي و بوالير‪.‬‬ ‫ً‬ ‫ومن العجائب أنه ل ّما (‪ )12‬توجه إلى فتح روم إيلي مع العسكر‪ ،‬بلغوا مكانا في ساحل البحر (‪)31‬‬ ‫يقال له كمر‪ ،‬فوجدوا هناك[ع‪5:‬ب] بقرا ً لبعض الكفار‪ ،‬فذبحوها‪ ،‬و ر ّكبوا (‪ )14‬من جلدها و‬ ‫س ُع أربعين نفراً‪ ،‬فركب األمير مع‬ ‫من بعض األخشاب الموجودة هناك شيئا ً مثل سفينة (‪ )15‬ت َ َ‬ ‫بعض العسكر على تلك السفينة‪5[ ،‬أ] و ترك‪ 28‬باقي العسكر ورآءه و عبر من البحر‪ 29،‬و لما‬ ‫وصل إلى روم إيلي‪ ،‬و‪ 30‬فتح (‪ )2‬بعض القالع‪ 31‬بمعونة فئة قليلة‪ ،‬و أمر بإقامة بعض العسكر‬ ‫في‪ )3( 32‬تلك القلعة المفتوحة‪ 33‬لصيانتها و حراستها‪ ،‬و فتح البلدان‪ ،‬و هزم (‪ )4‬الشجعان من‬ ‫أهل البغي والعدوان ببعض آخر‪ 34‬من األنصار و (‪ )5‬واألعوان‪ .‬وظهر في تضاعيف تلك‬ ‫األحوال حقيقة قوله تعالى‪« )6( :‬كم من فئة قليلة غلبت فئة كثيرة بإذن هللا»‪.35‬‬ ‫ثم إنه وضع المساجد (‪ )7‬والخوانق النفائس موضع الكنائس والهياكل الخسائس‪ ،‬وحارب (‪ )8‬مع‬ ‫الكفار مدة عمره‪ ،‬فمرض مرضا ً راح فيه روحه األسنى إلى الفردوس (‪ )9‬األعلى‪ ،‬أعلى‬ ‫هللا درجته في عليين‪ ،‬وحشره مع النبين والصدقين و (‪ )10‬الشهداء والصالحين‪ .‬وكان ذلك‬ ‫في سنة خمس وخمسين وسبعمائة‪ )11( .‬وإذ قد تحقق أن كل شيء هالك إال وجه هللا‪ .‬انتقل‬ ‫السلطان العظيم (‪ )12‬الشأن أورخان [ع‪6:‬أ] خان أيضا ً بعد ذلك إلى دار القرار وجوار العزيز‬ ‫(‪ )13‬الغفار في سنة إحدى وستتين وسبعمائة‪ .‬وكانت مدة سلطنته (‪ )14‬إحدى وأربعين سنة‪.‬‬

‫ع‪ :‬السلطان بن السلطان ‪26‬‬ ‫في الهامش‪ ،‬جلية ‪27‬‬ ‫اآلخرين ‪28‬‬ ‫و عبر من البحر ساقط في عاشر ‪29‬‬ ‫و‪ ،‬ساقط من عاشر ‪30‬‬ ‫وفي اياصوفيا في الهامش قلعةً ‪31‬‬ ‫و في عاشر‪ ،‬مع ‪32‬‬ ‫المفتوحة ساقط في عاشر ‪33‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬قليل ‪34‬‬ ‫‪،‬البقرة‪35 249 :‬‬

‫‪64‬‬

‫‪65‬‬

‫‪Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His Histor y of the Ottoman House‬‬

‫فجلس في ذلك التاريخ على السرير ابنه السلطان (‪ )15‬بن السلطان باسط بساط األمن واألمان‬ ‫السلطان مراد خان‪ .‬وكان[‪5‬ب] رجالً باسالً باذالً مؤ ِيّدا ً للدين حاكما ً بالقسط بين المؤمنين‪.‬‬ ‫ولقد فتح (‪ )2‬بتأييد هللا وتوفيقه بلدة بيغا في سنة ست و ستين و سبعمائة‪ ،‬و فتح كوتاهيه‪ ،‬و بعض‬ ‫البالد كرميان‪ ،‬و بالد حميد و بك شهري‪ ،‬و (‪ )4‬و آق شهر في سنة ثلث و ثمانين و سبعمائة‪.‬‬ ‫وفتح درامه و زيخنه (‪ )5‬و سيروز و قره فريه في سنة سبع و ثمانين و سبعمائة‪ .‬وفتح بلدة‬ ‫(‪ )6‬السالسل التي تقال لها أنقره‪ .‬وفتح سلطان أُيوكي‪ .‬وتوجه إلى (‪ )7‬محاربته كثيرون من‬ ‫سق‪ ،‬وتاتار‪ ،‬والتركمان‪ ،‬فحارب (‪ )8‬معهم السلطان‪ ،‬فهزمهم و أينما توجه‬ ‫وور َ‬ ‫قوم قرامان‪َ ،‬‬ ‫يقارنه الفتح المبين و يساعده (‪ )9‬تأييد ذي القوة [ع‪6:‬ب] المتين‪.‬‬ ‫و توجه إلى ممالك الز‪ ،‬واستعان الالز (‪ )10‬في محاربته من جميع أرباب الملل الكفرية‪ ،‬و الكفر‬ ‫ملة واحدة في الحقيقة‪ .‬فأعانوه (‪ )11‬فحارب معهم السلطان‪ 36،‬فغلب عليهم مع أنهم كانوا ألف‬ ‫‪37‬‬ ‫مائة أو يزيدون‪ )12( ،‬وهللاُ يحق الحق ويبطل الباطل ولو كره الكافرون‪.‬‬ ‫ومن الغرائب (‪ )13‬أن السلطان بعد ما هزم المخالفين وأرسل جنده الغالبين أل ِس َر (‪ )14‬الهاربين‪،‬‬ ‫مكث في مكان مرتفع‪ ،‬فاقبل إليه كافر مجروح متمائل في (‪ )15‬المشي للضعف والوهن‬ ‫اس عن ذب‬ ‫الناشئين من الجرح كأنه كان مستخفيا ً [‪6‬أ] فيما بين المقتولين‪ ،‬فمنع السلطانُ ال ُح ّر َ‬ ‫الكافر وطرده‪ )2( .‬لما توهم أن له حاجة وسؤاال ً‪ .‬فلما وصل الكافر الالزي إلى السلطان (‪)3‬‬ ‫الغازي تعرض له بسكين مسموم حمله ُخفية‪ .‬فاندرج السلطان (‪ )4‬في سلك الشهداء الذين هم‬ ‫أحياء عند ربهم يرزقون فرحين بما آتاهم (‪ )5‬هللا من فضله وكان ذلك في سنة إحدى و تسعين‬ ‫و سبعمائة‪[)6( .‬ع‪7:‬أ] و كانت مدة سلطنته ثلثين سنة‪ .‬فجلس في ذلك التاريخ على (‪ )7‬سرير‬ ‫السلطنة ولده السعيد و خلفه الرشيد المؤيد بـتأييد الحميد (‪ )8‬المجيد السلطان بايذيد خان جزاه‬ ‫هللا عن تأييد الدين خير الجزاء (‪ )9‬و حشره في زمرة األنبياء والشهداء‪ .‬و أنه كان رجالً عادالً‬ ‫باسالً (‪ )10‬محبا ً للعلماء و الفقراء‪ ،‬مشفقا ً على األغنياء‪ ،‬مراعيا ً للزهاد و (‪ )11‬الصلحاء‪،‬‬ ‫يتوجه إليه الملوك العظام من كل ف ّج عميق و ينحو نحوه (‪ )12‬العلماء األعالم من كل مرمى‬ ‫سحيق‪ .‬كان له أخ موسوم بيعقوب چلبي‪ )13( ،‬و كان في بقائه مفاسدُ عظيمةٌ ال يخفى على‬ ‫من له فطرة سليمة‪ .‬فكفى (‪ )14‬السلطان مؤنته‪ ،‬و الضروراتُ تبيح المحظورات‪ ،‬فبقى ال ُملك‬ ‫(‪ )15‬الموروث تحت يد السلطان الباسل الباذل البارع ( إي الفائق) بال مخاصمة [‪6‬ب]‬ ‫مخاصم وال منازعة منازع‪ .‬فاشتغل بتوسيع دائرة‪ 38‬المملكة و إطفاء (‪ )2‬نائرة المفسدة‪ ،‬ففتح‬ ‫بالسيف[ع‪7:‬ب] القاضب والرأي الصائب والية (‪ )3‬منتشا و آيدين و صاروخان‪ 39‬و «الرندة‬ ‫و آق سراى في سنة اثنين و تسعين و سبعمائة‪ )4( .‬و فتح قونية و قيصرية و توقات و سيواس‬ ‫ي زمان القاضي برهان (‪ )5‬الدين في سنة ثمانمائة‪ .‬واتفق له غزو كبير و حرب‬ ‫بعد ُم َ‬ ‫ض ّ‬ ‫عظيم مع أنكروس (‪ ،)6‬و هزمهم بأسرهم و أمر بقتلهم أسرهم في سنة إحدى و ثمانمائة‪ .‬وفتح‬ ‫س ِمسون‬ ‫(‪ )7‬واليات تَكَة وأنطاليا والقالع المتعلقة و قسطمونية و قوى (‪ )8‬و عثمانجق و َ‬ ‫و جانب و أرزنجان و مالطية و غيرها (‪ )9‬من المدن والبلدان الواقعة في روم إيلي‪ .‬و لقد‬ ‫قصد لخدمته‪ ،‬و (‪ )10‬أذعن لعزته‪ ،‬و وصل إلى عتبته السلطانُ أحمد الجاليري اإليلخاني‬ ‫(‪ )11‬والي بغداد‪ ،‬و قرا يوسف بن قرا محمد التركمان أمير قرا قيونلو‪ )12( .‬وله بقاع شريفة‬ ‫ومساجد لطيفة ينتفع بها العلماء والفقراء (‪ )13‬يذكر فيها اسم هللا في الصباح والمساء في‬

‫المقدام مع اولئك اللئام ‪36‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬المشركون ‪37‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬في ‪38‬‬ ‫ب ‪ ,‬ص ‪39‬‬

‫‪H i m m e t Ta ş k ö m ü r a n d H ü s e y i n Y ı l m a z‬‬

‫مدينتي أدرنه و بروسا [ع‪8:‬أ] (‪ُ )14‬حفَتا بالنُعمي و صينتا عن البؤسى؟ ومما تيسر لعبيده‬ ‫اثنين (‪ )15‬الموسوم بمحمد و على ولدا أمير قرامان‪.‬‬ ‫ثم بعد ما كملت دولتُه‪7[ ،‬أ] واتسعت مملكتُه‪ ،‬وغَلبت أجناده و ُ‬ ‫غلبت ُحسّاده‪ ،‬أصابته عين (‪)2‬‬ ‫الكمال وتطرقت إلى إقباله يد الزوال‪ .‬فوقعت المحاربة بينه و بين (‪ )3‬األمير تيمور بن محمد‬ ‫طرغاى فوقع االنكسار واالنهزام على عسكر الروم لعلل و (‪ )4‬و أسباب ال تحمل ذكرها هذا‬ ‫الكتاب و عند ذلك انتقل األمير (‪ )5‬الكبير السعيد السلطان بايذيد خان إلى رياض رحمة هللا‬ ‫الوهاب المنان‪ )6(.‬و كان ذلك في سنة خمس و ثمانمائة‪ .‬وكان له بنون هم األمير (‪ )7‬سليمان‬ ‫و موسى چلبي و السلطان محمد خان‪ .‬فجلس (‪ )8‬على سرير السلطنة ابنه األمير سليمان‬ ‫وتحلى بالعدل واإلحسان (‪ )9‬والفضل واالمتنان وأَحْ يا مآثر أسالفه الكرام األشراف (‪)10‬‬ ‫ورعى حق الرعاية فيما بين الرعية جانب اإلنصاف واالنتصاف (‪ )11‬إلى أن أدركه ما يدرك‬ ‫كل أحد و لو كانوا في بروج[ع‪8:‬ب] مشيدة (‪ )12‬في سنة ثلث عشر و ثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫فقام مقامه في روم إيلي (‪ )13‬أخوه موسى چلبي وتملك أناطولى أخوه اآلخر السلطان محمد خان‪.‬‬ ‫(‪ )14‬فوقع الحرب والخالف بين األخوين المذكورين‪ .‬فغلب السلطان (‪ )15‬محمد خان على‬ ‫موسى جلبي فكفى مؤنته وتصرف في الملك تصرف [‪7‬ب] ال ُم ّلك في األمالك‪ ،‬و جرت‬ ‫على وفق مراده حركات األفالك إلى (‪ )2‬سنة أربع وعشرين و ثمانمائة‪ .‬فعند ذلك حل األجل‬ ‫وانقطع (‪ )3‬األمل‪ .‬فجلس على سرير السلطنة ولده السالك لمسلك (‪ )4‬السداد الهادي المهتدي‬ ‫إلى سبيل الرشاد ُمعلى أعالم الغزو (‪ )5‬والجهاد الواثق باهلل الجواد السلطان الغازي السلطان‬ ‫[ع‪9:‬أ] مراد خان‪ )6( .‬ولقد جرى على سنن آبائه الكرام و أجداده الفخام رفع هللا درجاتهم في‬ ‫(‪ )7‬دار السالم‪ ،‬و سعى في نظام الملك والدين‪ ،‬و دفع شرور الكفرة و (‪ )8‬الملحدين‪ ،‬و فتح‬ ‫كثيرا ً من بالد الروم إيلي في سنة خمس و عشرين و ثمانمائة‪ ،‬و فتح بتأييد من يؤتى الملك من‬ ‫يشاء والية آيدين و والية منتشا في (‪ )10‬سنة ثمان و عشرين و ثمانمائة‪ .‬وفتح والية جانيك‬ ‫مع توابعه في سنة (‪ )11‬إحدى و ثلثين و ثمانمائة‪ ،‬و فتح قلعة سالنيك في سنة ثلث عشرين‬ ‫(‪ )12‬و ثمانمائة‪ .‬وذهب إلى واليات أنكروس و رجع سالما ً غانما ً غالبا ً (‪ )13‬سالبا ً في سنة‬ ‫اربع و ثلثين و ثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫وتولد ولده الذي هو المقصد (‪ )14‬األقصى من نمو الشجرة الطيبة العثمانية في رياض المجد‬ ‫واإلقبال (‪ )15‬والمطلب األعلى من سمو الدوحة الشريفة األغزخانية في حدائق العظمة[‪8‬أ]‬ ‫والجالل سلطان البرين وخاقان البحرين عامر األقاليم بالعدل (‪ )2‬واإلحسان أبو الفتح والنصر‬ ‫السلطان محمد خان خلد هللا ملكه (‪ )3‬وسلطانه وال سلب عن العالمين بره وإحسانه‪ .‬واتفق‬ ‫(‪ )4‬له فتح سمندرة في سنة إحدى وأربعين وثمانمائة وكان غزو (‪ )5‬وارنا‪ ،‬و قت ُل قرال في‬ ‫سنة ثمان و أربعين و ثمانمائة‪ .‬فتح والية (‪ )6‬مورا في سنة إحدى و خمسين و ثمانمائة‪ .‬ومن‬ ‫غزواته غزو ُكوس أ ُ َوا (‪ )7‬في سنة اثنين وخمسين وثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫وله بقاع الخيرات وأبواب المبرات (‪ )8‬في مدينتي بروسا و أدرنه صينت عن كل بلية و محنة‪.‬‬ ‫وبعد ما (‪ )9‬انتهت مدة سلطنته الحضرة السلطانية المرادية بلغت إلى ثلثين سنة قمرية (‪)10‬‬ ‫وحصل له ما حصل من المواهب السنية والفتوحات الدينية و (‪ )11‬الدنيوية حلّت المنيّة‬ ‫وانقطعت األمنية‪ ،‬فأجاب دعوة رب (‪ )12‬البرية و هجر الدنيا الدنية في غرة محرم سنة خمس‬ ‫و خمسين و ثمانمائة هجرية‪.‬‬ ‫فشرف الملك والسرير ولده المشار إليه سلطان (‪ )14‬البرين والبحرين آية رحمة هللا بين‬ ‫(‪ّ )31‬‬ ‫الخافقين سيد الغزاة والمجاهدين (‪ )15‬قاهر الكفرة والمتمردين المؤيد بتأييد هللا العلي الشأن‬ ‫القوي البرهان [‪8‬ب][ع‪10:‬أ] السلطان بن السلطان محمد خان خلد هللا ملكه وسلطانه وأعز‬ ‫بفضله أنصاره وأعوانه وأيد به الدين ومتع به العالمين (‪ )3‬وأبد دولته إلى أن يرث هللا األرض‬

‫‪66‬‬

‫‪67‬‬

‫‪Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His Histor y of the Ottoman House‬‬

‫ومن عليها وهو خير الوارثين‪ .‬وكان ذلك األمر الشريف والشأن المنيف في يوم الخميس‬ ‫‪40‬‬ ‫السادس عشر من محرم المكرم في السنة المذكورة‪.‬‬ ‫[ع‪10:‬ب][‪9‬ب]‬ ‫بسم هللا الرحمن الرحيم‬ ‫نحمدك اللهم على آالئك و نشكرك على نعمائك‪ ،‬ونصلى على (‪ )2‬سيد المرسلين محمد‪ ،‬وآله‬ ‫الطيبين‪ ،‬و نستعين بك في (‪ )3‬شكر ما أنعمت على العالمين من إيتاء ال ُملك ل َملك عظيم «إن‬ ‫حرز‬ ‫هو (‪ )4‬إال َملَكٌ كريم»‪ ،41‬سيد ملوك الزمن‪ ،‬و من هو في العالم كالروح (‪ )5‬في البدن‪ُ ،‬م ِ‬ ‫سبق في صيانة الملك و الدين‪ ،‬و (‪ )7‬حراسة اإلسالم و المسلمين‪ ،‬ما طلعت شمس‬ ‫قصبات ال َ‬ ‫سلطان أكمل منه‪ ،‬و ما من خير و كمال في ملكه الفضفاض‪ 42‬إال (‪)9‬‬ ‫وال غربت على ذي (‪)8‬‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫وهو فائض عنه‪ ،‬أمثل سالطين العالم علما ً و أوفرهم حلما ً و أشدهم (‪ )01‬بطشا ً و أسدّهم سمتاً‪،‬‬ ‫ً‬ ‫جالال وأشملهم خيرا ً و أكثرهم‬ ‫ال ترى فيه عوجا ً و ال أمتا‪ ً،‬و أشرفهم خصاالً‪ )11( ،43‬و أجلّهم‬ ‫عونا ً و أكبرهم شأنا ً أت ّمهم [ع‪11:‬أ] وأشملهم خيراً‪ ،‬وأكثرهم عونا ً و أكبرهم شأنا ً أتمهم (‪)12‬‬ ‫عدالً و أع ّمهم فيضاً‪ُ ،‬مط ِ ّهر األقاليم الرومية عن الرجس والخباثة (‪ )13‬الناشئة من الكفرة‬ ‫الذين « قالوا إن هللا ثالث ثلثة»‪ 44‬لو تُليت آيةٌ (‪ )14‬من آيات جده السعيد على الشمس و القمر‬ ‫تفوز بمقارنته السعادة (‪ )15‬عن التربيع ولو ُرويت حكاية من حكايات بأسه الشديد [‪10‬أ] لدى‬ ‫النجم و الشجر ليأخذ في اليُبس و ال َجفاف زمن الربيع السماء (‪ )2‬تحسد األرض بمماسّة ذيله و‬ ‫الكواكب تودّ لو كانت أوتادا ً ونعا ِل (‪ )3‬خيله الدنيا ُم َهنّأة بانحيازها إلى حوزة حكمه و سلطانه‬ ‫و (‪ )4‬النعُمى مهيأة الندراجها في سلك ما في حيطة أنصاره و أعوانه (‪ ،)5‬أزمانه الشريفة‬ ‫أزمان الفضائل‪ ،‬و مواقيتها فيها يتألأل آللي (‪ )6‬المعالي‪ ،‬و يواقيتها عتبة جنابه المنيع مقبَّل‬ ‫شفاه الملوك(‪ )7‬ا ِلصيد‪ ،‬و حريم بابه الرفيع موضع حباه القروم و الصناديد‪45 ،‬لوال حمايته‬ ‫لحمى العلم َلشرفت على الذبول شجرة [ع‪11:‬ب] العرفان‪ ،‬ولوال وقوع (‪ )9‬أشعة لطفه‬ ‫شرف العالم‬ ‫على كواكب الحكمة‪ ،‬لَما أشرقت بوج ٍه ما في هذا‪ 46‬الزمان‪ )10(.‬فالحمد هلل الذي ّ‬ ‫صل فيه مكارم (‪ )11‬األخالق تفصيالً‪ ،‬و فضّله بجوده على أعاظم اآلفاق‬ ‫بهذا الوجود الذي ف ّ‬ ‫ً ‪47‬‬ ‫تفضيالً‪ )12(،‬و أيّد به الدين المتين‪ ،‬و متّع به العالمين «سيما العالمين متاعا ً حسنا ً جميال»‪،‬‬ ‫(‪ )13‬لوال عجائب صنع هللا ما نبتت تلك المكارم‪ 48‬في لحم و ال عصب ‪ )14( .‬وهذه الصفات‬ ‫الشريفة والخصال الحميدة المنيفة مغنية (‪ )15‬عن التنبيه باسم الموصوف النبيه إذ هي معلوم‬ ‫االختصاص[‪01‬ب] بالسلطان األعظم [و] الخاقان األعدل األعلم مولى ملوك العرب و (‪)2‬‬ ‫القرطاس و (‪ )3‬والقلم السائل من كفه‬ ‫العجم قبلة أرباب العلم والعَلم المتي ّمن بذكره المنيف‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫الكريم ينابيع الجود والكرم من لم ير عينُ (‪ )4‬الشمس مثلَه و إن اشتعل الرأس شيباً‪ ،‬و صينت‬ ‫مالبس (‪ )5‬عزه و جالله عما يشين شيناً‪ ،‬و يعيب عيباً‪ ،‬اإلمام الهمام (‪[ )6‬ع‪12:‬أ] القمقام أسد‬ ‫أهلل و سيفه الصارم الصمصام الغازي (‪ )7‬في سبيل هللا‪ ،‬المتحاذي لمن اتخذ إلهه هواه‪ 49‬الذي‬ ‫شعر‪:‬‬

‫‪] Blank‬أ‪40 [9‬‬ ‫يوسف‪41 31:‬‬ ‫أي الواسع ‪42‬‬ ‫ً‬ ‫جالال ‪43‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬أجلّهم‬ ‫المائدة‪44 73 :‬‬ ‫ً‬ ‫شماال‪ ،‬أساس البالغة ‪45‬‬ ‫‪.‬وفي الهامش‪ :‬لوال ملوك صيد و ملك أصيّد ال بلغت يمينا ً وال‬ ‫ساقط ‪46‬‬ ‫ساقط ‪47‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬األكارم ‪48‬‬ ‫الجاثية‪49 23 :‬‬

‫‪H i m m e t Ta ş k ö m ü r a n d H ü s e y i n Y ı l m a z‬‬

‫تجاوز قدر المدح حتى كأنه‬ ‫بأحسن ما ثنَى عليه يعاب‪،‬‬ ‫(‪ )9‬السلطان ابن السلطان الواثق باهلل المستعان‪ ،‬أبو الفتح و (‪ )10‬النصر السلطان محمد خان‪ ،‬خلّد‬ ‫هللا ملكه وسلطانه وأسبغ (‪ )11‬على العالمين عدله وإحسانه‪ ،‬وبعدُ‪ :‬فقد انتهت النوبة إلى (‪)12‬‬ ‫أن يذكر على اإلجمال بعض ما أنعم هللا الكبير المتعال على ذلك (‪ )13‬السلطان الحاوي ألقسام‬ ‫الكمال والجمال والجالل حرس هللا (‪ )14‬دولته الغراء ما دامت األرض وقامت السماء فنقول‬ ‫أنه خلد (‪ )15‬ملكه قد جلس على سرير السلطنة في يوم الخميس السادس عشر[‪11‬أ] من محرم‬ ‫عشر سنة‪.‬‬ ‫المكرم سنة خمس و خمسين و ثمانمائة‪ .‬وكان في تلك (‪ )2‬السنة الحسنة ابنَ تسعة‬ ‫َ‬ ‫شعر‪:‬‬ ‫(‪« )3‬تعصب تاج الملك في عنفوانه‬ ‫‪51‬‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫واطت به بدر الشباب المنابر»‬ ‫[ع‪12:‬ب] (‪ )4‬به تُجتنى النعمى‬ ‫و يُستدرك ال ُمني و يُستكمل ال ُحسنَى‬ ‫األواصر‪.‬‬ ‫ويُرعى‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫(‪ )5‬ومن لطائف ذلك الجلوس الميمون‪ ،‬فاضت بركاته إلى» يوم ال (‪ )6‬ينفع فيه مال وال بنون»‪.52‬‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫أن تاريخه قولنا‪ :53‬خلد هللا سلطانه و (‪ )7‬قد نظم ذلك التاريخ من قال‪:‬‬ ‫شرفه هللا واصطفاه و (‪ )9‬آتاه من‬ ‫وللسلطان تاريخ اإلمامة (‪ )8‬يصاحبه السعادة والسالمة ول ّما َّ‬ ‫فضله ما آتاه‪ ،‬أراد أن يدبر الملك الموروث تدبيرا ً وثيقا ً (‪ )10‬ويس ّخره تسخيرا ً أنيقا ً ويبدع فيه‬ ‫صفَة توسيعاً‪ .‬وكان ذلك موقوفا ً على ذبّ األعادي‬ ‫نظاما ً بديعا ً ويوسَّع ميدان العدل (‪ )11‬والن َ‬ ‫والمخالفين (‪ )12‬من حدود الممالك‪ ،‬أو توطين أنفسهم على المحبة والوفاق إن أمكن ذلك‪.‬‬ ‫ممونا ً بعداوة ال يمكن إزالتها وال يندفع نكابتها (‪ )14‬إالّ‪ 54‬بالسيف‬ ‫(‪ )13‬وكان أمير قرامان ّ‬ ‫والسنان‪ .‬فتوجه السلطان المنيع المكان في تلك السنة (‪ )15‬السنية إلى بالد قرامان‪ ،‬فقهر‬ ‫العدو‪ ،‬وفتح بعض ما في يده من[ع‪13:‬أ] المدن والبلدان‪11[ ،‬ب] ورجع سالما ً غانما ً إلى‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫مقر السلطنة السنية‪ ،‬واشتغل بترتيب (‪ )2‬أسباب فتح البلدة الموسومة بقسطنطينية الواقعة في‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫حاق (‪ )3‬المدن اإلسالمية‪ .‬ثم إن الكفار المقيمين بالبلدان واألقطار البعيدة (‪ )4‬كانوا يأتون‬ ‫المماس لسورها (‪ )5‬المتّقة الرصينة‪ ،‬ويُعينون أهلها‬ ‫تلك المدينة الحصينة عابرين علي البحر‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ويشاركونهم في ضبطها وحفظها‪.‬‬ ‫(‪ )6‬وفي ذلك البحر معبران مضيَقان ال يمكن للكفار اآلتين إلى بلدة قسطنطين (‪ )7‬الوصول إليها‬ ‫إال بالعبور من ذينك المعبرين‪ .‬فأراد الحضرة العلية (‪ )8‬السلطانية دفع سيئة الكفار بالتي هي‬ ‫سن‪ ،‬وبنى‬ ‫أحسن‪ ،‬فبنى قلعة منيعة و (‪ )9‬قلة رفيعة مشرفة على أحد المعبرين مسماة ببُغاز َك َ‬ ‫باب االتصال (‪ )11‬واالجتماع بين‬ ‫في المعبر (‪ )10‬اآلخر قلعة أخرى‪ ،‬فانسد بسبب تلك القالع ُ‬ ‫كفرة قسطنطينية وكفرة غيرها من المدن و (‪ )12‬األصقاع‪ .‬وكان ذلك في سنة [ع‪13:‬ب] ست‬ ‫وخمسين وثمانمائة‪ .‬و (‪ )13‬لقد نظم ذلك التاريخ‪ 55‬فقيل‬ ‫ٌ‬ ‫حصن َح َرس الدنيا عن حادثة الدوران‬ ‫(‪)14‬‬ ‫‪50‬‬

‫الشعر للمتنبي ‪50‬‬ ‫كتاب األغاني ‪51‬‬ ‫الشعراء‪52 88 :‬‬ ‫قولنا‪ ،‬ساقط في عاشر ‪53‬‬ ‫إال‪ ،‬مكرر ‪54‬‬ ‫التاريخ‪ ،‬ساقط في عاشر ‪55‬‬

‫‪68‬‬

‫‪69‬‬

‫‪Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His Histor y of the Ottoman House‬‬

‫برز أفالكا ً في الرفعة واإلتقان‪،‬‬ ‫قد ّ‬ ‫ٌّ‬ ‫نقصانُ‬ ‫‪.‬‬ ‫(‪ )15‬للدين به عز‪ ،‬للكفر به‬ ‫تاريخ مبانيه‪ ،‬بنيانُ محمد خان‬ ‫[‪12‬أ]‬ ‫ثم توجه الحضرة العلية الملكية الالمعة شموس دولته (‪ )2‬من سماء العناية األزلية إلى فتح المدينة‬ ‫الموسومة بقسطنطينية و إنها (‪ )3‬بلدة رام فتحها كثيرون من الملوك العظام والسالطين ال ِفخام‪،‬‬ ‫سور ال يكاد يصل إليه النسور وتيراً‪ ،‬أي‪ )5( :‬من رصانته‬ ‫فلم (‪ )4‬يتأتَّ لهم ذلك‪ ،‬إذ لها‬ ‫ٌ‬ ‫‪56‬‬ ‫أنه مما يبقى إلى يوم الحشر و النشور و قد أحاط بها (‪ )6‬قطعتان متالقيتان من بحر الروم‬ ‫والشام و بحر َ‬ ‫طرابُزون‪ .‬و كان (‪ )7‬فيها جم غفير من الكفار يحفظونها آناء الليل و أطراف‬ ‫النهار‪ ،‬و إن (‪ )7‬الموصوفين بالفكر السليم و الرأي المستقيم‪ ،‬كانوا يحكمون بأنه ليس إلى‬ ‫(‪ )8‬فتحها من سبيل‪ ،‬و انتزاعها من أيدي الكفار شيء كالمستحيل‪ ،‬والسعي (‪[ )9‬ع‪14:‬أ] في‬ ‫تملكها كالضرب في الحديد البارد‪ ،‬و َرو ُم تسخيرها كترقّب الخير (‪ )10‬من الشيطان المارد‪.‬‬ ‫ولكن لما أوتي الحضرة العلية همة‪ 57‬سنية (‪ )11‬وقوة قدسية ونفسا ً قويةً أُبية يُطيعها‪ 58‬العناصر‬ ‫بطبعها (‪ )13‬إطاعة ً جليةً لم يستحسن إبقاء المدينة المذكورة تحت يد الكفرة (‪ )14‬الحربية‬ ‫وجر الكتائب (‪ )51‬وأحاط بالمدينة من كل جانب‬ ‫فجعل فتحها ِوجهته هو مولَّيها‪ .‬فاتخذ السفائن‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫عين رأت و ال ٌ‬ ‫وهيّأ من أسباب فتح القلعة‪ 59‬في [‪12‬ب] باب المدينة ما ال ٌ‬ ‫أذن سمعت وال‬ ‫خطر على قلب بشر‪ 60.‬ففتحها (‪ )2‬بعون هللا تعالى مع ما يتبعها من المدن والقرى مثل غ ََل َ‬ ‫طه‬ ‫و ِس ِل ُوري و (‪ِ )3‬مديَه و أَخيُوليِ‪ 61،‬و يناسب طهارة‪ 62‬المدينة المفتوحة عن شرور أصحاب‬ ‫(‪ )4‬الشرك المهين‪ ،‬وغرور أرباب اإلفك المستبين‪ّ .‬‬ ‫إن قول القائل‪ :‬بلدة ٌ طيبة ٌ(‪ )5‬تاري ُخ فتحها‬ ‫المبين‪.‬‬ ‫فجعل الحضرة العلية المدينة المومى إليها صانها (‪ )6‬هللا في ظل فاتحها [ع‪41:‬ب] إلى أن يرث‬ ‫ع (‪ )7‬جاللته‪ ،‬وع ّمرها تعميرا ً بعد ما د ّمرها‬ ‫األرض ومن عليها‬ ‫َّ‬ ‫مستقر خالفته و ُمستودَ َ‬ ‫تدميراً‪ ،‬وزيّنها بمدارس وخوانق (‪ )8‬رفيع البناء منيع ال ِفناء ومساجد وجوامع ّ‬ ‫كأن‪ 63‬دعائمها‬ ‫تساوي قطر السماء‪ .‬فصارت المدينة في ظل دولته الغراء قبلة يتوجه إليها (‪ )9‬األقاصي‬ ‫واألداني من «كل ف ّجٍ عميق»‪ 64‬ويُقبل عليها األفاضل واألعالى من كل مرمى سحيق‪ .‬متى‬ ‫س ِلم عن القصور يقول‪ )12( :‬وقوله الحق‪ ،‬بلدة طيبة و رب غفور‪.‬‬ ‫رآها كل من له فهم َ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ثم إن الحضرة العلية السلطانية (‪ )13‬الواجب إطاعته على أهل النقل والفرض‪ُ ،‬خلد مل ُكه وسلطانُه‬ ‫إلى يوم (‪ )14‬تبدّل األرض غير األرض‪ ،‬فتح بالرأي المبرور‪ 65‬الفائق‪ ،‬والسعي المشكور‬ ‫الالئق‪ )15( 66‬مملكة نَواَبُري مع توابعها ولواحقها في سنة ثمان و خمسين و ثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫[‪31‬أ] وفتح في تلك السنة والية اِينوز‪ ،‬الواقعة في ساحل البحر‪ .‬ثم توجه‪ )2( ،‬أعز هللا أنصاره و‬ ‫أعوانه‪ ،‬إلى فتح قلعة بلغراط (ع‪15:‬أ) فانتهض يَنقو‪ ُ،‬متملك (‪ )3‬بالد أنكروس‪ ،‬مع عسكره‬ ‫في عاشر‪ ,‬من رصانته أنه مما يبقى إلى يوم الحشر و النشور ‪56‬‬ ‫نية ‪57‬‬ ‫يطيعها ‪58‬‬ ‫القلعة» ساقط عن عاشر« ‪59‬‬ ‫السجدة‪60 17 :‬‬ ‫‪.‬ع‪ :‬وكان ذلك في سنة سبع وخمسين وثمانمائة ‪61‬‬ ‫طهارت َها ‪62‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬جوامع ‪63‬‬ ‫الحج‪64 27 :‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬الفايق ‪65‬‬ ‫بالرأي الفائق الصائب والتدبير الالئق الثاقب ‪66‬‬

‫‪H i m m e t Ta ş k ö m ü r a n d H ü s e y i n Y ı l m a z‬‬

‫العبور (‪ )4‬عن النهر الموسوم في زماننا هذا بنهر ُ‬ ‫طونَه‬ ‫المحذولين لصون القلعة‪ .‬و كان دأبهم‬ ‫َ‬ ‫عند االشتغال بالقتال مع المسلمين‪ ،‬لكن لما انتهت الدولة إلى سلطاننا المؤيد المنصور‪ ،‬خلد هللا‬ ‫صنوا‬ ‫(‪ )6‬ملكه إلى يوم الحشر‪ 67‬و النشور‪ ،‬لم يقدروا على العبور عن النهر المذكور‪ )7(.‬فتح ّ‬ ‫بالقلعة‪ ،‬و جعلوا شغلهم منحصرا ً في حفظها‪ ،‬فرجع الحضرة (‪ )8‬العلية من صوب القلعة قليالً‬ ‫رجوعا ً تُترا ً ‪،‬أي االنهزام استدراجا ً (‪ )9‬للكفرة األراذل اللئام‪ .‬فلما ُ‬ ‫ظ ّن أن الحضرة العلية آتاه‬ ‫هللا كل أرب (‪ )10‬قد أخذ في الرجوع أو الهرب‪ ،‬خرج ينقو مع أرباب الضالل من القلعة‪،‬‬ ‫(‪ )11‬واشتغلوا بالقتال‪ ،‬فقاتلهم الحضرة العلية المؤيد بتأييد من يُحق الحق (‪ )12‬ولو كره‬ ‫الكافرون‪ ،‬فظفر جنده الغالبون وغلب حزبه المفلحون‪ )13( .‬ومات الملك الموسوم بيَنقو وقطع‬ ‫دابر القوم الذين كفوا وعند (‪ )14‬ذلك (ع‪15:‬ب) رجع الحضرة العلية المت ّ‬ ‫شرف به السلطنة‬ ‫السنية إلى دار (‪ )15‬ملكه المحفوف بالمواهب البهية قبل فتح القلعة المذكورة إذ نفدت أسباب‬ ‫أمير األمراء في روم ايلي الموسوم (‪ )2‬بقرجه‬ ‫[‪13‬ب] فتح الحصن في ذلك الحرب‪ .‬و صار ُ‬ ‫بيك شهيداً‪ ،‬و كان ذلك في سنة تسع و خمسين و ثمان مائة‬ ‫(‪ )3‬ثم إنه خلد هللا ظله إلى يوم ال ظل إال ظله أمر بترتيب وليمة (‪ )4‬الختان للوالين األعزين النيرين‬ ‫األزهرين قُ ّرت َ ْى عين الخالفة و (‪ )5‬و د ُّرت َ ْى صدف الجاللة السلطان األعظم األحلم الرشيد (‪)6‬‬ ‫الحميد السلطان بايذيد‪ُ ،‬خلدت دولته في ظل والده الواجب (‪ )7‬التمجيد‪ ،‬والسلطان الباسل الباذل‬ ‫روح هللا روحه و والى عليه فتو َحه‪ .‬وكان ذلك في‬ ‫المرحوم المغفور السلطان (‪ )8‬مصطفى‪ّ ،‬‬ ‫(‪ )9‬سنة ستين وثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫وتوجه فاضت بركاتُ (‪ )10‬عدالته في المشارق والمغارب‪ ،‬وشاعت آيات بسالته فيما بين (‪)11‬‬ ‫األباعد[ع‪16:‬أ] واألقارب‪ ،‬إلى مملكة ُموره وهى جزيرة كبيرة كثرت (‪ )12‬ممالكها و صعُبت‬ ‫مسال ُكها‪ 68.‬ففتح ثلثين قلعة حصينة في (‪ )13‬الجزيرة المذكورة مع التوابع و اللواحق و ارسل‬ ‫إلى مملكة سمندره (‪ )14‬شرذمةً من جنده الغالبين‪ ،‬فغلبوا على الكافرين‪ ،‬و رجعوا (‪)15‬‬ ‫سالمين غانمين‪،‬‬ ‫تكفور ُموره إلى العتبة العلية السلطانية‪41[ ،‬أ] فآواه حضرة السلطان في ظل األمن واألمان‪.‬‬ ‫وأتى‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫وكان مالزما ً لحريم الجناب (‪ )2‬الكريم إلى آخر عمره وجرى ذلك بأسره في سنة إحدى‬ ‫وستين وثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫(‪ )3‬ثم توجه الحضرة بذاته الشريفة صانها هللا من كل ضير كما (‪ )4‬زانها بكل خير إلى مملكة‬ ‫سمندره‪ ،‬ففُتحت مع ما فيها من القالع قبل (‪ )5‬وصول الراية العالية إلى تلك البقاع‪ .‬فرجع‬ ‫مظفرا ً ومنصورا ً إلى دار (‪ )6‬الخالفة‪ ،‬حرسها هللا عن كل آفة‪ .‬وكان ذلك في سنة اثنين وستين‬ ‫(‪ )7‬وثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫‪70‬‬ ‫‪69‬‬ ‫ثم توجه[ع‪16:‬ب] في تلك السنة إلى أماصره ففتحها (‪ )8‬بتأييد هللا وعونه‪.‬‬ ‫وتوجه ضاعف هللا جالله إلى موره (‪ )9‬مرة ً أُخرى داعيا ً إلى سبيل ربه بالحكمة والموعظة الحسنة‬ ‫و (‪ )9‬المجادلة بالتي هي أحسن و أحرى ِلما ظهر طغيان من الكافرين (‪ )10‬الذين بآيات هللا‬ ‫يجحدون‪ ،‬فانطفئ نار شرارتهم بميامن توجهه (‪ )11‬الميمون‪ ،‬وانفتحت كثير من الممالك و‬ ‫القالع و الحصون‪ .‬و (‪ )12‬كان ذلك في سنة ثلث وستين وثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫ثم توجهت (‪ )14‬رايته المنصورة نحو الشرق وانتهت إلى نواحي‪ 71‬كرجستان‪ ،‬ففتحت (‪)15‬‬ ‫قسطونيه و سينوب و قُويلُو حصار و َ‬ ‫ط َر ُ‬ ‫بزون‪ .‬وأطاع تكفور [‪14‬ب] طريزون وصار من‬ ‫آيا‪,:‬الحشر غير موجود ‪67‬‬ ‫في عاشر‪ ،‬فيها منافع غزيرة كثرت ممالكها وحصونها وصعبت مسالكها وشجونها ‪68‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬ثم توجه فاضت سيول نداه وشاهت وجوه عداه في تلك السنة ‪69‬‬ ‫‪.‬ع‪ :‬الذي ال إله سواه ‪70‬‬ ‫ع‪:‬دار ‪71‬‬

‫‪70‬‬

‫‪71‬‬

‫‪Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His Histor y of the Ottoman House‬‬

‫جملة عبيده إلى أن ظهر منه أثر‪ 72‬الخيانة الناشئة من (‪ )2‬الدناءة والخساسة فوقع عليه ما‬ ‫يستحقه من السياسة و ذلك في سنة (‪ )3‬أربع و ستين و ثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫ثم توجهت الراية العالية‪ 73‬في سنة خمس (‪( )4‬ع‪17:‬أ) وستين و ثمانمائة نحو اِفالغ و اخرج منها‬ ‫وإليها الباغ الطاغي‪ ،‬و نصب فيها أميرا ً (‪ )5‬آخر مطيعا ً لألمر العالي‪ ،‬أعاله هللا المتعالي‪.‬‬ ‫وفتح في تلك (‪ )6‬السنة مملكة ِمدِلّى مع التوابع و الضمائم و حبس ُمتملكها المغرور (‪)7‬‬ ‫الملقب أمثاله بتكفور ثم أجاز السلطان المظفر المنصور‪ ،‬أدام هللا (‪[ )8‬إ]جالله إلى يوم‬ ‫النشور‪ ،‬و‬ ‫إذ قد ظهر منه خيانة‪ ،‬قُتل باألمر المطاع الواجب (‪ )9‬اإلتباع‪ ،‬ال زال عالياً‪.‬‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫وأعز نصره إلى المملكة‬ ‫ثم توجه الحضرة زاد هللا لرياض (‪ )10‬دولته حضرة ونُضرة وغلّب جندَه‬ ‫الموسومة (‪ )11‬ببوسنه في سنة سبع وستين وثمانمائة‪ .‬وفتحها وقتل واليَها المدعو (‪ )12‬بقرال‬ ‫الممنو؟ بالزيغ والضالل‪ ،‬وتوجه إلى بوسنه أيضاً‪ )13( ،‬فاضت ميامن غزواته بين المسلمين‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫فيضا ً في سنة ثمان وستين و (‪ )14‬ثمانمائة‪ .‬وفتح ما بقي من القالع والمدن والبقاع‪ ،‬وسكن‬ ‫(‪ )15‬في دار الخالفة‪ ،‬صينت عن كل مخافة في سنة تسع و ستين و ثمان مائة[‪15‬أ] للكفاية‬ ‫بعض [ع‪17:‬ب] المهمات و في تلك السنة توفى إبراهيم بن قرامان‪ ،‬فانضاف (‪ )2‬بلدة آقشهر‬ ‫فوض تدبير (‪ )3‬تلك البلدان واألمصار إلى‬ ‫ويكيشهر و قيصرية إلى الممالك‪ 74‬المحروسة و ّ‬ ‫األعوان و األنصار‪ ،‬و التجأ پیر أحمد (‪ )4‬بن قرامان في تلك السنة إلى أنصار الدولة الغالبة‪.‬‬ ‫فارسل الحضرة العالية (‪ )5‬شرذمة من العسكر المنصور لتقويته و اخراج أخيه من مملكته‬ ‫فأعانوه و أيدوه و على أخيه غلّبوه‪.‬‬ ‫‪75‬‬ ‫و توجه خلّدت دولته و أبدّت (‪ )7‬حشمته في سنة سبعين و ثمانمائة إلى مملكة أرنوود و بنى هناك‬ ‫صن‪ .‬وتوجه مرة أخرى إلى تلك المملكة في (‪ )9‬سنة إحدى و سبعين و ثمانمائة‪،‬‬ ‫(‪ )8‬قلعة اِيلبَ َ‬ ‫فغلب على الكفرة الفجرة‪ ،‬و حسم (‪ )10‬بالمرة دائرة عداوتهم‪ ،‬و أطفى بالكلية نائرة شرارتهم‬ ‫و فتح ديار‪ )11( 76‬اَرنَوود بأسرها و لقد نظم تاريخ ذلك الفتح أخلص عبيده الفائزين (‪)12‬‬ ‫باإلخالص الحقيقي محمد پاشا بن العارف التوقيعي الصديقي فقال‪[)13(:‬ع‪18:‬أ]‬ ‫ض ّم إلى دولة سلطاننا فت ُح ارانيد بكسر الصليب‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫(‪ )14‬ناشر اإلنعام نسيب رحيب‬ ‫ناصر اإلسالم تعصب عصيب‬ ‫(‪ )15‬ألهمني الرب لتاريخه أيده الحي لفتح قريب‬ ‫[‪15‬ب] وتوجه في سنة اثنين و سبعين و ثمانمائة إلى بالد قرامان(‪ )2‬و فتح مدينة قونيه و الرنده و‬ ‫قلعة كوله و غيرها من المدن الوسيعة والقالع (‪ )3‬المنيعة و بنى قلعة في قونيه حين فتحها و‬ ‫نظم تاريخ بنائها عبده المومى إليه (‪ )4‬حيث قال‬ ‫‪ :‬عامر الحصن باهر البرهان قد بنى بالعلى مبانيه‬ ‫‪ )5(77‬وهو سلطان محمد بن مراد ال يرى في الدنا يدانيه‬ ‫(‪ )6‬اسمعوا من لساني التاريخ خلّد هللا عدل بانيه‬

‫أثر‪ ،‬ساقط عاشر‪ ,‬الغالبة ‪72‬‬ ‫ ‪73‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬الرومية ‪74‬‬ ‫‪Arnavid‬ع‪ :‬أ َ ْرنَ ِود؛ْ ‪75‬‬ ‫عاشر‪ ,‬تلك الممالك بأسرها ‪76‬‬ ‫غير موجود في نسخة عاشر ‪77‬‬

‫‪H i m m e t Ta ş k ö m ü r a n d H ü s e y i n Y ı l m a z‬‬

‫وسكن في سنة ثلث وسبعين وثمانمائة في دار السلطنة العظمى وارسل (‪ )8‬العسكر المنصور إلى‬ ‫ناحية قرامان ففتحوا أوچ حصار و اُوته حصار وقره حصار (‪ )9‬ونحى نحو أغربوز في سنة‬ ‫أربع و سبعين و ثمانمائة ففتحها مع التوابع (‪ )10‬واللواحق والمضافات والملحقات التي منها‬ ‫مدينة التي كانت منشأ (‪ )11‬للحكماء اليونانية وموطنا ً للعلماء الربانية كسقراط و أفالطون‬ ‫(‪ )12‬وقد نظم ذلك العبد المخلص تاريخ هذا الفتح حيث‪ 78‬قال‪:‬‬ ‫(‪ )13‬قلعة س ّميت بأغريبوز فتحه قلب من عصى جرحه‬ ‫(‪ )14‬أنه من ميامن السلطان مالك الملك فتحه فتحة‬ ‫(‪ )15‬صار هذا لفتحه التاريخ وسّع هللا ملك من فتحه‬ ‫[‪16‬أ]‬ ‫وأرسل العسكر المظفر في تلك السنة إلى قرامان[ع‪18:‬ب] ففتحوا نِكده و (‪ )2‬آقسراي و ارمنك‬ ‫وایچل‪ 79.‬ثم أرسل الحضرة العلية آتاه هللا (‪ )3‬كل ما يتمنّاه العسكر المؤيد بتأييد من ال إله‬ ‫سواه في سنة خمس و سبعين (‪ )4‬و ثمانمائة إلى عالئيه‪ ،‬ففتحوها بعون هللا و حسن توفيقه‬ ‫مع التوابع (‪ )5‬واللواحق‪ 80.‬واشتغل بضبط الممالك‪ ،‬صانها هللا عن المهالك‪ )6( ،‬في سنة‬ ‫غرتهم‬ ‫ست و سبعين و ثمانمائة‪ .‬وأمر بترتيب وليمة الختان لولده و (‪ )7‬سبطيَه الالئح من ّ‬ ‫الغراء آثار السعادة األبدية الالمع من (‪ِ )8‬سحنتهم الحسناء أنوار السيادة السرمدية‪ ،‬الناطق‬ ‫بآيات مناقبهم (‪ )9‬العرب والعجم‪ ،‬غياث الدينا والدين السلطان جم‪ ،‬و السلطان عبد هللا‪)10(،‬‬ ‫والسلطان شهنشاه‪ ،‬أبقاهم هللا تعالى في ظل تربيته أياما ً‪ )11( 81‬ال تُعد كثرة و دهورا ً و لقّاهم‬ ‫بفضله كل يوم نضرة و سروراً‪ )12( .‬ثم وقعت واقعة و حدثت حادثة دفعا ً لعين الكمال عن‬ ‫(‪ )13‬الدولة[ع‪19 :‬أ] المصونة عن الزوال‪ ،‬والحشمة المأمونة عن االختالل‪ ،‬وهي (‪ )14‬أن‬ ‫المرحوم أوزن حسن بن علي بن قرا عثمان أرسل قوما ً من (‪ )15‬التركمان المتظاهرين باإلثم‬ ‫والعدوان و طاعة الشيطان‪ ،‬و [‪16‬ب] معصية الرحمن إلى بلدة توقات‪ُ ،‬حميت عن اآلفات‪،‬‬ ‫ففعلوا فيها (‪ )2‬ما فعلوا من الحرق والحرب‪ 82‬والنهب واألسر وكل شيء فعلوه في (‪ )3‬الزبر‬ ‫ي منقلب ينقلبون»‪ 83،‬و تفصيل (‪ )4‬الكالم في المقام أن المتغلب‬ ‫«و سيعلم الذين ظلموا أ ّ‬ ‫المومى إليه أرسل رسوالً إلى العتبة (‪ )5‬العلية السلطانية والسدة السنية الخاقانية والتمس‬ ‫إرخاء (‪ )6‬العنان مع قاسم بن قرامان‪ ،‬والعفو عما صدر عنه من البغي والطغيان‪ )7( ،‬و‬ ‫توقف بنفسه في حدود الممالك الرومية فغفل ُح ّراس الملك عن (‪ )8‬التهيؤ لدرء المفاسد و دفع‬ ‫ال ُمعاند تعويالً على أن أوزن حسن‪ )9( ،‬ال يتجاوز عن االعتدال قبل وصول الرسول إليه‪ .‬لكنّه‬ ‫‪84‬‬ ‫مبتلى (‪ )10‬باعوجاج الفطرة [ع‪19:‬ب] وسوء مزاج الفكرة أرسل العسكر الصو ُء ُل‬ ‫لما كان‬ ‫ً‬ ‫(‪ )11‬على إثر الرسول إلى توقات‪ ،‬فأتوا بما ال يرتضيه العقل والدين (‪ )12‬من إحراق دار‬ ‫اإلسالم‪ ،‬ونهب أموال المسلمين‪ .‬فلما علم الحضرة العلية (‪ )13‬السلطانية ما صدر من الملك‬ ‫المذكور المغلوب للوساوس الشيطانية‪ )14( ،‬والهواجس النفسانية‪ ،‬إشتعل نائرة غضبه كل‬ ‫االشتعال‪ )15( ،‬وأشتغل في‪ 85‬الحال بإحضار أسباب القتال مع أرباب البغي والضالل‪.‬‬ ‫صن اُوزن حسن‬ ‫[‪17‬أ] فعبر عن البحر ونحى نحو الشرق كالبرق فوصل إلى نهر الفرات‪ ،‬فتح ّ‬ ‫(‪ )2‬في تلك النواحي ببعض الجبال‪ ،‬و تراخى في القتال‪ .‬فوسوس إليه (‪ )3‬الشيطان في يوم‬ ‫خيث ال يوجد في نسخة عشير ‪78‬‬ ‫ایچ ایل غیر موجود ‪79‬‬ ‫وسكن في دار الملك الشريف ‪80‬‬ ‫و لقاهم بفضله كل يوم نضرة و سرورا ً دهورا ً ‪81‬‬ ‫الحرب غير موجود ‪82‬‬ ‫الشعراء ‪83 227 :‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬الصول ‪84‬‬ ‫احضار ‪85‬‬

‫‪72‬‬

‫‪73‬‬

‫‪Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His Histor y of the Ottoman House‬‬

‫ركب حضرة السلطان مع العبيد والغلمان (‪ )4‬يريدون النقل من مكان إلى مكان‪ ،‬فرام المقابلة‬ ‫والمقاتلة مع األبطال (‪ )5‬والشجعان فلما تالقت الفئتان وقعت الهزيمة على التركمان‪)6( ،‬‬ ‫فأخذ أوزن حسن و َمن معه في الفرار[ع‪20:‬أ] ولم يلبثوا في الحرب إال ساعة (‪ )7‬من نهار‪.‬‬ ‫و قُتل‪ 86‬ولده الموسوم بزَ ينَل مع طائفة كثيرة من العسكر‪ )8( 87‬األرذل‪ ،‬و أُسر كثيرون من‬ ‫األمراء العظماء‪ ،‬وهرب آخرون‪« )9( ،‬أولئك حزب الشيطان أال ّ‬ ‫إن حزب الشيطان هم‬ ‫‪89‬‬ ‫الخاسرون»‪ )10( 88.‬و كان من جملة األمراء األسراء األمير محمد باقر بن األمير سيدي‬ ‫أحمد بن (‪ )11‬األمير ميران شاه بن األمير تيمور كوركان‪ُ 90.‬حبس في مدينة قسطنطينية‪،‬‬ ‫(‪ )12‬حماها هللا عن كل بلية‪ ،‬فمات في الحبس‪ ،‬فصار ْ‬ ‫كأن لم يكن شيئا ً مذكوراً‪« )13(،‬كان‬ ‫‪92‬‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫فشروا‬ ‫ذلك في الكتاب مسطوراً»‪ 91.‬و سائر األمراء المحبوسين هناك (‪ )14‬أعتقوا عن القتل‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫أنفسهم عن خدّام حضرة السلطان‪ )15( ،‬فاُطلقوا بعد تسليم األثمان ثم إن السلطان المتحلى‬ ‫بالعدل و[‪17‬ب] اإلحسان والعلم والعرفان‪ ،‬حرس هللا دولته عن نوائب الزمان‪ ،‬إنتزع (‪ )2‬من‬ ‫أيدي التركمان عند المراجعة من حربهم‪ ،‬والغلبة على حزبهم الذين (‪ )3‬تتعجب [ع‪20:‬ب]‬ ‫العقول ‪ 93‬من خزيهم سالما ً غانما ً إلى دار السلطنة قلعةً منيعةً (‪ )4‬موسومةً بقَره حصار التي‬ ‫هي في الرفعة واإلحكام يكاد يضاهي (‪ )5‬الفلك الدّوار‪ .‬فمات التركمان بغيظهم‪ ،‬هذا جزاء من‬ ‫آذى جاره‪ ،‬و (‪ )6‬أحرق داره‪ ،‬و تعرض للغزاة والمجاهدين‪ ،‬و حارب مع من بوجوده (‪)7‬‬ ‫الشريف ينتظم الملك والدّين‪ ،‬و عادى مع من أعلى أعالم اإلسالم‪ )8( ،‬و أزاح عن صفحات‬ ‫األيام بالسيف الصمصام آثار شرارة الكفرة (‪ )9‬اللئام‪ ،‬اللهم وا ِل من وااله‪ ،‬و عا ِد من عاداه‪،‬‬ ‫و خلّد دولته‪ ،‬و ابّد (‪ )10‬حشمته‪ ،‬و متّع به العلم والعرفان‪ ،‬و شيّد به أركان العدل واإلحسان‪،‬‬ ‫إنك عل كل شيء قدير‪ ،‬وباإلجابة جدير‪ .‬وكان ذلك في سنة (‪ )12‬سبع وسبعين وثمانمائة وقد‬ ‫نظم ذلك العبد تاري َخ هذا الفتح ‪94‬فقال‪:‬‬ ‫ي‬ ‫(‪ )13‬عونُ دين المصطفى سلطان محمد بن مراد [ع‪21:‬أ] س ّل سيف الحق للقهر على الخصم الغو ّ‬ ‫ي‬ ‫(‪ )14‬عن لسان القلب من غيب جرى تاريخه دام منصورا ً بعون هللا و الحكم القو ّ‬ ‫(‪ )15‬ثم أرسل جنده الغالبين إلى بالد قرامان في سنة ثمان و سبعين و ثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫[‪18‬أ]‬ ‫ففتحوها بأسرها‪ ،‬وأحاطوا بها عن آخرها‪ ،‬وأرسل في تلك السنة شرذمة (‪ )2‬من حزبه المفلحين إلى‬ ‫ب (‪ )3‬من الكسر والخذالن‪ .‬وفي هذه السنة وقعت‬ ‫بالد قرا بُغدان‪ ،‬فانخدعوا‪ ،‬ووقعوا في ضر ٍ‬ ‫روح هللا (‪ )5‬روحه‬ ‫واقعة األمير الجليل (‪ )4‬النبيل المرحوم السعيد الرشيد السلطان مصطفى ّ‬ ‫وجزاه عن حسناته الجزاء األوفى‪ .‬وقد نظم تاريخه‪ 95‬فقيل‪:‬‬ ‫رب واردها‬ ‫(‪ )6‬هذه روضةٌ منورة ٌ فاح كالمسك ت ُ ُ‬ ‫نور عين فؤاد سلطنته نام باللطف في مراقدها‬ ‫جاء من هاتف لها التاريخ روح الحق روح راقدها‬

‫ع‪:‬هناك ‪86‬‬ ‫من عسكره ‪87‬‬ ‫المجادلة‪88 19 :‬‬ ‫عاشر‪ ,‬سيد ‪89‬‬ ‫كوركان ‪,‬غير موجود ‪90‬‬ ‫اإلسرا‪91 58 :‬‬ ‫من ‪92‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬زدنا ‪,‬العقول ‪93‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬المبين ‪94‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬حيث قيل ‪95‬‬

‫‪H i m m e t Ta ş k ö m ü r a n d H ü s e y i n Y ı l m a z‬‬

‫[ع‪21:‬ب] وأرسل خلد أهلل دولته طائفة من جنده الغالبين إلى مملكة كفه‪ )10( ،‬ففتحوها مع ما يتبعها‬ ‫ويلحقها وذلك في سنة تسع وسبعين وثمانمائة‪ )11( .‬وتوجه إلى ديار قرابُغدان في سنة ثمانين‬ ‫وثمانمائة‪ ،‬فاستقبل متملك تلك الديار مع كثيرين من الكفار‪ ،‬فوقع القتال (‪ )12‬فغلب السلطان‬ ‫‪96‬‬ ‫األعز واألجل على الكافر األخص األذل وحزبه الذين (‪ )31‬هم «كاألنعام بل هم أضل؛ّ‬ ‫الوثاق ّ‬ ‫للمن‪ ،‬أو القتل‬ ‫ففعل بهم ما يستحقونه حق االستحقاق (‪ )15‬من ضرب الرقاب‪ ،‬و شدّ َ‬ ‫واالسترقاق‪.‬‬ ‫‪99‬‬ ‫‪98‬‬ ‫‪97‬‬ ‫[‪18‬ب] وتوجه في سنة إحدى و ثمانين و ثمانمائة إلى نواحي سمندره و (‪ )2‬بلغراط لتخريب‬ ‫‪100‬‬ ‫لى القلب (‪ )3‬من العداوة والبغضاء‪،‬‬ ‫القالع التي بناها قرال أنكروس‪ ،‬فإنه لما كان مم ِت َ‬ ‫ً‬ ‫ولم يقدر على المحاربة مع أنصار الدولة الغرآء‪ )4( ،‬بنى هناك قالعا‪ ،‬واستظهر بها في‬ ‫إثارة الفتن استظهاراً‪ ،‬ف ّخربها السلطان (‪ )5‬وجعل [ع‪22:‬أ] عاليها سافلها‪ ،‬و توجه في سنة‬ ‫اثنين و ثمان وثمانمائة (‪ )6‬إلى ناحية اسكندرية‪ ،‬ففتح قلعة دِرغوس‪ ،‬و قلعة لَش‪ ،‬و قلعة‬ ‫فوض تسخير (‪ )8‬القلعة‬ ‫َژبْیاق‪ )7(،‬و قلعة آقجه حصار مع ما يتبعها من المدن واألمصار‪ ،‬و ّ‬ ‫الموسومة باإلسكندرية إلى طائفة ‪ 101‬من غلمانه و شرذمة من أنصاره (‪ )9‬و أعوانه‪ ،‬و فتحت‬ ‫اإلسكندرية بيُمن همته العلية و دولته (‪ )10‬السنية مع بلوغها في الحصانة أقصى المراتب‬ ‫و وصولها في المتانة (‪ )11‬حدّا ً يُظن أنها مما ال يحوم حوله شوائب النوائب في سنة ثلث و‬ ‫ثمانين (‪ )12‬و ثمانمائة‪.‬‬ ‫وأضطر في تلك السنة السنية كفار األفرنج (‪ )13‬إلى التقرب إلى العتبة العلية السلطانية بعرض‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫اإلخالص و (‪ )14‬العبودية‪ ،‬وإهداء التحف والهدايا النفيسة‪ ،‬وتسليم الحصون و (‪ )15‬القالع‬ ‫الواقعة في حريم الممالك اإلسالمية إلى عبيد الحضرة العلية [‪19‬أ] الملكية‪ 102.‬فتعرضوا‬ ‫النفحات التفات [ع‪22:‬ب] السلطان بإرسال الرسول و إظهار (‪ )2‬التذلل والخضوع‪ ،‬وأرسلوا‬ ‫دراهم مسكوكة مأخوذة من الطالء الحمراء (‪ )3‬الخالص‪ 103،‬التام العيار‪ ،‬الرائج في جميع‬ ‫المدن واألمصار‪ ،‬عددها ألف مائة تامة كاملة‪ )4( 104.‬والتزموا أن «يُعطوا الجزية عن يد وهم‬ ‫صاغرون»‪ 105،‬كل سنة عشرة (‪ )5‬آالف درهم من الدراهم الذهبية األفرنجية‪ ،‬و سلّموا جميع‬ ‫القالع (‪ )6‬الواقعة في موره إلى عبيد الحضرة العلية ‪ ،‬وليس الغرض مما ذكرت من (‪)7‬‬ ‫أمر الدرهم والدينار تبيين بعض المفاخر لذلك الملك الرفيع المقدار (‪ )8‬الذي بلغ في االشتهار‬ ‫واالعتبار مبلغ الشمس في رابعة النهار‪ )9( ،‬فإن النقد المذكور لدى همته المتوجهة إلى‬ ‫أخف و (‪ )10‬أرذل من قطرة ماء مالحة حقيرة عند من له بحار زاخرة ‪106‬عذبة‬ ‫معالي األمور‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫اضطر إليه األفرنج من االستكانة مع من خضعت (‪)12‬‬ ‫غزيرة‪ )11( ،‬بل الغرض إبانة ما‬ ‫لعزته الجبابرة‪ ،‬وخافت من سطوته القياصرة [ع‪23:‬أ] واألكاسرة‪ )12( .‬ولقد سكن الحضرة‬ ‫العلية السلطانية‪ ،‬خلد هللا سبحانه سلطنته الباهرة العلية السلطانية‪ ،‬في دار الخالفة الشريفة في‬ ‫(‪ )13‬سنة أربع و ثمانين و ثمانمائة‪ .‬وأرسل شرذمة من العسكر المنصور (‪ )15‬إلى نواحي‬ ‫كرجستان ففتحوا هناك القلعة الموسومة ب ُ‬ ‫رول مع والية مصاهليت [‪19‬ب] بأسرها‪.‬‬ ‫ط ُ‬

‫الفرقان‪96 25:‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬و ‪97‬‬ ‫ع‪»:‬سنة» غير موجود ‪98‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬نواحي‪ ,‬غير موجود ‪99‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬هناك ‪100‬‬ ‫زدنا «من» من ع ‪101‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬السلطانية ‪102‬‬ ‫زدنا من نسخة ع ‪103‬‬ ‫كاملة غير موجود في ع ‪104‬‬ ‫التوبة ‪105 29:‬‬ ‫في ع زاخرة في الهامش ‪106‬‬

‫‪74‬‬

‫‪75‬‬

‫‪Nişancı Mehmed Paşa and His Histor y of the Ottoman House‬‬

‫وأرسل طائفة أخرى إلى نواحي بالد َجركز‪ ،‬وفتحوا مملكة قُبا‪ ،‬و (‪ )2‬أَنَبا‪ .‬هذ ما تيّسر للحضرة‬ ‫العلية من الفتوحات السنية في(‪ )3‬ثلثين سنة قمرية مضت من أيام سلطنته الغراء التي نحن‬ ‫(‪ )4‬نرجو هللا أن يديمها إلى يوم يطوى السماء‪ .‬و إذا كان هذا مبلغ فتوحاته (‪ )5‬في قرن‬ ‫واحد مضى من أيام خالفته بمعونة العُدَد واألسباب اإلرثية (‪ )6‬فما ظنك بالقرون اآلتية‬ ‫التي اجتمع فيها مع المواريث األمور الكسبية‪ )7( ،‬هذا وال يخفى على أرباب األلباب‪ّ 107‬‬ ‫إن‬ ‫ما أشير إليه من التصرفات والتدبيرات إنما (‪ )8‬تيسر لمن أوتي قوة ً قدسيةً أشار إليها إمام‬ ‫[ع‪32:‬ب] الصدقين‪ 108،‬ينبوع (‪ )9‬زالل اليقين‪ ،‬أسد هللا و سيفه المنتضي‪ ،‬أمير المؤمنين‪،‬‬ ‫كرم (‪ )10‬أهلل وجهه‪ ،‬حيث قال‪ :‬وهللا ما قلعتُ باب الخيبر بقوة جسدانية‪ ،‬ولكن‬ ‫على المرتضى‪ّ ،‬‬ ‫(‪ )11‬قلعتُها بقوة ملكوتيه‪ ،‬و بمثل ذلك تسل َ‬ ‫ط أفريدون الحاكم بالقسط (‪ )12‬والعدل في الخافقين‬ ‫عدو‬ ‫على الضحاك‪ ،‬ذي العالمتين الخبيشتين ظفر كيخسرو (‪ )31‬الملك األعظم األرأف على ّ‬ ‫العلم والشرف‪ ،‬و محب العدوان (‪ )14‬والتلف‪ ،‬أفراسياب الذي كان من االعتدال في طرف‪،‬‬ ‫وصل (‪ )15‬الدرجة القصوى في الظلم والسّرف‪ .‬ثم إن الحضرة العلية [‪20‬أ] السلطانية‪،‬‬ ‫فاضت سيول نداه‪ ،‬وشاهت وجوه ِعداه شعر‪:‬‬ ‫(‪ )2‬و ال ّ‬ ‫عوجا ً و ال ذاقت له الدنيا فراقان‬ ‫خطب له الهيجاء َ‬ ‫(‪ )3‬و إن كان مؤيدا ً بنفسه فاضلة مبلغها ألف مائة كاملة أو يزيد و(‪ )4‬أال إن نفسه القدسية كافية‬ ‫فيما صدر عنه من اآليات الباهرة‬ ‫(‪ )5‬الغريبة وافية بما ينسب إليه من الكلمات الظاهرة العجيبة‪،‬‬ ‫‪109‬‬ ‫ليس من هللا بمستنكر أن يجمع العالم في واحد‪.‬‬ ‫(‪ )7‬وقد نظم [ع‪42:‬أ] في عدة أبيات تواريخ بعض األبنية الرفيعة التي شيد أركانها‬ ‫(‪ )8‬و رفع ُجدرانها باألمر المطاع وها هي هذه ‪:‬‬ ‫(‪ )9‬تاريخ بناء القلعة الجديدة في حوالي دار السعادة‬ ‫ي‬ ‫(‪ )10‬م ّهد سلطاننا قواعد حصن قصر جالله ورفعة وعل ّ‬ ‫(‪ )11‬وهو سلطان محمد بن مراد م ّكنه هللا فيه مقتدرا ً‬ ‫(‪ )12‬ألهم الربّ لوضع تاريخه خلّد هللا للعلى أبدا ً‬ ‫[‪20‬ب]‬ ‫(‪ )1‬تاريخ بناء قصر العالي ال زال عاليا ً‬ ‫(‪ )2‬أيا من لقد شرف هللا دارك وصار مقر السرور مدارك‬ ‫(‪ )3‬بنيت مقاما ً كريما ً ك ُخلد‪ ،‬تخلدت فيه ويحمى جوارك‬ ‫ي وقصر مبارك‬ ‫(‪ )4‬من الغيب يلقي إلينا لتاريخ جنان عل ّ‬ ‫(‪ )5‬تاريخ فتح قره حصار‬ ‫هذه قلعة مفتحها دافع الخصم من مطارحها (‪)6‬‬ ‫(‪ )7‬وهو سلطان محمد الغازي سخر الدهر من مفاتحها‬ ‫(‪ )8‬قلت هذا لفتحها التاريخ أبدّ هللا عمر فاتحها‬ ‫(‪ )9‬تاريخ بناء اإلصطبل‬

‫ع‪ :‬أولي الفطرة الزكية ‪107‬‬ ‫ع‪ :‬المتقين ‪108‬‬ ‫أبو نواس قاله في مدح الفضل بن ربيع ‪109‬‬

‫‪H i m m e t Ta ş k ö m ü r a n d H ü s e y i n Y ı l m a z‬‬

‫(‪ )10‬عامر الخفقين معدلة نال ما يتعين كل النسل‬ ‫(‪ )11‬هيّا للعاديات تربته للغرا في نهاره والليل‬ ‫(‪ )12‬فبنى للجياد إصطبالً جاء تاريخه رباط الخيل‪.‬‬

‫‪76‬‬

3

Book-Picking in a Conquered Citadel Serpil Bağcı and Zeynep Yürekli1

The four-page document at the core of this essay provides a glimpse into one aspect of the wide-ranging recording and appropriation activities that took place when a sultan conquered a city. It is a list of books in the citadel of Aleppo, compiled within a year of the city’s conquest by Selim I (r. 1512–20) in 1516.2 What we make of this document in this essay couldn’t be farther from its original purpose. Written in the defter format in siyakat script and with numbers in erkam-i divaniyye, it is a typical document of Ottoman financial/administrative bureaucracy. The scribe wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that anyone

1 We would like to thank Zeynep Atbaş for helping us identify some of the manuscripts in the Topkapı Palace Museum Library, Kristof D’hulster for sharing images of a manuscript that is currently at the Dar al-Kutub in Cairo, Aslı Niyazioğlu for insightful comments on an earlier draft, and last but not least, the editors of this volume for their invitation, patience, and feedback. This piece was written during Covid-19 lockdown, with access only to our personal notes and online resources. Some of the crucial Mamluk sources could not be consulted fully. 2 Topkapı Palace Archives, D 9101. The document has been briefly analyzed by İsmail E. Erünsal in Osmanlı Vakıƒ Kütüphaneleri: Tarihi Gelişimi ve Organizasyonu (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2008), 130. A facsimile and transliteration with commentary was published in Mehmet İnbaşı, “Yavuz Sultan Selim’in Mısır Seferi Sırasında Haleb Kalesinde Tespit Edilen Kitaplar,” in Yavuz Sultan Selim Dönemi ve Bursa, ed. Nilüfer Altan Günay (Bursa: Osmangazi Belediyesi, 2018). Another edition with analysis is forthcoming in Kristof D’hulster, Browsing through the Sultan’s Bookshelves. Towards a Reconstruction of the Library of the Mamluk Sultan Qāniṣawh al-Ghawrī (r. 906–922/1501–1516) (Bonn: Bonn University Press).

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would consider it a document of cultural history. Quite beyond his original intentions, his list invited us to think about Aleppo as a key place in a culture of books that transcended Ottoman-Mamluk frontiers at the top tiers of society. The document opens up two avenues of research that would complement recent scholarship. First, it would complement research on book culture in late Mamluk Syria by adding a different vantage point. Ours is a very different kind of document from Ibn ‘Abd al-Hadi’s (d. 1503) Fihrist of his library in Damascus, not just because it records a different kind of collection—an accumulation of books diverse and perhaps haphazard, as opposed to being a “monument” to a certain compartment of knowledge that was at the core of the Hanbali scholar’s career.3 More importantly, as we will explain below, our document provides a viewpoint from which books are seen as more material than intellectual commodity. The second avenue would complement the scholarship that developed around the inventory compiled by Bayezid II’s (r. 1481–1512) librarian Atufi.4 The present volume, dedicated to one of the masterminds behind the collaborative research that resulted in the publication of Treasures of Knowledge,5 presented the perfect opportunity for us to combine our strengths to think about this document from 1517, and then focus on one particular section, which lists the books that were selected to be transferred from Aleppo to the Ottoman imperial treasury. By doing this, we merely take baby steps to highlight the potentials in these two avenues of research.

The Document and Its Problems What would you do when you conquered a city? Surely there is a lot to think about, and if you haven’t prepared for the challenge you will almost certainly fail to make it a true victory. One important part of conquering a place is the collection of appropriated assets. The urgency and complexity of this task, and the preparedness of bureaucrats to undertake it, are evident from Ottoman campaign diaries and archival records. Before even the blood on the battlefield dries up, we find finance officers surveying treasuries and scribes scribbling away. On 26 August 1516, two days after Selim I (r. 1512–1520) won his first victory

3 Konrad Hirschler, A Monument to Medieval Syrian Book Culture: The Library of Ibn ʿAbd al-Hādī (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2020). 4 Ms Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Török F. 59. 5 Gülru Necipoğlu, Cemal Kafadar and Cornell H. Fleischer, eds., Treasures of Knowledge: An Inventory of the Ottoman Palace Library (1502/3–1503/4), 2 vols. (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2019).

Book-Picking in a Conquered Citadel

against the Mamluk army on the Marj Dabiq plane, his chief finance officer (Anadolu defterdarı) Dizdarzade Mehmed Çelebi was on his way to Aleppo to make a start on the collection of assets (mal cem‘i içün).6 Selim entered the city a few days later. When he (and Mehmed Çelebi) left Aleppo on 16 September to proceed towards Damascus, ‘Abdülkerim Bey, the former registrar of European fiefs (Rum ilinin tımarları defterdarı), was left in charge of the process. Selim would not be back until March 1518, returning victoriously from Egypt. The date of our document, 21–30 June 1517, falls roughly midway between Selim’s two sojourns in Aleppo, while he was still in Egypt. Not surprisingly (as we are by no means the kind of audience that Ottoman registrars had in mind), the document does not tell us the one thing that we would love to know most. It says that the books are in the Aleppo citadel (mahruse-i Haleb kal‘asında), but it does not specify whether they are part of the treasury of the Mamluk palace there, a chance accumulation of books, or a combination of various collections, perhaps gathered by a bookdealer. All that we can confidently say is that the books were in the possession of the Ottoman administration (whether confiscated or acquired otherwise) at the time of writing. Neither does the document provide the full extent of the holdings, simply because this was not its purpose. The primary aim seems to have been to identify the books that were worthy of being transferred to Istanbul, and to help the authorities decide what to do with the rest. The concluding paragraph clarifies that more than half of the collection (163 volumes out of a total of 307) were considered unworthy of being listed at all. These included thirty-three Quranic manuscripts that the registrars decided to put up for sale because they were worn (köhne olup satılması vech görüldi) and 130 further volumes of unidentified works that were considered “no good for anything but to be sold and not practicable to keep” (satılmaktan gayriye yaramaz, saklamağa kabil değildir). Presumably, the registrars were happy to have many of these books sold for paper value, given that their titles are not listed. The document only lists the works that are contained in the remaining 144 volumes. These are listed under three categories of decreasing importance: forty-three volumes of “exquisite [nefis] books that are worthy of the royal treasury” (kütüb-i nefise ki hidane-i ‘amireye layıkdır); twentyseven volumes that are “not very nefis though passable” (iğen nefis olmayup vasat olanlar); and seventy-four volumes of miscellaneous books (kütüb-i müteferrika-i diger). The number of entries in each category is less than the number of volumes given at the end of the category because some of them are multivolume works;

6 “Mısır Seferi,” in Mecmuʿa-i Münşeʾat-ı Feridun Beg, 2 vols. (Istanbul, 1265–74H [1848–58]), 451.

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in such cases, numbers of volumes are clearly specified. Extra information provided on the items is rare and useful only from the viewpoint of whether these books are to be taken to Istanbul or sold. Two of the items in the “not very nefis though passable” category are noted as being worn (köhne). One item in the miscellaneous (müteferrika) category is specified as featuring a record of endowment (üzerine vakf kayd olunmuşdur), presumably because this would complicate both its removal from its present location and its sale. Let us now try to imagine the circumstances of this classification. Our Turkish-speaking and Arabic-conversant bureaucrat/scribe, probably working under Abdülkerim Bey, must have been relying on people who could identify the contents of the books and judge their values. This is likely to have included at least one of the local bookdealers who were often bibliophile intellectuals,7 perhaps an associate of Shams al-Din Muhammad b. Nashi, the highly respected notable of the city’s book market (shaykh suq al-kutubiyyin) who had been a protégé of the Mamluk sultan Qansuh al-Ghawri (r. 1501–16) and died in Aleppo days before its Ottoman takeover.8 In all likelihood, they first went through all the material, examining physical features only. Perhaps initially they separated the books into two piles, a “keep” pile and a “discard’ pile. The next stage would have been to go through the “keep” pile in greater detail, and to divide it further into three piles that would be reflected in the categories mentioned above (1-kütüb-i nefise to be taken to the imperial treasury, 2-nefis olmayup vasat olanlar, and 3-kütüb-i müteferrika). The books in each of these categories would then have been examined for content and sorted according to their subject matter (Quran, Quranic commentary, hadith, historical and encyclopedic works, literature, biographical dictionaries) before being listed in the inventory. On the list, the books appear grouped loosely according to their subject matter, suggesting that the scribe was going through a single pile for each of the three value-based categories (i.e. nefis, vasat, the rest). Meanwhile, the volumes in the “discard” pile seem to have been separated into only two content-based categories, namely Qur’anic manuscripts, and everything else with no contents specified and possibly not even identified at all. The separation of Qur’anic manuscripts would have been crucial so that they could be discarded in a canonically acceptable fashion, while the rest of the manuscripts could simply be sold as paper.

7 Doris Behrens-Abouseif, The Book in Mamluk Egypt and Syria: Scribes, Libraries and Market (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2019), 76–81. 8 Ibn Iyas, Badaʿi al-zuhur fi waqaʿi al-duhur, 5 vols., ed. Muhammad Mustafa (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1960–75), 5:66; Behrens-Abouseif, The Book, 78.

Book-Picking in a Conquered Citadel

This blatantly materialistic inventory highlights a pertinent problem that Islamic art historians working on manuscripts know all too well. Considering that manuscripts are primarily meant to be tools of knowledge transmission, we art historians are often asked (and we also ask ourselves) whether we are allowing the historical evidence to be distorted by the value judgments defined by modern connoisseurship and museum practices that show little regard for textual content—whether it is right to prioritize “artistic” manuscripts. This is a moral question, because all historical evidence is a fragment that survives at the expense of a great deal that is lost forever. Leaving natural and manmade disasters, elements, and organisms (anything that could be covered by an insurance policy) aside, it is our value judgments that determine which fragments survive, sometimes against all odds. Perishable and recyclable objects like manuscripts in particular survive inasmuch as people consider them worthy to be preserved. The energy of art historical scholarship and conservation has been focused on rare, illustrated, illuminated manuscripts. The inventory from Aleppo is a reminder that this isn’t a strictly modern phenomenon. In fact, as we will see, of the manuscripts listed for transfer to the imperial collection, those that we have so far managed to locate in Istanbul all have illuminated frontispieces, which evidently led to their classification as kütüb-i nefise. Many more manuscripts ended up at the opposite end of the scale (thus at the end of our document) because they were fragmentary, unusable or materially commonplace (ba‘zı nakıs ve ba‘zı gayr-i müsta‘mel ve ba‘zı tahte’l-minberiyyat[?]dır).9 We have this one document at hand, but one wonders how many more Ottoman bureaucrats sifted through entire collections and discarded more than half as “no good for anything but to be sold.”

The kütüb-i nefise Selection and Book Culture in Aleppo It may appear from the foregoing analysis that, by its nature, our document is a source suited primarily to the study of the development of the Ottoman imperial collection. For historians interested in book culture in Aleppo, it can be a very

9 In the literal sense, the term tahte’l-minberiyyat would suggest books kept under the minbar in a mosque. The extended meaning of materially commonplace books, as an opposite of kütüb-i nefise, becomes clear from a letter of complaint concerning Molla Lutfi (d. 1495), the librarian of Mehmed II (r. 1451–81); Topkapı Palace Museum Archive E 8101/1. The letter claims that Lutfi stole nefis books (nefaʾis-i kitablar) from the collection of the late Sinan Paşa (d. 1486) and left tahte’l-minberiyat in their stead. See also İsmail Erünsal, “Molla Lütfî: Hakkındaki İthamlar ve Şikayet Mektupları,” Türklük Araştırmaları Dergisi 19 (2008): 191–4. Our reading of the term is slightly different from Erünsal’s (tahte’l-minber bât [?]).

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frustrating fragment of evidence indeed. To begin with, as already mentioned, it does not tell us where the books came from. They could have been found in the Mamluk palace, brought from a different venue in the city, or collected from various venues by Ottoman bureaucrats or a local bookdealer charged with the job. All of these possibilities are equally conceivable. Even if we were to assume (though we must not) that it is a single collection, the fact that the document leaves us in the dark about more than half of the holdings is frustrating in itself. Nonetheless, precisely because of the materialistic perspective from which it was written, the document has the potential to provide unique insights into the culture of rare books in late Mamluk Aleppo. It can help us trace the provenance of extant illuminated manuscripts to the Aleppo citadel in the summer of 1517, and thus we can begin to see the literary tastes and intellectual interests of the late Mamluk elite in the city. At this early stage of research, of the twenty-five items listed as kütüb-i nefise (see appendix) we have been able to locate only five in manuscript collections in Istanbul. Four of these are in the Topkapı Palace collection, and feature imprints of Selim I’s almond-shaped sovereignty seal, which was stamped on books and documents only during his reign. These contain the Hanafi jurist Abd al-Rahim al-Marghinani’s (d. ca. 1271) Fusul al-ihkam (listed in our document as Fusul-i ‘imadi) and three works by Mamluk authors, including two historical works by Ahmad al-Maqrizi (d. 1442) and Hasan al-Tuluni (d. 1517) and the biographical dictionary of Muhammad al-Kutubi (d. 1363). We will introduce these four items briefly below, before turning to the fifth item, namely an illustrated copy of the Turkish Iskendername by Ahmedi (d. 1412/3), now in the rare books collection of Istanbul University, which we think is a particularly interesting case in light of the elite Mamluk patronage of this Anatolian Turkish text. Some of the other Mamluk manuscripts of this work already pointed to a connection with Aleppo. Now the likely provenance of the Istanbul University manuscript from Aleppo in 1517 further highlights the city’s position at the intersection of Ottoman and Mamluk realms of literary culture and manuscript production. Before we turn to the manuscripts in Istanbul, a summary of the rest of the kütüb-i nefise selection is in order. Apart from the works mentioned above, the list includes three Quranic manuscripts, one of which is in the form of an amulet-like roll (hama’il gibi tomar dürülmüşdür);10 the Qur’anic commentaries 10 This description fits one particular sancak mushafı in the Topkapı Palace collection today (EH 531), though it does not have the seal imprint of Selim I that we find on other manuscripts. It is a lavishly illuminated roll of Qur’anic verses, over thirteen meters in length, dated 666H (1267–68); see Fehmi Edhem Karatay, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi Arapça Yazmalar Kataloğu, 4 vols. (Istanbul: Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi, 1962–69), 1:36, no. 112.

Book-Picking in a Conquered Citadel

of al-Baydawi (d. 1286 or later) and al-Nasafi (d. 1310); the Mamluk jurist Ibn Hajar al-Asqalani’s (d. 1449) twelve-volume commentary on al-Bukhari’s Sahih; three works of jurisprudence (in addition to al-Marghinani’s work mentioned above) by al-Zayla‘i (d. 1342), Ibn al-Bazzaz (d. 1424?), and an unidentified author; Kitab-i güzide, which was a fourteenth-century Anatolian Turkish rewriting of a Khwarazmian Turkish manual of devotional practices;11 the Arabic divan of the tenth-century poet Mutanabbi; Persian divans of Mufarrih (?) and Mawlana Rukn al-din Mas‘ud;12 Turkish divans of Nava’i (i.e. the late Timurid poet/statesman ‘Ali-Shir al-Harawi, d. 1501)13 and the Ottoman poet/statesman Ahmed Pasha (d. 1496); and two copies (or versions) of the anonymous Turkish Kıssa-i Seyyid Battal Gazi (aka Battalname). The remaining two items, a Kitab al-ta‘bir (possibly on dream interpretation, though curiously grouped with historical works) and a treatise on horsemanship (furusiyya), are not clearly identified. The diversity of subjects, genres, and languages is noteworthy, reflecting the cosmopolitan and trilingual (Arabic, Persian, and Turkish) cultural program of the late Mamluk period particularly under Qansuh al Ghawri (r. 1501–1516).14 Though the majority of the listed items are works in Arabic, the number of Turkish works in the kütüb-i nefise selection is striking. The fact that we find two copies or versions of the Battalname is remarkable, considering that the Ottoman imperial collection had only one copy in 1503/4.15 We are tempted to hypothesize that Cem Sultan’s (d. 1496) stay in

11 See Şinasi Tekin, “Timur Öncesinde Anadolu ile Orta Asya Türk Dünyası Arasındaki Kültür İlişkileri ve Güzide Kitabı’nın Tercüme Hikâyesi,” Türk Dili Araştırmaları Yıllığı: Belleten 1997 (Ankara: Türk Dil Kurumu, 2000). 12 We haven’t been able to identify the first Persian author. The second one, Mawlana Rukn al-din Mas‘ud, may be the same person as Khwaja Rukn al-din Mes‘ud Sa‘di who compiled an anthology of poetry for the Timurid prince Isma‘il, son of Ibrahim Sultan (d. 1435). See David J. Roxburgh, The Persian Album, 1400–1600 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005); citing Ms Topkapı Palace Museum Library, R 1019, fols. 57b–61b. A preface for this anthology was included in Sharaf al-din ‘Ali Yazdi’s Munsha’at, but the anthology itself does not seem to have survived. 13 As ‘Ali-Shir al-Harawi used the sobriquet Fani in his only known Persian divan, this is almost certainly one of his Turkish divans. 14 See Christopher Markiewicz, The Crisis of Kingship in Late Medieval Islam: Persian Emigres and the Making of Ottoman Sovereignty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 106–110; Kristof D’hulster, “‘Sitting with Ottomans and Standing with Persians’: The Šāhnāme-yi Türkī as a Highlight of Mamluk Court Culture,” in Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras IV, ed. Urbain Vermeulen and Kristof D’hulster (Leuven–Paris–Walpola: Peeters, 2010). 15 Cornell H. Fleischer and Kaya Şahin, “On the Works of a Historical Nature in the Bayezid II Library Inventory,” in Necipoğlu, Kafadar, and Fleischer, Treasures of Knowledge, 1:572, 581; Ms Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Török F. 59, fol. 87b (p. 179).

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Aleppo in the summer of 1481 might have had something to do with this.16 The fugitive Ottoman prince is known for his interest in ghazi legends and, as we will see below, a scribe who appears to have been a former slave of his was working in Aleppo five years later. Of the four items that we have been able to locate in the Topkapı collection, the earliest in terms of production date is a fourteenth-century manuscript of Fusul al-ihkam fi usul al-ahkam, a work of Hanafi jurisprudence completed in 1253 by Abu al-Fath ‘Abd al-Rahim al-Marghinani (d. 1271) based on his father’s work.17 The colophon states that the book was copied by Muhammad b. Yahya al-Hanafi on 14 Rabi I 773 (1371), with no location specified. On our document, this item was correctly listed by the variant title Fusul-i ‘imadi (for al-Fusul al-‘imadiyya) despite the utterly confusing information found in its illuminated frontispiece (see fig. 1). The title on the frontispiece is Kitab al-fatawa al-‘imadiyya al-musamma bi al-Fusul and the medallion misattributes this work to an ‘Abd al-Sattar b. Muhammad al-‘Imadi Abu al-Wajh al-Kardari (the author who is meant is probably Abu al-Wajh Muhammad b. Muhammad b. ‘Abd al-Sattar al-Kardari, d. 1244), although the text that starts on the other side of the folio, which also has a headpiece illuminated in the same style, is al-Marghinani’s work.18 Its correct identification on our document (which we were able to verify only after comparing the text with other manuscripts), suggests the involvement of a scholar in the process. The second of our finds in the Topkapı collection is a two-volume set of the biographical dictionary titled Fawat al-wafayat by of the Damascene historian and book dealer Muhammad b. Shakir al-Kutubi (d. 1363).19 Although only the second volume contains the seal imprint of Selim I, the two volumes are clearly a single set and feature identical bindings and illuminated frontispieces following similarly designed fihrist sections. The colophons at the end of each volume state that they were copied by a Muhammad b. Ahmad b. ‘Uthman al-Takruri on 4 Muharram 839 and 2 Rabi I 839, respectively (1435) (see figs. 2–4). 16 With respect to the possible cultural repercussions of Cem’s taking refuge under the Mamluk sultan Qaytbay (r. 1468–96), D’hulster has discussed the possibility that the poet Şerif, who would translate the Firdawsi’s Shahnama from Persian to Turkish for the later Mamluk sultan Qansuh al-Ghawri (r. 1501–16), may have also come to Mamluk lands with Cem Sultan (D’hulster, “Sitting with Ottomans,” 237). 17 Topkapı Palace Museum Library, R 664; Karatay, Arapça Yazmalar Kataloğu, 2:503, no. 3859. 18 On Abu al-Wajh al-Kardari and Abu al-Fath ‘Abd al-Rahim al-Marghinani, see Carl Brockelmann, “7. Fiqh,” in Brockelmann in English: The History of the Arabic Written Tradition Online, vol. 1, The Hanafis, nos. 39 and 45, Brill, 2022, http://dx.doiorg/10.1163/ 2542-8098_breo_COM_122070. 19 Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2921/B1 and A 2921/B2; Karatay, Arapça Yazmalar Kataloğu, 3:542, nos. 6408 and 6409. On the author, see Behrens-Abouseif, The Book, 79.

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Figure 1. Frontispiece. Abu al-Fath ‘Abd al-Rahim al-Marghinani, Fusul al-ihkam fiusul al-ahkam, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, R 664, fol. 1a. © Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

Figure 2. End of the fihrist and frontispiece. Muhammad b. Shakir al-Kutubi, Fawat al-wafayat, vol. 1, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2921/B1, fols. 4b–5a. © Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

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Figure 3. End of the fihrist and frontispiece. Muhammad b. Shakir al-Kutubi, Fawat al-wafayat, vol. 2, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2921/B2, fols. 4b–5a. © Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

Figure 4. Ending page with an imprint of Selim I’s almond-shaped seal. Muhammad b. Shakir al-Kutubi, Fawat al-wafayat, vol. 2, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2921/B2, fol. 242b. © Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

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Figure 5. First frontispiece with an imprint of Selim I’s almond-shaped seal. Hasan b. Husayn al-Tuluni, Al-nuzhat al-saniyya fi akhbar al-hulafaʾ wa al-muluk al-Misriyya, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 3056, fols. 1b–2a. © Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

Figure 6. Left-hand portion of the second frontispiece. Hasan b. Husayn al-Tuluni, Al-nuzhat al-saniyya fi akhbar al-khulafa’ wa al-muluk al-Misriyya, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 3056, fol. II: 1a. © Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

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Figure 7. End of the manuscript with an imprint of Selim I’s almond-shaped seal. Hasan b. Husayn al-Tuluni, Al-nuzhat al-saniyya fi akhbar khulafa’ wa al-muluk al-Misriyya, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 3056, fols. II: 67b–68a. © Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

The third item is a copy of Al-nuzhat al-saniyya fi akhbar al-khulafa’ wa al-muluk al-Misriyya by the chief royal architect (mu‘allim al-mu‘allimin or mu‘allim al-mi‘mariyya) Hasan al-Tuluni (d. 1517).20 Our document lists this work as “History of Egypt written by Hasan b. Husayn al-Tuluni in the time of [Qansuh] al-Ghawri [r. 1501–16]”. In fact, Al-nuzhat al-saniyya, the only historical work known to have been written by the architect, was completed in 1477, during the reign of Qaytbay (r. 1468–96).21 The manuscript in the Topkapı collection has two double-page frontispieces with dedication medallions, which state that it was produced by the author himself for Yashbak min Mahdi (d. 1481), who was the dawadar kabir (principal secretary, or chief executive) of Qaytbay (see figs. 5–6).22 A note in Arabic at the end of the manuscript certifies the completion of 20 Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 3056; Karatay, Arapça Yazmalar Kataloğu, 3:461, no. 6141. 21 Hüsamettin Aksu, “Hasan et-Tûlûnî,” in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi. 22 The six folios of the frontmatter which include the first (double-page) frontispiece and the table of contents are numbered separately from the main body of the book (sixty-eight folios) starting with the second (single-page) frontispiece. The cartouche on top of the second frontispiece only contains the latter part of the title (akhbar al-muluk al Misriyya), indicating that we are missing a folio between the frontmatter (fols. I: 1–6) and the main body of the book (fols. II: 1–68), which must have contained the right-hand side of the second frontispiece. Imprints of Selim I’s seal are found both on the frontmatter (fol. I: 1a, though now covered by repair) and the main body (fol. II: 68a). Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 3056, fols. I: 1b–2a: Bi-rasm khizanat al-maqarr al-ashraf al-‘ali al-mawlawi al-amiri al-kabiri

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Figure 8. Frontispiece. Ahmad al-Maqrizi, Al-khabar ‘an al-bashar, vol. 1, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2926–1, fol. 3a. © Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

Figure 9. Frontispiece with an imprint of Selim I’s almond-shaped seal. Ahmad al-Maqrizi, Al-khabar ‘an al-bashar, vol. 6, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2926–6, fol. 1a. © Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

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Figure 10. Back board and flap of the binding, with the fore-edge strip featuring the title of the book. Ahmad al-Maqrizi, Al-khabar ‘an al-bashar, vol. 1, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2926–1. © Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

a reading (qira‘a) in 18 Shawwal 906 or 896 (24 August 1491 or 7 May 1501) (see fig. 7). Unfortunately for our purposes, it doesn’t mention the place where the reading took place. The fourth item is a six-volume manuscript (noted in the document as sitte mücelledat) of Al-khabar ‘an al-bashar by Ahmad b. ‘Ali al-Maqrizi (d. 1442), which is currently the only complete set of this work in the Topkapı collection.23 All six volumes in this set have similar physical features including identical late Mamluk frontispieces with dedication medallions (see figs. 8–9). They are still in their original bindings, which were also designed and executed identically, and display the title of the book on the outer face of the fore-edge strip (see fig. 10). The dedication medallions in the frontispieces state that the al-maliki al-makhdumi al-sayfi Yashbak min Mahdi amir dawadar kabir wa ma ma‘a dhalika al-mulki al-ashrafi a‘azza allah ta‘ala ansarahu / jama‘a al-‘abd al-za‘if al-raji ‘afwa rabbihi al-latif faqir rahmat al-mawla al-ghaniy al-wafiy Hasan bn Husayn bn Ahmad bn al-Tuluni al-Hanafi ‘amalahu allah bi-lutfihi al-jaliy al-khafiy. Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 3056, fol. II: 1a: Bi-rasm khizanat al-maqarr al-ashraf al-‘ali al-mawlawi al-sayfi Yashbak min Mahdi amir dawadar kabir al-maliki al-ashrafi. 23 Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2926–1, A 2926–2, A 2926–3, A 2926–4, A 2926–5, A 2926–6; Karatay, Arapça Yazmalar Kataloğu, 3: 387–8, nos. 5899–5904.

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books were made for the treasury of a dawadar (secretary) named Muhammad b. Ahmad b. Inal al-‘Ala’i.24 The colophon at the end of the sixth volume gives the date of completion as 29 Rabi‘ II 897 (29 February 1492) but does not mention the place. The artistry of their illumination aside, these last three works by Mamluk authors must have been especially valuable additions to the palace collections in the wake of the conquest of the Mamluk lands. None of them seems to have been included in the collection when Atufi compiled his inventory in 1502/3, in contrast to al-Marghinani’s Fusul al-ihkam, of which at least four copies were present.25 The only item listed in our document as being illustrated (musavver) is an Iskendername. Though neither the author nor the language of the manuscript is mentioned, for reasons that should become clearer below, the text in question must be the versified Turkish Iskendername by the Anatolian poet Tacüddin Ibrahim b. Hızır who used the sobriquet Ahmedi. It is very likely that our document is referring to the only extant illustrated Iskendername that was executed for a Mamluk patron, which is now in Istanbul University’s rare books collection.26 This collection was formed with books transferred from the Yıldız Palace collection, which in turn had been formed with books from Topkapı Palace. However, it remains unclear when exactly this manuscript came into the imperial collection, as the earliest ownership note on it is from 1826/7, at which point it belonged to Hibetullah Sultan (d. 1841), daughter of ‘Abdülhamid I (r. 1774–1789).27 The manuscript does not have the seal imprint of Selim I that we find on the other manuscripts discussed above, but it should be remembered that this is also the case with the first volume of al-Kutubi’s Fawat al-wafayat, which we have been able to associate with Selim I only through the seal imprints

24 Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2926–1, fol. 3a: Bi-rasm khizanat al-janab al-‘ali al-muhibbi muhibb al-din Muhammad bn al-janab al-‘ali al-marhum al-shihabi Ahmad bn Inal al-‘ala’i al-dawadar al-hanafi. The information in the frontispieces of the other five volumes is identical. 25 Himmet Taşkömür, “Books on Islamic Jurisprudence, Schools of Law, and Biographies of Imams,” in Necipoğlu, Kafadar, and Fleischer, Treasures of Knowledge, 1:397, 404, 412–13; Ms Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Török F. 59, fols. 41b (p. 83), 47a (p. 94). The inventory lists five copies of Fusul al-ihkam, but the record on fol. 41b (p.83) appears to have been added later by a different hand. 26 Fehmi Edhem [Karatay] and Ivan Stchoukine, Les Manuscrits orientaux illustrés de la Bibliothèque de L’Université de Stamboul (Paris: E. de Boccard, 1933), 50–51; Güner İnal, “Kahire’de Yapılmış bir Hümâyünnâme’nin Minyatürleri,” Belleten 40 (1976): 444–5; Esin Atıl, “Mamluk Painting in the Late Fifteenth Century,” Muqarnas 2 (1984): 160–63. 27 Istanbul University Library, Ms. T. 6044, fol. 1a. An earlier note on the back flyleaf records a completion of reading by a certain Karıcıbaşı-zade Hafız Mehmed Emin Efendi on 13 Jumada I 1214 (13 October 1799).

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Figure 11. Frontispiece.Ahmedi, Iskendername, Istanbul University Rare Books Library, Ms. T 6044, fol. 2a.

in its second volume. We cannot prove conclusively that this is the manuscript mentioned in our document, but as the only illustrated Mamluk Iskendername that has survived, it is the only candidate. The dedication medallion in the illuminated frontispiece states that the book was made for Khush-qadam ibn Abd Allah, the treasurer (khazinadar) of ‘Ali-bay who in turn was the secretary (dawadar) of sultan Timurbugha (fig. 11).28 The manuscript does not have a colophon but it must have been made after Timurbugha’s enthronement in 1467. Timurbugha reigned for less than two months between 4 December 1467 and 31 January 1468, and following his deposition in favor of Qaytbay (r. 1468–96), retired with his entourage to Damietta where he stayed until his death in 1475.29 The prayer that follows

28 Istanbul University Library, Ms. T. 6044, fol. 2a: Bi-rasm al-majlis al-‘ali al-sayfi Khush-qadam bn ‘Abd Allah khazinadar al-janab al-‘ali al-mawlavi al-amiri al-kabiri al-maliki al-makhdumi al-sayfi ‘Ali-bay al-dawadar al-maliki al-zahiri Timurbugha taghammadahu Allah bi-‘afvihi ve ghufranihi. 29 Ibn Taghribirdi, Al-Nujum  al-zahira fi muluk Misr wa al-Qahira, 7:868–9, accessible on the Mamluk Prosopography Project database at https://ihodp.ugent.be/mpp/ informationObject-8668. The use of royal titles for the former sultan would not contradict a dating after his deposition, given that Qaytbay was known for treating “deposed sultans or

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his name in the dedication medallion, asking for God’s forgiveness, suggests a production date after his deposition and perhaps even after his death. On our document, the Iskendername appears grouped together with historical works and al-Watwat’s (d. 1318) encyclopedic compendium Manahij al-Fikar, and not with divans of poetry. This is perhaps a reflection of the encyclopedic and historical content of Ahmedi’s work, which distinguished it from Persian versions of the legend of Iskender. This lengthy narrative, consisting of some 8750 verses in its fullest versions, not only introduces Iskender to a Turkishspeaking audience, but also imparts the latest information on religion, philosophy, morals, geography, astronomy, medicine, esoteric knowledge and history. Among these novel sections, a historical narrative starting with the legendary Iranian king Kayumars and ending with the Jalayirids and Ottomans constitutes roughly a third of the main text. Thus, Ahmedi’s work must have been conceived of as a world history that was skilfully embedded into Iskender’s historical and legendary biography. A prose version of the legend written by Ahmedi’s brother Hamzavi (d. 1412/3) similarly appeared among historical works in Atufi’s inventory.30 However, it is unlikely that our document is referring to a manuscript of Hamzavi’s text, which was a multi-volume work. We do not have a single surviving illustrated copy of Hamzavi’s text, whereas there was, by 1517, a prevalent tradition of illustrating Ahmedi’s Iskendername.31 A group of late fifteenth-century illuminated (but non-illustrated) manuscripts of Ahmedi’s Iskendername demonstrate Mamluk elites’ interest in this work.32 One of them, now in Cairo, was executed for a Janim who was na’ib

descendants of previous sultans throughout his reign with magnanimity and honour,” see M. Sobernheim and E. Ashtor, “Ḳāʾit Bāy,” in  Encyclopaedia of Islam, Brill, 2022, accessed November 17, 2021, http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_SIM_3798. 30 Gülru Necipoğlu, “The Spatial Organization of Knowledge in the Ottoman Palace Library: An Encyclopedic Collection and Its Inventory,” in Necipoğlu, Kafadar, and Fleischer, Treasures of Knowledge, 1:51, 74–75, n174; Ms Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Török F. 59, fol. 89a (p. 182). 31 For a recent study of fifteenth-century Ottoman illustrated copies, see Serpil Bağcı, “Resimlerin Anlattığı İskendernâme: Üç Musavver Osmanlı Nüshası,” in İskendernâme, İnceleme—Tenkitli Metin. Ahmedî, ed. Robert Dankoff (Ankara: Türkiye Bilimler Akademisi, 2020). See also Bağcı, “Minyatürlü Ahmedî İskendernameleri: İkonografik bir Deneme” (PhD diss., Hacettepe University, 1989). 32 Ahmedi’s popularity in the literary culture of the Mamluk elite is evident also from the only extant manuscript (Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Ms. or. oct. 3744) of the Turkish divan/anthology of the Mamluk sultan Qansuh al-Ghawri (r. 1501–1516), which includes Turkish poems by fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Anatolian and Mamluk poets and naziras (parallel poems) written by the sultan to them. By far the two most quoted poets are Ahmed Pasha, whose divan is among the manuscripts in our document, and Ahmedi. They have fifty and twenty-five poems, respectively, as opposed to sixty-eight poems by Qansuh himself, and are followed

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of the citadel of Aleppo (qalat al-saltana bi-Halab).33 Another one was copied in an unspecified, possibly Anatolian, location for a Khush-kaldi, who was the dawadar of the commander Tanibak al-Jamali (d. 1503),34 on 18 Jumada I 891 (22 May 1486) by a certain Muhammad who also wrote poetry in Turkish with the sobriquet Zarifi.35 A third copy was completed in Aleppo (madinat Halab)

by Zarifi, who has only five poems in the divan/anthology. See Mehmet Yalçın, “Qânṣûh al-Ǧûrî”: A Critical Edition of Turkish Poetry Commissioned by Sulṭan Dîvan-ï Qânṣûh al-Ǧûrî (1501–1516) (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1993); Orhan Yavuz, Kansu Gavrî’nin Türkçe Dîvânı (Metin-İnceleme-Tıpkıbasım) (Konya: Selçuk Üniversitesi, 2002). 33 Cairo, Dar al-Kutub, MS. Adab Turki 316. We were not able to see the manuscript and check its colophon. The library catalogue states that the manuscript was copied by the Ottoman prince Süleyman b. Bayezid I in 808H, but this is very likely to be a misinterpretation of a note on Süleyman’s patronage of Ahmedi. 808H (1405) is the completion date of the Mi‘racname section which was one of the later additions Ahmedi made to his text. It is also possible that this date is a misreading of 858H (1454). See Fihris al-makhtutat al-turkiyya al-‘uthmaniyya, 5 vols. (Cairo: Al-hay’a al-Misriyya al-‘amma li al-kitab, 1987–97), 1:26. The owner’s name and titles are given in the dedication medallion of the frontispiece: Bi-rasm khizanat al-maqarr al-ashraf al-karim al-‘ali al-mawlawi al-malik al-makhdumi al-amiri al-kabir al-sayyidi al-sanadi al-sayfi Janim na’ib qal‘at [al-]saltana bi-Halab al-mahrusa a‘azza Allah ansarahu amin. This may be Janim al-Ashrafi (d. 1462) who was na’ib of Aleppo between 1455 and 1459. See Ibn Taghribirdi, Al-Nujum al-zahira fi muluk Misr wa al-Qahira, 7:452–3, 513–14, accessible on the Mamluk Prosopography Project database at https://ihodp.ugent.be/mpp/ informationObject-2651 and https://ihodp.ugent.be/mpp/informationObject-3267. 34 Bratislava University Library, Ms. T. C. 20; József Blaškovičs and Safvet-beg Bašagić, Arabische, türkische und persische Handschriften der Universitätsbibliothek in Bratislava (Bratislava: Verlag der Slowakischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1962), 336–37. The owner’s full name and titles appear in the inscribed medallions of the frontispiece: Bi-rasm khizanat al-saida al-‘aliya al-mawlawi al-amiriyya al-kabiriyya al-maliki al-makhdumi al-sayfiyya al-amir Khush-kaldi al-dawadar / al-sayfi al-maqarr al-ashraf al-karim al-‘ali al-mawlawi al-amiri al-kabir al-maliki al-majdi al-amir Tani-Bak al-Jamali ‘ayn a‘yan al-umara al-muqaddama al-uluf bi al-diyar al-Misriyya a‘azza Allah ansarahu. The owner’s overlord mentioned here is probably the same Tanibak al-Jamali who was in Aleppo in 1481, would join the Mamluk campaign against the Ottomans in Cilicia in 1488, and would be killed in 1503, having retired to Mecca, by the insurgent al-Jazani; see Ibn Tulun, Mufakahat al-khillan fi hawadith al-zaman (Beirut: Dar al-kutub al-‘ilmiyya, 1998), 33; Shai Har-El, Struggle for Domination in the Middle East: The Ottoman-Mamluk War, 1485–91 (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 169; Carl F. Petry, Protectors or Praetorians?: The Last Mamlūk Sultans and Egypt’s Waning as a Great Power (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994), 41. 35 Under the heading Elfaz-ı Zarifi (fols. 333a–333b) at the end of the manuscript, the scribe added seventeen lines of Turkish poetry in the same meter as Ahmedi’s text, where he states that he copied the manuscript specifically for Khush-kaldi. It seems unlikely, though not impossible, that this is the same Zarifi whose poems were included in Qansuh al-Ghawri’s divan/anthology (see note 31 above). According to Latifi, Zarifi was a contemporary of Bayezid II (r. 1481–1512) and a native of the Anatolian town of Göynük, and followed the poetic style of Ahmedi among other Anatolian poets; Latifi, Tezkiretü’ş-Şu’arâ ve Tabsıratü’nNuzamâ, ed. Rıdvan Canım (Ankara: Atatürk Kültür Merkezi, 2018), 351: Şi‘ri şu‘ara-yı-yı kudema-yı Rumdan Ahmedi ve Atayi üslubında ve Halili ve Hümami tarzındadur. A poetic ending added by the scribe to the text is an unusual feature that occurs in another manuscript

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on awasit Jumada II 891 (13–23 June 1486) by a certain Kamal ibn Abd Allah al-Qaramani, who appears to have been a former slave of the Ottoman prince Cem Sultan (min Sultan Jam ibn ‘Uthman).36 Judging from his nisba he may have entered Cem’s service during his governorship of Karaman (1474–81). He probably was manumitted or sold in Aleppo when Cem took refuge in Mamluk lands from the summer of 1481 to the spring of 1482.37 Considering that numerous manuscripts of Ahmedi’s Iskendername were copied also in contemporary Ottoman lands and many of these were likewise illuminated, this group of manuscripts made for late Mamluk patrons indicate the interconnected book culture and literary tastes across the Ottoman-Mamluk lands in the late fifteenth century.38 Most importantly for the purposes of this study, they suggest

of the same text (British Library, Ms. Or. 13837) which is dated 1455 and was probably made in Edirne; see Serpil Bağcı, “Sözden Surete—Suretten Söze: Edirneli bir İskendernâme,” in Manuscript Culture and Art in the Islamic World. Essays in Honor of Zeren Tanındı / Prof. Dr. Zeren Tanındı’ya Armağan: İslam Dünyasında Kitap Kültürü ve Sanatı, ed. Aslıhan Erkmen and Şebnem Tamcan Parladır (Istanbul: Lale, forthcoming). Both manuscripts contain similar double-page frontispieces with illuminated medallions on either page. Furthermore, an Arabic note at the end of Khush-kaldi’s manuscript, written by a different hand about a month after Zarifi finished copying it, certifies that the text was checked against a “trusted copy” (nuskha mu‘tabara) by a third-generation qadi named Shams al-din al-qazi Muhammad bn al-marhum al-maghfur al-qazi Muhammad bn al-marhum al-qazi ‘Isa al-hanafi and that it was bound by al-ustad Husayn bn al-marhum al-shaykh Hasan shaykh zawiyat Sab‘ ‘Uyun al-khalwati, who was an apprentice (tilmidh) of Zarifi. The fact that the binder was the son of a Halveti shaykh (though we haven’t managed to identify the convent of Sab‘ ‘Uyun) may point to a production context that was closely connected to, if not within, the Ottoman realm. 36 The Walters Art Museum, Ms W664. The owner of the manuscript is unknown. This information would have been in the dedication medallion of the frontispiece, which was painted over. 37 See Ralph S. Hattox, “Qāytbāy’s Diplomatic Dilemma: Concerning the Flight of Cem Sultan (1481–82),” Mamluk Studies Review 6 (2002): 180–81. 38 The interrelated literary and artistic manuscript culture of Mamluks and Ottomans at this time is demonstrated further by two copies of the Turkish Garibname composed by the celebrated Anatolian Sufi poet (d. 1332) ‘Aşık Başa (aka Paşa). These lavishly illuminated manuscripts now in the Süleymaniye Library, both carrying the variant title Divan-ı ‘Aşık Başa, have been examined in detail; see Zeren Tanındı, “Two Bibliophile Mamluk Emirs: Qansuh the Master of the Stables and Yashbak the Secretary,” in The Arts of the Mamluks in Egypt and Syria-Evalution and Impact, ed. Doris Behrens-Abouseif (Bonn: Bonn University, 2012), 267–281. One of these copies (Süleymaniye Library, Laleli 1752 M and 1752 M2, in two volumes) is dated 1477–78 and was made for Yashbak min Mahdi (d. 1481), who wrote Turkish poetry himself; this is the same Yashbak for whom one of our manuscripts in the Topkapı collection was made (see note 21 above). The other one (Süleymaniye Library, Laleli 1752 M1), which is missing the second volume and is undated, was made for Qansuh Khamsumia min Tarabay who was Qaytbay’s amir akhur kabir (master of royal stables) from 1481 until 1496. Their illuminations reflect the artistic tastes shared by Turkmen, Timurid, Ottoman, and Mamluk patrons. Laleli 1752 M1 displays the title of the book on its binding, identically to our al-Maqrizi volumes.

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the particular role of Aleppo in this shared cultural milieu which transcended political boundaries. The opening page of the Istanbul University manuscript gives the title of the book as Iskendername bi al-Turki (“in Turkish”), confirming its production beyond Ottoman lands. Differently from the other Mamluk Iskendername manuscripts mentioned above, it is written in the ta‘lik script. Though repaired, it retains its original binding.39 It contains eleven paintings and a diagram depicting the layers of the heavens. Only a few of the paintings were entirely completed; in a couple of them backgrounds are left blank, and some have plain backgrounds painted as flat surfaces. The narrow color palette consisting of rather pale and dull hues suggests limited means of production beyond an established royal workshop (figs. 12–13). Although the artist followed the pictorial conventions of the leading cultural centers developed under Turkmen patronage in the fifteenth century,40 he was working in the Mamluk lands and adapting his visual experience to the needs of his new patron. This is evident from the rendering of architectural decoration, metalwork and attire of the figures, such as the axes carried by the officers reminiscent of the Mamluk tabardariyya corps in fig. 12, and the cylindrical headgear of women in fig. 13.41 The iconographic program of the manuscript consists of scenes from Iskender’s life, as opposed to the contemporary Ottoman copies where the historical chapters, including the episodes from Ottoman history, were lavishly illustrated. Even in generic scenes of battle or hunting, our painter seems keen to adhere to Ahmedi’s narrative, indicating his familiarity with the Turkish language. For example, among others, the depiction of Iskender with dying Dara (fig. 12) deviates from the renderings of the same scene in manuscripts of the Persian versions of the legend, in order to closely adhere to Ahmedi’s text.42 The commissioning of this Ottoman Turkish work by someone in Timurbugha’s entourage, from a

39 The repair must have been made in the atelier that was established during the reign of Abdulhamid II (r. 1876–1909) in the Yıldız Palace, from where the manuscript would be transferred to the Istanbul University Library. 40 Atıl attributes the paintings to a painter associated with the Karakoyunlu court who also illustrated a book on horsemanship; see Atıl, “Mamluk Painting.” 41 The cylindrical hat named tartur, likened to a goblet by western authors, was depicted by various contemporary Venetian artists. See Julian Raby, Venice, Dürer and the Oriental Mode (London: Islamic Art Publications / Sotheby’s, 1982), 41. 42 This is one of the most frequently depicted scenes in copies of Persian versions of the legend, such as Nizami’s (d. 1209) Iskandarnama and Firdawsi’s (d. 1020) Shahnama. In line with these Persian texts, the formulaic iconography of the scene shows Iskender comforting Dara who rests on Iskender’s knee. Ahmedi only mentions their conversation and not how they interacted, and accordingly, our painter, instead of repeating the models which he must have known by heart, depicted Iskender kneeling by the death bed of Dara.

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Figure 12. Iskender visits the dying Dara. Ahmedi, Iskendername, Istanbul University Rare Books Library, Ms. T 6044, fol. 47a.

Figure 13. Wedding celebration of Iskender and Gülşah, daughter of King Zeresb. Ahmedi, Iskendername, Istanbul University Rare Books Library, Ms. T 6044, fol. 66b.

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copyist and a painter conversant in Turkish, is perhaps significant considering that he hailed—unusually for the Burji Mamluk sultans who were typically of Circassian origin—from Anatolia or the Balkans.43 This late Mamluk illustrated manuscript of the Iskendername and its unillustrated contemporaries reveal the role of people in the interconnected book culture and literary tastes across the Ottoman-Mamluk lands in the late fifteenth century, and the importance of Aleppo in that culture. As ever, people (slave sultans, scribes, artists, a fugitive prince, secretaries, and no doubt many others) seem to have played the biggest role in making cultural history.

Conclusion The evidence of human history would be very different if we didn’t have material value judges—dealers, connoisseurs, bureaucrats—who tell people of means what is worth having. Through our document, we find them in a historic moment of deciding the fate of over three hundred manuscripts. We can imagine a hot summer day in one of the cool halls of the palace in the citadel of Aleppo—a place that stood in all its splendor until the Syrian Civil War—with piles of books and a small multilingual group of men examining and sorting them to decide what to keep and what to discard. Of the historical evidence piled in front of them, they chose to preserve a fraction at the expense of a huge amount that is now lost forever, based more on what the books looked like than what was written in them. Many of the books may have then met their new owners with an auction in the suq al-kutubiyyin as others were sold for weight to be recycled, but only after our men had picked the most nefis ones for their patron’s library in a distant city. In this essay we barely scratched the surface of the two avenues of research we mentioned at the outset. Offering so much more than what the scribe intended, this document promises insights into the book culture of both the Syrian Mamluks and the Ottomans. On one hand, its classification based on material value helps us identify extant manuscripts and imagine through them the intellectual and artistic predilections of the late Mamluk elite in Aleppo. On the other hand, it suggests ways of thinking about Ottoman looting practices 43 Ibn Taghribirdi states that he was of Rumi and Albanian origin; Al-Nujum, 7:847, accessible on the Mamluk Prosopography Project database at (consulted online on 17 November 2021): Asl al-Malik al-Zahir Timurbugha haza Rumi al-jins min qabilat Arnawut wa jalabahu ba‘z al-tajir fi sigharihi ila al-bilad al-shamiyya fi hudud sanat arba‘ wa ‘ashrin wa thaman-ma’a.

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that prompted this pick-your-own exercise from a pile of captured manuscripts before releasing them for sale to the public. The afterlife of the selected books in Ottoman hands is another important matter that we haven’t touched upon. In this early stage of research, it is difficult to speculate on their impact on, or contribution to, Ottoman reading culture or scholarship. However, judging from the surviving ones that we could identify, we can safely assert that they were kept in the imperial treasury as precious trophies, giving us hope that it may be possible to identify many more of the Aleppo manuscripts, which in turn may provide insight into their reception in Istanbul. There should be little doubt that many more of the manuscripts listed on our document can be traced, not just in Istanbul but in the numerous other places that they may have found their ways from there. Furthermore, we have only focused on the kütüb-i nefise category here, but it is conceivable that manuscripts from the “not very nefis” category were likewise taken to Istanbul. Identifying all the extant manuscripts is guaranteed to be an arduous, long-term and probably only partially attainable task—ideally to be undertaken by more than just the two of us, and in a post-pandemic world. The current situation makes it difficult, not least because there will be little joy in doing this if we can’t sit in a reading room shoulder to shoulder to look at a book and grab each other’s arm in excitement when we spot a clue, as no doubt people in the libraries and suq al-kutubiyyin of early sixteenth-century Aleppo used to do as well. Gone are the days when we looked at books together and worried about causing harm to them, not to each other, with the microorganisms we carry.

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Appendix 1: Kütüb-i Nefise to Be Transferred to the Imperial Library (This includes transliterated text from Topkapı Palace Archive D 9101, with identification of authors, titles and matched manuscripts noted in square brackets.) [p.1] Defter-i mahruse-i Haleb kal‘asında vaki‘ olan kitablardur ki esamileri şöyle zikr olunur. El-vaki‘ fi eva’il-i ahir el-cemaziye 923 [21–30 June 1517].  asahif-i kerimenin ve kütüb-i nefise ki hizane-i ‘amireye layıkdır anı beyan M ider: Hatme-i kerime kıt‘ası, Dimaşki, tamamına, cild  [=Qur‘an] Diger hatme-i kerime kıt‘ası, nısfına, cild  [=Qur‘an] Diger hatme-i kerime, hamayil gibi tomar dürülmüşdür, cild  [=Qur‘an]   [possibly Ms Topkapı Palace Museum Library, EH 531] Tefsir-i Kadı, kamil, fi cild vahid   [=‘Abd Allah b. ‘Umar al-Baydawi, Anwar al-tanzil wa asrar al-ta’wil] Kitab medariki’t-tenzil, fi’t-tefsir, cild vahid, kamil   [=‘Abd Allah b. Ahmad al-Nasafi, Madarik al-tanzil wa-haqa’iq al-ta’wil] Şerhü’l-Buhari el-mevsum bi’l-Feth el-bari li-Ibni’l-Hacer, isna-‘aşer  mücelledat  [=Ibn Hajar al-Asqalani, Fath al-bari fi sharh sahih al-Bukhari] Kitabü’l-haber ‘an el-beşer, fi’t-tevarih, te’lifü’ş-Şeyh el-Makrizi, sitte  mücelledat   [=Abu al-‘Abbas Ahmad b. ‘Ali al-Maqrizi, Al-khabar ‘an al-bashar]  [Ms Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2926–1, A 2926–2, A 2926–3, A 2926–4, A 2926–5, A 2926–6] Kitab menahici’l-fikar ve mebahici’l-‘ibar, fi beyan ahvali’l-mevcudat, cildeyn   [=Muhammad b. Ibrahim al-Watwat, Manahij al-fikar wa-mabahij al-‘ibar] Kitabü’t-ta‘bir   Tevarih Mısr min te’lif Hasan ibn Hüseyn et-Tuluni ve kane te’lifuhu fi zamani’l-Gavri, cild  [=Hasan b. Husayn al-Tuluni, Al-Nuzhat al-saniyya fi akhbar al-khulafa’ wa al-muluk al-Misriyya]

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  [Ms Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 3056] İskendername, musavver, cild   [Ahmedi, Tacüddin Ibrahim b. Hızır, Iskendername]   [probably Ms Istanbul University Library, T 6044] Fetava-i Bezzaziyye, kamil, fi cild vahid   [=Ibn al-Bazzaz, Al-fatawa al-bazzaziyya] Kitab şerhi’l-kenz li’z-Zayla‘i, fi cild vahid   [=‘Uthman b. ‘Ali al-Zayla‘i, Tabyin al-haqa’iq] Fusul-i ‘imadi  [‘Abd al-Rahim b. Abi Bakr al-Marghinani, Fatawa fusul al-ihkam fi usul al-ahkam]   [Ms Topkapı Palace Museum Library, R 664] Kitabü’n-nafi‘, fi’l-fikh Divan-ı Nevayi, fi’l-kıt‘ati’l-kebire   [=Nawa’i, ‘Ali-Shir al-Harawi, unspecified divan] Divan-ı Müferric [?], Farsi Divan-ı Ebu’t-Tayyib, ‘Arabi   [=Abu al-Tayyib Ahmad b. al-Husayn al-Mutanabbi, Diwan] Divan-ı Mevlana Rükneddin Mes‘ud, Farsi Risale fi’l-furusiyye, ‘Arabi Kitab-ı Güzide, Türki [=Muhammad b. Balı, Kitab-ı Güzide] Kıssa-i Seyyid Battal Gazi, Türki, cild Diger Seyyid Gazi, Türki, cild Divan-ı Ahmed Paşa b. Veliyiddin, cild Kitab fevati‘l-vefeyat li-Ibni’ş-Şakir, mücelledeyn   [=Muhammad b. Shakir al-Kutubi, Fawat al-wafayat]   [Ms Topkapı Palace Museum Library, A 2921/B1 and A 2921/B2] Yekun: 43 mücelledat

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Appendix 2: Facsimile of Topkapı Palace Archive D 9101

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A Sufi Mirror: Shaykh Alwan al-Hamawi’s (d. 1530) Advice for the Ottoman Ruler1 Timothy J. Fitzgerald Ottoman Sultan Selim I’s (r. 1512–1520) defeat of the Mamluk Sultanate in 1516–1517 was a watershed moment in the history of the Middle East.2 The conquest and annexation of the central Islamic lands was transformative for both the Ottoman Empire and the many peoples newly subjected to rule from Istanbul. Sound victory on the battlefield did not, however, presage the easy establishment of Ottoman power on the ground. Contemporary observers in places like Egypt and Syria sensed opportunity in the effort of Ottoman agents, beginning with Selim himself, to refashion Mamluk realms. But they also noted many difficulties and frequently revealed a deep-seated anxiety about the transition unfolding before their eyes. Sufis, with their extensive personal networks and contact with people of all classes, were especially well-positioned witnesses. Some did more than watch. They diagnosed the problems besetting their homeland and offered direct advice to those in power.3 1

1 I want to thank John Curry, Abdul-Karim Rafeq, and Kristof D’hulster for helpful advice on an earlier version of this chapter. All lingering flaws are mine. 2 For an important study of Selim and his “mythification,” see H. Erdem Çıpa, The Making of Selim: Succession, Legitimacy, and Memory in the Early Modern Ottoman World (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2017). 3 For an introduction to Sufism in this context, see Éric Geoffroy, Le soufisme en Égypte et en Syrie sous les derniers Mamelouks et les premiers Ottomans: orientations spirituelles et enjeux culturels

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One such observer was Ali b. Atiyya al-Hiti, known as Shaykh Alwan (d. 1530), an influential mystic and scholar from Hamah, Syria.4 Generally regarded for his Sufi writings (and his association with the legendary Moroccan mystic Ali b. Maymun [d. 1511]),5 Alwan also commented on what he perceived to be the many social ills infecting his world. In this vein, he penned a fascinating advice treatise for Sultan Selim: al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma li-al-muluk wa-al-a’imma (Important advice for rulers and imams).6 In this treatise, Alwan catalogs the

(Damascus: Institut Français d’Études Arabes de Damas, 1995); Michael Winter, inter alia, “Sufism in the Mamluk Empire (and in Early Ottoman Egypt and Syria) as a Focus for Religious, Intellectual, and Social Networks,” in Everything is on the Move: The Mamluk Empire as a Node in (Trans-)Regional Networks, ed. Stephan Conermann (Göttingen: Bonn University Press, 2014), 145–164; Jonathan P. Allen, “Self, Space, Society, and Saint in the Well-Protected Domains: A History of Ottoman Saints and Sainthood, 1500–1780” (PhD diss., University of Maryland, College Park, 2019); Nile Green, Sufism: A Global History (Malden: WileyBlackwell, 2012), 125–136, 154–161, 174–176; John J. Curry and Erik S. Ohlander, eds., Sufism and Society: Arrangements of the Mystical in the Muslim World, 1200–1800 (New York: Routledge, 2012); John Curry, The Transformation of Muslim Mystical Thought in the Ottoman Empire: The Rise of the Halveti Order, 1350–1750 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010). 4 For Shaykh Alwan’s biography, see Radi al-Din Muhammad b. Ibrahim Ibn al-Hanbali (d. 1563), Durr al-habab fi tarikh aʿyan Halab, 2 vols., ed. Mahmud al-Fakhuri and Yahya Abbara (Damascus: Wizarat al-Thaqafa, 1973), vol. 1, part 2: 961–978; Najm al-Din Muhammad al-Ghazzi (d. 1651), al-Kawakib al-sa’ira bi-aʿyan al-mi’a al-ʿashira, 3 vols., ed. Jibra’il Sulayman Jabbur (Beirut: Dar al-Afaq al-Jadida, [repr.] 1979), 2: 206–213; Ahmad b. Mustafa Tashkubrizada (d. 1561), al-Shaqa’iq al-nuʿmaniyya fi ʿulama’ al-dawla al-ʿuthmaniyya (Beirut: Dar al-Kitab al-Arabi, 1975), 212; David Larsen, s.v. “al-Hamawi, ʿAlwan,” EI3 (2016), 5: 71–73; Nashwa al-Alwani, “al-Shaykh ʿAli b. ʿAtiyya al-Hiti al-Hamawi al-Shafiʿi al-Husayni, 873–936 H., al-mulaqqab bi-ʿAlwan: fikruhu al-islahi wa-al-ijtimaʿi,” al-Basa’ir 26 (1994): 7–73; Ali b. Atiyya al-Hiti al-Hamawi [Shaykh Alwan], al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma li-al-muluk wa al-a’imma, ed. Nashwa al-Alwani (Damascus: Dar al-Maktabi, 2000), 13–18; Matthew Wiley Simonds, “ʿAli b. Maymun: An Early 16th Century Sufi Saint and Critic of the ʿUlama’ with an edition of ʿAlwan al-Hamawi’s Mujli al-huzn ʿan al-mahzun fi manaqib al-shaykh al-sayyid al-sharif Abi al-Hasan ʿAli b. Maymun” (PhD diss., University of California, 1998), 171–174, 223–233; Geoffroy, Le soufisme, 33–34, 220–221, passim; Ahmad al-Sabuni, Tarikh Hamah, 2nd ed. (Hamah: al-Matbaʿa al-Ahliyya, 1956), 160–161. 5 On Ali b. Maymun, see Ibn al-Hanbali, Durr al-habab, vol. 1, part 2: 951–960; al-Ghazzi, al-Kawakib al-sa’ira, 1: 271–278; Tashkubrizada, al-Shaqa’iq al-nuʿmaniyya, 212; Simonds, “ʿAli b. Maymun;” Michael Winter, “Sheikh ʿAli Ibn Maymun and Syrian Sufism in the Sixteenth Century,” Israel Oriental Studies 7 (1977): 281–308; J. Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam, repr. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 89–90; C. Brockelmann, s.v. “ʿAli b. Maymun,” EI2. 6 Nashwa al-Alwani’s good critical edition, cited above, will be used here. It draws on four manuscripts, including an undated autograph, held at the al-Asad National Library in Damascus. Abdullah S. Zaid produced a serviceable English translation—“Important Counsels to Kings and Imams” (MA diss., Portland State University, 1977)—using two manuscript copies, including one kept at Princeton University, but the translations in this article are mine.

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numerous “abominations” (munkarat) now rampant in the wake of Selim’s conquests—from offenses against public morality, like prostitution and alcohol consumption, to derogations of a just political order, such as soldiers’ abuse of peasants and unlawful taxation. Alwan seeks rectification through the sultan’s attentiveness to genuine ‘ulama’ and the determined application of Islamic law. He also imagines a personally pious leader in control of his own excesses and not just those of his servants and subjects. Alwan’s ideal ruler, then, combines a shar‘i ethic with qualities sought in traditional kingly advice literature and traits valued in Sufi thought. He also demonstrates the manner in which a Sufi, otherwise aloof from politics, might seek to influence those claiming sovereignty and aid the restoration of order to a dangerously disordered world.7 Shaykh Alwan was an ordinary mosque preacher in Hamah until he fell under the influence of Ali b. Maymun during the latter’s second sojourn in the Levant, which began in the late 1490s. From the charismatic Ibn Maymun, Alwan learned the principles of Sufism and joined the Shadhili order (tariqa). Michael Winter has argued that the Shadhilis of Syria, following Ibn Maymun’s example, were more “austere and puritan” than their better known brethren in Egypt and North Africa.8 Yet, Winter adds that Ibn Maymun and his followers were keen to advocate for a general Sufi orthodoxy in conformity with the Sunna (al-tariqa al-Muhammadiyya or tariq al-qawm) rather than for a particular sectarian tendency.9 Nonetheless, over time, Alwan attracted followers and established

7 Abdul-Karim Rafeq, among the first to study Alwan’s al-Nasa’ih, considered the shaykh a member of the Syrian ‘ulema’ who exemplified that group’s “assertiveness” in the face of Ottoman power—see his, “The Syrian ʿUlama’, Ottoman Law, and Islamic Shariʿa,” Turcica 26 (1994): 27–28; idem, “Hamah fi matlaʿ al-hukm al-ʿuthmani: nasaʾih li-al-sultan wa iltizam bi-al-shariʿa wa taʿayush sukkani,” in Nahr al-hayah fi takrim Nazim Kallas 1925–1994 bi-munasabat murur ʿaqdayn ʿala wafatih, ed. Muhammad Muhaffil, Khayriyya Qasimiyya, and ʿAbd al-Karim Rafiq (Damascus: Wizarat al-Iʿlam, 2014), 79–105, esp. 81–86, 104–105. Rafeq examined yet another manuscript copy held at the Asad Library, different from those referenced by al-Alwani and Zaid. See also, Stefan Leder, “Sultanic Rule in the Mirror of Medieval Political Literature,” in Global Medieval: Mirrors for Princes Reconsidered, ed. Regula Forster and Neguin Yavari (Boston: Ilex Foundation, 2015), 98, 107–108; Mohannad al-Mubaidin, “How the Mamluk Historians Welcomed the Ottomans,” World Applied Sciences Journal 30 (2014): 1925–1931, esp. 1925–1926; Geoffroy, Le soufisme, 121. 8 Winter, “Sheikh ʿAli Ibn Maymun,” 293. According to Winter, Syrian Sufis at this time lacked the social power held by their Egyptian counterparts, who could influence the authorities and exclude rivals to a much greater extent. In this way, the Syrian scene was more receptive to Sufi newcomers like Ibn Maymun. 9 Winter, “Sheikh ʿAli Ibn Maymun,” 293–294, 306–307. A concern, on the part of Sufi leaders, to resist the deviant, antinomian practices of self-styled ascetics is reflected in much Sufi writing of the Mamluk period. The key divide was not between Sufis and jurists, who were often aligned, but between “learned Sufis” and “eccentric fakirs”—Yehoshua Frenkel, “Mutasawwifa Versus Fuqara’: Notes Concerning Sufi Discourse in Mamluk Syria,” in El

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his own tariqa, the Alwaniyya, which long outlived him.10 He continued many of Ibn Maymun’s spiritual practices, including the requirement that acolytes share their questions and problems in public sessions (shakwa al-khawatir), allowing their shaykh to expound on the issues raised. Alwan frequently visited Aleppo, where he was counted among the city’s most prominent Sufis. But otherwise, he did not travel widely and appears to have eschewed close personal association with those in power. He was, however, well-connected to the political landscape of early Ottoman Syria through his deputies and companions. One deputy, Umar al-Iskaf (d. 1544), was an illiterate shoe-maker who departed Hamah for Damascus where he gathered a sizeable following of commoners and elites (despite criticism of his lack of learning).11 Another close associate, Ali al-Kizawani (d. 1548), was a controversial fellow disciple of Ibn Maymun. Al-Kizawani attracted a large number of adherents in Aleppo and the patronage of the city’s chief judge—until, that is, al-Kizawani was implicated in an uprising that resulted in the brutal murder of the city’s imperial tax registrar.12 Alwan was further tied to regional judicial hierarchies by marriage: one of his daughters married a deputy judge of Hamah, another married into a line of Aleppo’s chief judges.13 While it is not known if Alwan’s al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma ever reached the sultan personally,14 the shaykh clearly held a network, and an audience, that assured wide dissemination of his ideas.

Sufismo y las normas del Islam, ed. Alfonso Carmona (Murcia: Editora Regional de Murcia, 2006), 307. Frenkel identifies Alwan as an “orthodox Sufi master” (303ff.). 10 The order’s initiatic chain (silsila) was transmitted at least into the eighteenth century, and Alwan’s tomb in Hamah was still being visited in the 1950s—Simonds, “ʿAli b. Maymun,” 230, 233; al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 18; Jean Gaulmier, “Pèlerinages populaires à Hama,” Bulletin d’études orientales 1 (1931): 143–145. In Aleppo, the Alwaniyya was taken over by the Khalwati order near the end of the sixteenth century—Khaled El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History in the Seventeenth Century: Scholarly Currents in the Ottoman Empire and the Maghreb (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 266. See also, Allen, “Self, Space, Society,” 90–148. 11 al-Ghazzi, al-Kawakib al-sa’ira, 2: 229–233. One of his supporters was the Ottoman governor of Damascus, Isa Pasha b. Ibrahim (d. 1543), who regularly attended his zawiya—al-Ghazzi, al-Kawakib al-sa’ira, 2: 235–236; Ibn al-Hanbali, Durr al-habab, vol. 1, part 2: 1056–1060. 12 Ibn al-Hanbali, Durr al-habab, vol. 1, part 2: 906–915; al-Ghazzi, al-Kawakib al-sa’ira, 2: 201–203; Timothy J. Fitzgerald, “Murder in Aleppo: Ottoman Conquest and the Struggle for Justice in the Early Sixteenth Century,” Journal of Islamic Studies 27 (2016): 176–215, esp. 191–192. 13 Mahmud b. Ali al-Turkmani and Husayn b. Umar Ibn al-Nusaybi, respectively—see Ibn al-Hanbali, Durr al-habab, vol. 2, part 1: 445–446, vol. 1, part 2: 561–570; al-Ghazzi, al-Kawakib al-sa’ira, 3: 205, 145. 14 A preface to the autograph indicates its arrival in the “imperial libraries” (al-khaza’in al-khudawandikariyya), al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 7, 31.

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While campaigning in the Arab lands, Sultan Selim visited sacred sites and holy persons, who sometimes, it was said, foretold or facilitated his victories.15 Alwan met Selim during the latter’s movements through Syria. According to Nashwa al-Alwani, the shaykh initially viewed the Ottoman conqueror as a liberator of the people from Mamluk oppression, and the two struck up a brief friendship. In return for Alwan’s support and prayers, Selim granted the Sufi ample lands endowed (as waqf) for his descendants. But, as the dust of war settled and a just order failed to take hold, the honeymoon ended. The shaykh, never one to keep quiet, was moved to offer stern advice in a tractate.16 Still, deference lingers: al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma is not eager to call out the ruler by name. While evidence suggests that the manuscript was composed for Sultan Selim, Alwan followed the convention of the genre and cast his advice obliquely, preferring general terms for the sovereign (at turns the imam, sultan, malik, khudawandikar, or wali al-amr).17 Moreover, his preface points to a wide mandate. He says he wrote at the insistence of friends who wanted others to benefit from “what God made known in the Book and the Sunna.” Alwan conceded and drafted his commentary—with divine sanction, he claims—for the good of all (‘umum al-naf‘ biha li-al-khass wa-al-‘amm).18 Al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma is a strident litany of the dreadful defects that have, in Alwan’s view, come to characterize his society. He loosely organizes his grievances, and sundry prescriptions, around the exegesis of three well-known Qur’anic verses (22:41, 16:90, 12:101). These verses collectively emphasize the need for those who exercise sovereignty (mulk) to rule with justice and beneficence—by establishing prayer (salat) and charity (zakat), enjoining right and forbidding wrong, and living in fearful preparation for the Hereafter.19 But al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma is more eclectic than systematic in its form, themes, and sources. It draws heavily on Qur’an and hadith, which suits the author’s moralistic aims and demonstrates his jurisprudential bona fides. Yet, it also 15 Çıpa, The Making of Selim, 230–233. 16 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 29–31; cf. Sabrina Sohbi, “Réprobation des croyances et pratiques des chrétiens et des juifs à travers deux poèmes du cheikh ‘Alwan al-Hamawi (début du Xe/ XVIe siècle),” Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph 64 (2012): 401. For a taste of Alwan’s politically charged poetry, see al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 22–23. For a rich comparison, see Kristof D’hulster’s study of Damascene scholar Ibn Sultan’s (d. 1544) “literary offering” to Selim: “Caught Between Aspiration and Anxiety, Praise and Exhortation: An Arabic Literary Offering to Ottoman Sultan Selim,” Journal of Arabic Literature 44 (2013): 181–239. 17 Alwan implies a rough equivalence among these terms (al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 128, 162, 163); sometimes a title is preceded by “our master” (mawlana) (172, e.g.); “caliph” (khalifa) is seldom used (159, e.g.). 18 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 121–122. 19 Ibid., 122.

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draws from the deep well of adab like other texts of its kind, invoking aphorisms and stories of past monarchs worthy of emulation—including ancient kings like David and Solomon and the Rightly-guided Caliphs. Through it all runs Alwan’s conviction that he is living in perverse times desperately needing reform. Some problems can be traced to the Mamluks—the “tyrant-sultans” (al-salatin al-ja’ira) of recent memory20—while others are pinned on Syria’s new masters, the Ottomans. Many of Alwan’s concerns relate to issues of public morality, where offenses are legion. To combat such conditions, he exhorts, Islam’s pillars should be upheld and its punishments (hudud) strictly applied. Offenses include the neglect of prayer, which the shaykh wants enforced on pain of death or humiliation, and adultery and sodomy, which are “plainly manifest in this time.”21 Alwan harps with particular intensity on the consumption of alcohol, inveighing against wine as the “mother of evils” (umm al-khaba’ith).22 He argues that, contrary to conventional wisdom, all the major religions, including Judaism and Christianity, forbid alcohol.23 And he pleads that if it must be consumed by soldiers and notables, they do so discreetly, in private.24 Alwan laments that some Muslim countries have sunk so low as to tax wine and prostitution, tacitly endorsing immorality and corrupting the treasury with ill-gotten gains. He implores the sultan to end such “repulsive innovation” (bida‘ shani‘a).25 On the debated topic of men wearing gold and silk, Alwan insists that men should not imitate women and the safest path is to avoid a practice that risks God’s wrath.26 With life marked to the finest detail by virtue and vice—especially vice—little escapes the shaykh’s scrutiny.27 A still larger category of concern involves the many abuses—physical and fiscal—perpetrated by government agents. And it is here that the ruler is most

20 Ibid., 142. 21 Ibid., 126–128, 138, 166–167. 22 Ibid., 140–141, 148, 149, 169ff., 200. 23 Ibid., 171–172. For more on Alwan’s view of non-Muslims, see Sohbi, “Réprobation des croyances,” 385–414. 24 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 141. 25 Ibid., 138–140, 188; Marion Holmes Katz, “The Hadd Penalty for Zina: Symbol or Deterrent? Texts from the Early Sixteenth Century,” in The Lineaments of Islam: Studies in Honor of Fred McGraw Donner, ed. Paul M. Cobb (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 366–368, 375. 26 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 148, 149–151. 27 For a discussion of Alwan’s forceful critique of immoral gender mixing, which runs through a number of his major works, see Marion Holmes Katz, Women in the Mosque: A History of Legal Thought and Social Practice (New York: Columbia University Press, 2014), 160–166. The topic surfaces in al-Nasa’ih, where, for example, Alwan urges the sultan to regulate women’s presence in mosques and other public gatherings (179).

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direly implicated. He is the delegating authority. In this area, Alwan rails against the crude and impious manner in which the death penalty is carried out, the solicitation and beating of young boys, the oppressive quartering of soldiers in homes and the requisitioning of animals and supplies.28 He condemns the customary victory celebrations imposed on hapless subjects.29 And he decries the mafia-like protection fees (himaya, hawta) demanded by governors of villagers and peasants.30 Here, Alwan explicitly criticizes the Ottoman continuation of a Mamluk abuse: though God had removed these unjust exactions, Ottoman officials “have followed the example of that despotic gang; this hurts the needy and poor in the country, which leads them to plead for help against the oppression as they had in the first place.”31 The Ottomans doubled their offense in contriving new taxes on estates and marriage contracts, measures that drew widespread censure.32 This last denunciation connects with another leitmotif in al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma: the defense of the poor and powerless. Their vulnerability, and the need for the ruler’s attentive protection, is a common refrain. He should not favor the privileged at their expense.33 The treatise’s introduction cites the Prophetic sunna’s mandate to “support the oppressed, strengthen the weak, relieve the anxious, and mend the broken.”34 Elsewhere, Alwan submits, in appealing to the sultan’s solicitude, that the prayers of the downtrodden are most efficacious. He should want the masses praying for his prosperity by seeking their approval and governing evenhandedly.35 God helps the just ruler overawe his subjects and makes them affectionate toward him.36 And in all matters, Alwan finds the path

28 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 129, 136–137, 143, 145, 151–152, 165, 176. 29 Ibid., 146ff. 30 Ibid., 152–154; cf. 141–143, 188. 31 Ibid., 153. 32 Ibid., 177–178. See also, Rafeq, “The Syrian ʿUlama’,” 9–32; Fitzgerald, “Murder in Aleppo,” 190; Amy Singer, “Marriages and Misdemeanors: A Record of resm-i ʿarus ve bad-i hava,” in Law and Society in Islam, ed. Devin J. Stewart, Baber Johansen, and Amy Singer (Princeton: Markus Wiener Publishers, 1996), 113–152. On the Ottoman preference for fines (“fiscalizing” criminal punishment), see Leslie Peirce, Morality Tales: Law and Gender in the Ottoman Court of Aintab (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 118, 331ff., 359. 33 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 166, 168, 169, passim. 34 Ibid., 121. 35 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 175–177, passim. The many lowly and outcast, with their prayers as “arrows,” are the “army” that will propel the sultan to victory. This emphasis on the just treatment of the poor is echoed in a later Sufi tract on ethics written by the Khalwati Muhyi-yi Gülşeni (d. 1606) for Sultan Murad III (r. 1574–1595)—John Curry, “‘The Meeting of the Two Sultans:’ Three Sufi Mystics Negotiate with the Court of Murad III,” in Sufism and Society, 233. 36 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 141.

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to order and equity in the rule of law, be it divine command (shari‘a) or the sultan’s noble edicts (marasim sharifa).37 In Alwan’s many admonitions, one detects standard strains of Muslim piety. One also senses the usual fare of kingly advice literature (the “mirror for princes” genre).38 The call to protect the weak and establish justice echoes this tradition. As does Alwan’s repeated call to reliance on only the most trustworthy counselors and agents and his supplemental discourse on bribery and gifts.39 Yet al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma, with its themes of antimaterialism, the corruption of power, and life’s transience, also bears a Sufi stamp.40 In sketching stories of the Rightly-guided Caliphs, Alwan notes their charity, their mixing with the poor, their modest food, dwellings and garments, and their tireless focus on the afterlife. These model Imams, then, appear as model ascetics as well.41 Alwan extends this analogy in urging the ruler to tend to personal devotion, and to “see to what reforms himself first, and then to what reforms his subjects.”42 Moreover, the ruler must apprehend the real meaning of sovereignty: “I do not mean

37 Ibid., 161, passim. 38 This is a wide and diverse field of writing and perhaps not one “genre.” It includes, for example, works on ethics (akhlaq) that, like Alwan’s treatise, underline the importance of personal virtue. For a general introduction, see L. Marlow, s.v. “Advice and Advice Literature,” EI3 1 (2007), 34–58; Linda T. Darling, “Mirrors for Princes in Europe and the Middle East: A Case of Historiographical Incommensurability,” in East Meets West in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Times: Transcultural Experiences in the Premodern World, ed. Albrecht Classen (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), 223–242; Neguin Yavari, Advice for the Sultan: Prophetic Voices and Secular Politics in Medieval Islam (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014); Forster and Yavari, eds., Global Medieval. 39 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 123–126, 129, 153–154, 164, 192–195. 40 For other examples of Sufi advice writing, see Abd al-Wahhab ibn Ahmad ibn Ali al-Shaʿrani (d. 1565), Advice for Callow Jurists and Gullible Mendicants on Befriending Emirs, trans. Adam Sabra (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2017); Alexandre Papas, “Islamic Brotherhoods in Sixteenth-Century Central Asia: The Dervish, the Sultan, and the Sufi Mirror for Princes,” in Faith’s Boundaries: Laity and Clergy in Early Modern Confraternities, ed. Nicholas Terpstra, Adriano Prosperi, and Stefania Pastore (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), 209–231; Chad G. Lingwood, Politics, Poetry, and Sufism in Medieval Iran: New Perspectives on Jami’s Salaman va Absal (Leiden: Brill, 2014); A. C. S. Peacock, “Advice for the Sultans of Rum: The ‘Mirror for Princes’ of Early Thirteenth-Century Anatolia,” in Turkish Language, Literature, and History: Travelers’ Tales, Sultans, and Scholars since the Eighth Century, ed. Bill Hickman and Gary Leiser (New York: Routledge, 2016), 276–307, esp. 289–295; cf. Reuben Levy, trans., A Mirror for Princes: The Qabus Nama by Kai Ka’us Ibn Iskandar Prince of Gurgan (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1951), 239ff.; Yusuf Khass Hajib (fl. 11th Cent.), Wisdom of Royal Glory (Kutadgu Bilig): A Turko-Islamic Mirror for Princes, trans. Robert Dankoff (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983), 17–27. 41 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 185–189, 196–201. Alwan is especially impressed by Umar ibn al-Khattab (r. 634–644). He admires the caliph’s combination of strength, justice, and humility—and miracles (199). 42 Ibid., 164.

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sovereignty as in authority and conquering lands and people, rather I intend by it control of the self and desire (al-mulk li-al-nafs wa-al-hawa).” Genuine possession is self-possession, and “the real king is the one to whom God grants the power to control himself and his appetite.”43 An Aristotelian call for the ruler to restrain his passions (and cleave to the mean) is a common exhortation in medieval advice literature. It is found in classics such as Ibn al-Muqaffa‘’s (d. c. 756) al-Adab al-kabir, Nizam al-Mulk’s (d. 1092) Siyar al-muluk or Siyasatname, and al-Ghazali’s (d. 1111) al-Tibr al-masbuk fi nasihat al-muluk.44 But its repetition by Alwan and connection with ancillary themes suggest an ascetic discipline. The shaykh, moreover, betrays a stereotypical world-hating view in scrutinizing humankind’s basest impulses (vanity, lust, and the like). It is also noteworthy that he does not pose “wisdom” or “reason” as meaningful checks on the king’s appetites, as did many of his predecessors. The answer, again, rests with personal piety and the unwavering implementation of God’s law. With these predilections, one might sense the long shadow of al-Ghazali, for good reason: upon accepting Alwan as a follower, Ibn Maymun reportedly told him to read the luminary’s Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din.45 Alwan also appears to have kept al-Ghazali’s al-Tibr al-masbuk close at hand.46 And, like al-Ghazali, if on a much smaller scale, some of Alwan’s followers considered him the centennial “renewer” (mujaddid) of religion.47 Alwan’s mélange of ideas, then, do not fall neatly in one category. In their multiplicity, they reflect both the man and his times. While many of his grievances appear derivative and formulaic, other evidence corroborates his laments. It is known that late Mamluk and early Ottoman Aleppo and Damascus were rough towns, and life in the countryside was likewise precarious. In 1533–1534 (or 1521), for example, the people of Aleppo sent a formal petition

43 Ibid., 184, cf. 123, 185, 191–192. There is a play on the word nafs, which means both “self ” and “carnal soul” in Sufi usage. 44 Abd Allah Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ, al-Adab al-kabir in Athar Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ, ed. Umar Abu al-Nasr (Beirut: Dar Maktabat al-Hayah, 1966), 277–314; Hubert Darke, trans., The Book of Government or Rules for Kings: The Siyar al-Muluk or Siyasat-nama of Nizam al-Mulk, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978); F. R. C. Bagley, trans., Ghazali’s Book of Counsel for Kings (Nasihat al-Muluk) (London: Oxford University Press, 1964); Yavari, Advice for the Sultan, 22. It is also a prominent theme in two other eleventh-century mirrors, cited above: Kai Ka’us’s Qabus Nama and Yusuf Khass Hajib’s Kutadgu Bilig—the latter warns the king to “treat your carnal soul as a dangerous enemy” and to “strive to overcome passion with intellect” (213, 215). 45 al-Ghazzi, al-Kawakib al-sa’ira, 2: 206; Winter, “Sheikh ʿAli Ibn Maymun,” 295. 46 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 32–35. 47 Ibn al-Hanbali, Durr al-habab, vol. 1, part 2: 964–965; cf. Nashwa al-Alwani, “al-Shaykh ʿAli,” 15–16; Geoffroy, Le soufisme, 490.

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to the Ottoman grand vizier, which complained desperately of many of the same abuses exposed by Alwan, especially those tied to marauding soldiers.48 The petitioners concluded that they would sooner be wiped off the face of the earth than suffer further depredation.49 The people of sixteenth-century Hamah met similar torments.50 Clearly, the shaykh was not alone in seeing his world as rife with vice and violence, and in locating responsibility (and hope) with the sultan’s government. Al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma also stretches beyond its immediate context, particularly in consideration of its genre. As a political advice tract that quotes the “Circle of Justice”51 and marshals the example of ancient monarchs, it strikes a primordial note. Yet in speaking truth to power and specifying abuses and remedies, it also adumbrates an Ottoman reformism that intensified across the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—and is represented in the nasihatname literature of Lutfi Pasha (d. c. 1563), Kınalızade Ali Çelebi (d. 1572), Mustafa Ali (d. 1600), and others.52 It does not concern itself with the inner workings

48 Muhammad Adnan Bakhit, “Aleppo and the Ottoman Military in the 16th Century (Two Case Studies),” al-Abhath 27 (1978/1979): 27–30, 35–38; Faysal al-Kandari, “Mazlama ahali Halab ila al-sadr al-aʿzam fi ʿahd al-Sultan Sulayman al-Qanuni,” Proceedings of the International Symposium on Bilad al-Sham during the Ottoman Era: Damascus, 26–30 September 2005 (Istanbul: IRCICA, 2009), 93–112. Both studies examine the same undated petition (Topkapı Sarayı Arşivi no. 5565) and reproduce its Arabic text in full. Bakhit argues it was written in 1533–1534; al-Kandari proposes the year 1521. 49 Bakhit, “Aleppo and the Ottoman Military,” 37. For more on Aleppo in this period, see my “Rituals of Possession, Methods of Control, and the Monopoly of Violence: The Ottoman Conquest of Aleppo in Comparative Perspective,” in The Mamluk-Ottoman Transition: Continuity and Change in Egypt and Bilad al-Sham in the Sixteenth Century, ed. Stephan Conermann and Gül Şen (Göttingen: Bonn University Press, 2017), 249–273. 50 al-Sabuni, Tarikh Hamah, 81–85. Al-Sabuni’s “declinist” portrayal of Ottoman rule as marked by whim, theft, torture, and impoverishment should be balanced against more layered socio-economic analyses—see, for example, Abdul-Karim Rafeq, “Mazahir iqtisadiyya wa-ijtimaʿiyya min liwa’ Hamah, 942–943 / 1535–1536,” Dirasat Tarikhiyya 10, nos. 31–32 (1989): 17–66; idem, “Hamah fi matlaʿ al-hukm al-ʿuthmani,” 86–105. Leslie Peirce’s rigorous study of contemporary Aintab (Morality Tales) reveals a range of comparable conditions as well. 51 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 173—on the topic in general, see Linda T. Darling, A History of Social Justice and Political Power in the Middle East: The Circle of Justice from Mesopotamia to Globalization (London: Routledge, 2013). 52 Çıpa, The Making of Selim, 176–209; Orhan Keskintaş, Adalet, Ahlâk, ve Nizam: Osmanlı Siyasetnameleri (Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları, 2017); Marinos Sariyannis, “The Princely Virtues as Presented in Ottoman Political and Moral Literature,” Turcica 43 (2011): 121–144; Kenan İnan, “Remembering the Good Old Days: The Ottoman Nasihatname [Advice Letters] Literature of the 17th Century,” in Institutional Change and Stability: Conflicts, Transitions and Social Values, ed. Andreas Gémes, Florencia Peyrou, and Ioannis Xydopoulos (Pisa: Pisa University Press, 2009), 111–127; Douglas A. Howard, “Genre and Myth in the Ottoman Advice for Kings Literature,” in The Early Modern Ottomans: Remapping the Empire, ed.

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of the palace in Istanbul (court ceremonial, spies, etc.). Nor is it especially theoretical. Al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma is more a bottom-up or people’s litany of palpable grievances and practical advice, such as one might expect from a provincial notable.53 Yet Alwan’s intervention spoke to the age at large in another way that was more abstract. He wrote for an empire that was increasingly keen on co-opting Sufi ideas, persons, and resources for state-building. A major inventory of Bayezid II’s (r. 1481–1512) palace library has revealed Sufism as the “largest single classification.”54 Sultan Selim’s iconic commissioning of a shrine complex in Damascus for the legendary Sufi Ibn al-Arabi (d. 1240) occurred in Alwan’s backyard.55 Ottoman rulers, in other words, including Selim’s son Süleyman (r. 1520–1566), wanted mystical—and even messianic—forms of authority for themselves.56 Al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma asks for just this kind of multivalent, fused, and sacral legitimacy in a ruler who succeeds the prophets and follows “the Book and Sunna, in word and deed, and the Law, Way, and Reality (shari‘a wa tariqa wa haqiqa) as much as possible.”57 Thus the text, like

Virginia H. Aksan and Daniel Goffman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 137–166; Ahmet Uğur, Osmanlı Siyâset-Nâmeleri (Istanbul: Milli Eğitim Bakanlığı, [repr.] 2001); Cemal Kafadar, “The Myth of the Golden Age: Ottoman Historical Consciousness in the Post-Süleymânic Era,” in Süleymân the Second and His Time, ed. Halil İnalcık and Cemal Kafadar (Istanbul: Isis Press, 1993), 37–48; Pál Fodor, “State and Society, Crisis and Reform, in 15th–17th-Century Ottoman Mirror for Princes,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 40 (1986): 217–240; Cornell H. Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire: The Historian Mustafa Âli (1541–1600) (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986). 53 Alwan, given his formation as a sermonizer, might also be considered a precursor of the seventeenth-century “preacher-political advisor” identified by S. Aslıhan Gürbüzel, “Teachers of the Public, Advisors to the Sultan: Preachers and the Rise of a Political Public Sphere in Early Modern Istanbul (1600–1675)” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2016). 54 Cemal Kafadar and Ahmet Karamustafa, “Books on Sufism, Lives of Saints, Ethics, and Sermons,” in Treasures of Knowledge: An Inventory of the Ottoman Palace Library (1502/3–1503/4), Volume I: Essays, ed. Gülru Necipoğlu, Cemal Kafadar, and Cornell H. Fleischer (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 439–507 (quote on p. 439); see also, in the same volume, Hüseyin Yılmaz, “Books on Ethics and Politics: The Art of Governing the Self and Others at the Ottoman Court,” 509–526. Yılmaz concludes that the library shows “the sway of Sufism on Ottoman thought appears to have not only continued but further solidified at this time” (518). 55 Zeynep Yürekli, “Writing Down the Feats and Setting up the Scene: Hagiographers and Architectural Patrons in the Age of Empires,” in Sufism and Society, 104–106; Çıpa, The Making of Selim, 231–233; Geoffroy, Le soufisme, 459–460. 56 Hüseyin Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined: The Mystical Turn in Ottoman Political Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018); Çıpa, The Making of Selim, 210–250; Green, Sufism, 128, 132–136; Geoffroy, Le soufisme, 128–135, 511. 57 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 123, cf. 132; Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined, 189.

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most of significance, drifts in deep intellectual currents while swirling in smaller contextual eddies. Its character also circles back to its author in more personal ways. Like his teacher, Ibn Maymun, Alwan plunged selectively into earthly politics. His writings, such as we have them, addressed many of the standard concerns Sufis held in his day. He wrote mystical poetry, a commentary on the Prophet’s Ascension, and a ranging book on miracles and the lives of saints.58 Yet, he also composed homiletic fiqh works, including an essay on the perils of gazing at strange women (and beardless youth), which shows the strident moralism of al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma was not exceptional.59 The treatise, given the flexibility of the genre, likely appealed to Alwan, now on in years, as a way to indulge his established zeal for social criticism, that is, the curmudgeon in him. Certainly, the shaykh’s unsettled times warranted guidance of all kinds—and as a “juristsaint” who combined prowess in the legal and spiritual spheres,60 Alwan saw himself as the man for the moment. Then again, in a more charitable vein, there is also an introspective subtext. The extended meditation on mortality and the agonies of death that finishes the work suggests Alwan could have been contemplating his own demise, and not merely stoking fear in others.61 One might even detect feelings of isolation and melancholy. With the tectonic shifting of the early sixteenth-century Middle East, psychological unease must have been common. Writing, as ever,

58 The last item is Nasamat al-ashar fi manaqib wa-karamat al-awliya’ al-akhyar, ed. Ahmad al-Mazidi (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2001); it reflects the “conduct of the Sufi adept” (adab al-murid) genre—Larsen, “al-Hamawi,” 73. 59 al-Hamawi, ʿAra’is al-ghurar wa-ghara’is al-fikar fi ahkam al-nazar, ed. Muhammad al-Murad (Damascus: Dar al-Qalam, 1990). On the question of looking at beardless boys, Alwan adopted the most restrictive position, arguing for categorical prohibition (as opposed to permissibility in the absence of lust). This was the minority opinion on the matter in the Shafiʿi legal school to which Alwan belonged. Such views led the towering Abd al-Ghani al-Nabulusi (d. 1731), two centuries later, to criticize Alwan’s unwarranted cynicism—see Khaled El-Rouayheb, Before Homosexuality in the Arab-Islamic World, 1500–1800 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 40, 49, 112–115. Indeed, a number of Alwan’s works reveal his penchant for social commentary. The powers that be, the people of Hamah, non-Muslims, and even fellow Sufis took turns under his lens. See also, Nashwa al-Alwani, “al-Shaykh ʿAli;” Katz, Women in the Mosque, 160–166; Sohbi, “Réprobation des croyances;” Frenkel, “Mutasawwifa Versus Fuqara’,” 303ff.; Geoffroy, Le soufisme, 160–163, 397, 402. Al-Alwani has identified over forty titles in his corpus; for an annotated list, see, al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 18–28—cf. Larsen, “al-Hamawi,” 72–73; Khayr al-Din al-Zirikli, al-Aʿlam: qamus tarajim, 8 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-ʿIlm li-al-Milayin, [repr.] 2002), 4: 312–313. 60 Allen, “Self, Space, Society,” 118, 126. 61 al-Hamawi, al-Nasa’ih, 201ff. In a grim finish, Alwan describes the ruler all alone in a dark grave awaiting final judgment, when only a record of justice can protect him from the scorching sun (205–206). An intense rhetorical focus on death is characteristic of al-Ghazali’s work, too.

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was a way to cope.62 “Personal literature” in particular, as Cemal Kafadar once observed, was often linked to times like these.63 Whatever the motive, al-Nasa’ih al-muhimma is a remarkable testament to the sprawling mind of a Sufi leader who was deeply attached to his faith and his Syrian homeland (al-Sham),64 and who yearned for the improvement of both. Shaykh Alwan has not escaped the attention of modern scholars, especially since the publication of a few of his writings in critical edition. But, for those who examine this pivotal period—and who wish to continue “extending the horizons and traditional boundaries of Ottoman studies”65—there is still more we can learn from him.

62 Astrid Meier, “Perceptions of a New Era? Historical Writing in Early Ottoman Damascus,” Arabica 51 (2004): 430ff. 63 Cemal Kafadar, “Self and Others: The Diary of a Dervish in Seventeenth Century Istanbul and First-Person Narratives in Ottoman Literature,” Studia Islamica 69 (1989): 125–126, 149. 64 Despite the moral decay, Alwan was grateful to be in Syria. He wrote about the land’s “merits/ virtues,” connecting with popular fada’il al-Sham traditions. He digresses on the topic in al-Nasa’ih (169–171). See also, his Al-Sham: aʿrasuha wa-fada’il suknaha, ed. Nashwa Alwani (Damascus: Maktabat al-Ghazzali, 1997). For context, see Ghalib Anabsi, “Popular Beliefs as Reflected in ‘Merits of Palestine and Syria’ (Fada’il al-Sham) Literature: Pilgrimage Ceremonies and Customs in the Mamluk and Ottoman Periods,” Journal of Islamic Studies 19 (2008): 59–70; Zayde Antrim, “Place and Belonging in Medieval Syria, 6th/12th to 8th/14th Centuries” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2005); Antrim, Routes and Realms: The Power of Place in the Early Islamic World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). 65 Kafadar, “Self and Others,” 149.

5

La Jetée and the Illustrated Ottoman History: An Inquiry into Word, Image, and Audience Emine Fetvacı In response to a 2006 talk I gave on the production of the Şehname-i Selim Han, Professor Kafadar asked me a question that I have been musing over ever since. I thought a short essay for his festschrift would be just the place to consider this question and explore its implications. Like many of Prof. Kafadar’s questions and suggestions, this one forces us to consider familiar material from a different perspective and thus understand it better. Cemal Hoca’s question was the following: Can one think of the image-text relationship in sixteenth-century Ottoman illustrated histories in terms analogous to the method the film director Chris Marker employed to make his 1962 film La Jetée? Marker’s twenty-eightminute-long film consists almost entirely of black-and-white photographs which have been brought together in a photomontage moving along at varying speeds.1 Instead of a traditional film with actors moving and talking, the viewer encounters a series of photographs on the screen. Some pass by quickly, others remain on the screen for a moment longer, some photographs repeat, others are minimally different from each other, suggesting movement. The only actual movement involves a close-up of a woman’s face as she wakes up and opens her eyes. The film lacks dialogue, except for brief snippets in German which

1 Chris Marker and Criterion Collection. La Jetée: Sans Soleil (1962). Special ed. Criterion Collection; 387 (United States: Criterion Collection, 2007).

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the protagonist hears. Instead, the events are narrated in a voice-over. Without the voice-over, the photographs do not coalesce into a comprehensive narrative, and a different verbal account could possibly result in a different story being constructed from the photographs. Because the film involves time travel and a dystopian future, it would be almost impossible to follow without the voice-over. The question of whether one can view the image-text relationship in Ottoman illustrated histories in terms analogous to that in La Jetée is a tempting proposal, and one that does at some level work. In these manuscripts, too, still images are viewed one after the other, events are depicted with images of varying frequency, and the text helps to weave a narrative together from the visuals. The paintings on the pages of the book pass before our eyes at various speeds as we linger on some and not others, similar to the changing speeds in La Jetée. If one watches the film with the sound muted, one will not be able to make sense of the repeating images, the film’s complicated narrative about time travel, or the flashbacks of memory. Similarly, without the narrative of the text, it appears that the viewer of an Ottoman manuscript would not know the exact events depicted or piece together the whole narrative. But the specifics of the experience of viewing an illustrated Ottoman history are worth considering in greater detail with this comparison in mind. The Ottoman pictorial record from the sixteenth century, as is the case for Perso-Islamic book arts in general, makes strong use of repeating formal compositions, types, and tropes that echo similar tendencies in literary production.2 For example, sultans are often shown hunting, on campaign, or in audience scenes. Similarly, military officers and members of the imperial council appear in campaign settings, leading the army, in audience with the sultan, or holding audience themselves, but we rarely see them engaged in other activities. The compositions are also quite formulaic. Accession scenes, for example, usually consist of an enthroned sultan in the upper half of a composition, with a janissary kissing the sultan’s skirt. The members of the imperial council are generally lined up to one side of the sultan, the army corps on the other side, and both these groups form an elliptical composition around the ruler. Imperial portraits, too, repeat a small variety of seated poses, and usually depict the sultan in front of a bracket arch (sometimes referred to as a Bursa arch), leaning against a cylindrical pillow, sitting on a rectangular textile. Given the relatively limited

2 On the literary basis of Perso-Islamic painting, see Ehsan Yarshater, “Some Common Characteristics of Persian Poetry and Art,” Studia Islamica 16 (1962): 61–71; Thomas W. Lentz and Glenn Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the Fifteenth Century (Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 1989), 159–63.

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number of compositions and poses reserved for historical painting, it does appear that one could easily replace one portrait with another, or one accession scene with another, and that the images are generic enough to illustrate any number of historical events. In addition to mirroring literary tropes, the small set of repeating motifs which constitute the Ottoman historical record are akin to the select types of flowers (tulips, hyacinths, chrysanthemums) in the decorative vocabulary developed in the second half of the century for textiles, ceramics and other portable arts.3 Another parallel is the small set of repeating architectural features in Ottoman mosques of the sixteenth century: hemispherical domes, pencilshaped thin minarets with conical tops, arcaded and dome-covered courtyards, and a repeating decorative vocabulary.4 With such regularity and repetition, an accession scene or a portrait might not appear distinguishable from another one without the aid of text to anchor it in a place and time, or associate it with a specific ruler or moment. This would mean that the text acts in a similar way to the voice-over in Marker’s film. Without the text the images remain generic types, rule bound depictions of rule bound events. Since the rules governing the events, namely the rules of protocol and ceremonial, do not seem to have changed much in the course of the century during which these images were made, we might not be able to tell apart the depiction of one ceremony from another without the aid of text. However, this line of thinking does not consider the specific audiences whom these manuscripts addressed. Sixteenth-century Ottoman viewers of these scenes were mostly members of the ruling elite, and at times the young pages in training at the Topkapı Palace.5 As owners of the manuscripts, or as borrowers from the palace treasury, they had opportunities for prolonged looking, where they might be able to compare different images from a manuscript to see minute differences. The initial elite audience of these manuscripts was also visually sophisticated, as they would have seen other images in contemporary

3 Gülru Necipoǧlu, “Early Modern Floral: The Agency of Ornament in Ottoman and Safavid Visual Cultures,” in Histories of Ornament: From Global to Local, ed. Gülru Necipoğlu and Alina Payne (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2016), 132–155; idem, “A Ḳānūn for the State, a Canon for the Arts: Conceptualizing the Classical Synthesis of Ottoman Art and Architecture,” in Soliman le Magnifique et son temps, ed. Gilles Veinstein (Paris: Documentation Française, 1992), 195–216. 4 For the Ottoman architectural idiom, see Gülru Necipoǧlu, The Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture in the Ottoman Empire (London: Reaktion Books, 2005), 103–124. 5 Emine Fetvacı, Picturing History at the Ottoman Court (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2013), 25–57.

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manuscripts enjoyed in literary gatherings.6 They would be able to see the minute differences between how different sultans were depicted, details of facial hair or costume for example, or the conventions of showing one sultan in a specific pose—the image of Sultan Mehmed II smelling a rose easily comes to mind.7 The makers of the paintings also took some measures to guarantee correct identification and legibility. For example, specific landscape elements are often introduced into the paintings so that the viewer can easily place the event in a particular location. Examples for this abound in the Şehname-i Selim Han, where events in different parts of the empire such as Basra, Tunisia, or Yemen are depicted with particular attention to the geography of canals and waterways, or to fauna such as date palm trees.8 In the multiple instances where without the text, we might not be able to identify individuals, especially lower ranking members of the military, and thus the image of one pasha leading the army might possibly substitute for the image of another, makers of manuscripts do turn to text to create a voice-over to specify what is depicted in the images. Many images have titles inscribed in red ink in the upper margin above them, specifying what we see. Similarly, a number of paintings, for example in the 1584 illustrated copy of Mustafa Ali’s Nusretname, have the names of the different commanders written right onto the picture plane so the viewer can identify them.9 The makers of the book must have deemed this necessary for proper identification, suggesting that they did not think the visual details of costume, facial hair or stature were sufficient. 6 An excellent analysis on the nature of literary gatherings and their role in intellectual and social exchange in the Ottoman empire, especially in its Arab provinces, is provided by Helen Pfeifer, “Encounter After the Conquest: Scholarly Gatherings in 16th-century Ottoman Damascus,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 47 (2015): 219–239. See also Samer Ali, Arabic Literary Salons in the Islamic Middle Ages (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2010); Dominic P. Brookshaw, “Palaces, Pavilions and Pleasure-Gardens: The Context and Setting of the Medieval Majlis,” Middle Eastern Literatures 6, no. 2 (2003): 199–223; Maria Subtelny, “Scenes from the Literary Life of Tīmūrid Herāt,” in Logos Islamicos: Studia Islamica in Honorem Georgii Michaelis Wickens, ed. Roger Savory and Dionisius Agius (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1984), 137–155; Haluk İpekten, Divan Edebiyatinda Edebi Muhitler (Istanbul: Milli Eǧitim Bakanlıǧı, 1996). For the Ottoman elite’s ownership and patronage of illustrated manuscripts, see Fetvacı, Picturing History, passim, but especially 25–57. 7 Gülru Necipoǧlu, “Word and Image: the Serial Portraits of the Ottoman Sultans in Comparative Perspective,” in The Sultan’s Portrait: Picturing the House of Osman, ed. Selmin Kangal (Istanbul: İş Bankası, 2000), 22–59 discusses the tradition of imperial portraiture and also gives examples of majalis where images were discussed. 8 Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi (Hereafter TSMK), A 3595. Emine Fetvacı, “Others and Other Geographies in the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān,” The Journal of Ottoman Studies 40 (2012), 81–100. 9 TSMK H 1365.

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Audience and Difference: When the Analogy does not Work What I have described thus far suggests that La Jetée provides an interesting lens through which to view the image-text relationship in Ottoman histories, with examples where it provides a good analogy and others where it does not. In the latter, the biggest difference is provided by the audience and their knowledge and experience. This becomes more evident, and Cemal Hoca’s question even more interesting to ponder, when we consider more sophisticated examples of the image-text relationship. I would like to focus now on a few examples from the Nüzhetü’l-ahbar der sefer-i Sigetvar (Chronicle of the Szigetvár Campaign; also known as the Nüzhetü’l-asrarü’l-ahbar der sefer-i Sigetvar), written by Feridun Ahmed Beg (d. 1583), with the illustrated version dated to 1569.10 The Szigetvár campaign, which forms the focus of the manuscript, was the last campaign of Süleyman the Magnificent (r. 1520–1566), and part of ongoing Ottoman-Habsburg struggles for control of Hungary. As is well known, Sultan Süleyman died in his tent the night before the conquest of the Szigetvár castle was completed on December 6, 1566. The grand vizier Sokollu Mehmed Pasha, with the aid of his confidante and private secretary Feridun Ahmed Beg (and the author of the Nüzhet), and the assistance of the sultan’s attendant Cafer Agha, kept the sultan’s death from the army in order to avoid a potentially chaotic situation. The grand vizier sent word to Prince Selim, and the sultan’s death was revealed to the soldiers only after they had started the march home.11 The manuscript begins with Süleyman’s march toward Szigetvár and concludes with the account of Selim II’s (r. 1566–1674) first year as ruler. The Nüzhetü’l-ahbar contains fifteen illustrations concentrated mostly in the first half, putting the visual emphasis clearly on the campaign and on the death of Süleyman. Given the central role of Sokollu Mehmed Pasha during these events, first as the ailing sultan’s right-hand man and later as the mastermind of the plan of secrecy, the emphasis on the earlier part of the text through

10 TSMK H 1339. I have discussed this manuscript in two places with different questions in mind: Fetvacı, Picturing History, 108–122; idem, “Ottoman Author Portraits in the EarlyModern Period,” in Emotions and Subjectivity in the Early-Modern Islamic World, ed. Kishwar Rizvi (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 66–94. 11 Veinstein, G., “Soḳollu Meḥmed Pasha,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., Boston University, accessed May 22, 2020, http://dx.doi.org.ezproxy.bu.edu/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_ SIM_7090; Selaniki Mustafa Efendi, Tarih-i Selaniki, 2 vols., ed. Mehmet Ipşirli, (Istanbul: Edebiyat Fakültesi Basımevi, 1989), 1:36–43; and Nuzhet, TSMK H 1339.

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multiple images means that he is the main hero of the visual narrative. The illustrated account is perhaps the most direct expression of the continuity Sokollu Mehmed Pasha provided between the age of Süleyman and that of Selim II and later, Murad III (r. 1574–1595). It is highly probable that Sokollu commissioned the work.12 In a previous exploration of this manuscript, I focused on the patron and the author, and argued that the manuscript was written to further their interests as well as to eulogize the sultan to whom it was presented.13 Monolithic and authoritative as they seem, official histories such as Nüzhetü’l-ahbar were important tools of self-fashioning at the early modern Ottoman court, not only for the patrons whose exploits they glorified, but also for the makers of the manuscripts. Because the text was prioritized over the images in these accounts, they reveal much more about the authors than about the artists, even through their paintings.14 This is particularly so in this example, as the author Feridun Ahmed clearly inserts his own voice into the narrative and is pictured multiple times as a participant in the depicted events. The closing words of the manuscript, addressed to the new sultan Selim II, clearly state Feridun’s reasons for writing the book: he asks to be allowed to serve the sultan, and to be remembered for his writing.15 His labors bore fruit: Feridun Beg was appointed to the position of head secretary of the imperial council (re’isü’l-küttab) in June 1570, and chancellor (nişancı) in December 1573.16 However, Feridun Beg and the grand vizier were so close that when Sokollu lost some of his political clout during the early years of Murad III’s reign, Feridun Beg was quickly dismissed from his position. He was reappointed in 1581 after Sokollu’s death.17 The manuscript reflects the patronage relationship between the author and the grand vizier through its verbal and visual eulogy of the patron. The illustrations of Nüzhetü’l-ahbar der sefer-i Sigetvar focus on the transition between the two reigns, depicting the grand vizier as the guarantor of the continuity of the Ottoman state. The compositions glorify his role, suggesting perhaps that 12 Fetvacı, Picturing History, 110; Gülru Necipoglu, “A Period of Transition: Portraits of Selim II,” 202–207. 13 Fetvacı, Picturing History, 108–122. 14 Idem, “Ottoman Author Portraits.” 15 TSMK H 1339, fols. 304a-b. 16 Mordtmann, J.H. and Ménage, V.L., “Ferīdūn Beg,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, accessed May 22, 2020, http://dx.doi.org.ezproxy.bu.edu/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_SIM_2354. 17 İbrahim Peçevi, Tāriḫ-i Peçevī, 2 vols. (Istanbul: Enderun Kitabevi, 1980; facsimile of 1281–84/1864–67 edition), 1:5–7, 24–28; Mustafa Âli, Künhü᾽l-aḫbār, Süleymaniye Yazma Eserler Kütüphanesi, Nuruosmaniye 3409, 296b–297b; Cornell H. Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire: The Historian Mustafa Âli (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986), 73–74.

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Figure 1: Sokollu Mehmed Pasha’s Council. Feridun Ahmed Beg’s Nüzhetü’laḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār. Istanbul, 1568–69. Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi, H 1339, fol. 41b. Photo: Hadiye Cangökçe. By permission of the Directorate of Museums, the Presidency of the Republic of Turkey. supervising a smooth transition was viewed as equivalent to protecting nizam-ı ‘alem, the “order of the world,” a responsibility that would normally fall on the shoulders of a ruler.18 A number of the images show Sokollu in poses akin to how the sultan is represented in paintings from the period. Compositionally speaking, he is often isolated in the middle of the page while the other figures are depicted as parts of groups, he is frequently painted as larger than the others, and he regularly adopts royal poses and attributes. For example, after Süleyman’s death, Sokollu is shown holding audience in front of a tent with a soldier kissing his skirt (fig. 1). If one did not read the text (or, as it were, have the “voice-over”), one might think this painting represented the accession of a new sultan, with the army’s allegiance demonstrated by the kneeling janissary. The accession of Selim II from the same manuscript is a case 18 For the concept of nizam-ı alem, see Gottfried Hagen, “Legitimacy and World Order,” in Legitimizing the Order: The Ottoman Rhetoric of State Power, ed. Hakan Karateke and Maurus Reinowski (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 55–84.

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Figure 2: The Accession of Selim II. Feridun Ahmed Beg’s Nüzhetü’l-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār. Istanbul, 1568–69. Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi, H 1339, fols. 110b-111a. Photo: Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi, Istanbul. By permission of the Directorate of Museums, the Presidency of the Republic of Turkey. in point (fig. 2). In both images, the main figure (the grand vizier in figure 1, and the sultan in figure 2) is seated in front of a magnificent round tent with a domical top. The tent is open like a curtain with its flaps fastened at the two sides. In both images there is an awning jutting out to the left from the tent, supported by four very thin poles. The odd angle of the awning allows us to see its carpet-like design with a central medallion. The sultan’s tent (fig. 2) is more elaborately decorated than Sokollu’s, even though they both follow the same aesthetic. The inside has gold decorations, the awning features a dragon (or two?) swirling around its central medallion, and the domical top of the tent has a more intricate pattern. These are subtle differences of degree that would not be evident if the two images were not in the same manuscript, but given that they are, we must take this seriously as signaling the difference between the sultan’s magnificence and the grand vizier’s might. The image and section title, distributed above and below the painting, explains that after the death of Süleyman, the Ottoman army succeeded in capturing the castle, and severed many heads. The grand vizier Sokollu Mehmed Pasha, it reads, held a council to record those who brought heads. While the title simply recounts how the grand vizier did his job, the image depicts him in more grandiose terms. A few folios earlier in the manuscript, we encounter the text of an imperial order by Sultan Süleyman, poignantly the last order he wrote according to the author of the Nüzhetü’l-ahbar der sefer-i Sigetvar Feridun Ahmed, which appoints

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Sokollu as his deputy in all “affairs of religion and of the state, the administration of justice and the order of the sultanate.”19 This, to a certain extent, explains the daring depiction of Sokollu in positions usually reserved for the sultan. In the case of the depiction of Sokollu after Süleyman’s death, then, the text does indeed force a narrative onto the image, much the same as in Marker’s La Jetée (fig. 1). Taken out of context, this image could easily be mistaken for an imperial accession scene, especially because the janissary kissing the grand vizier’s skirt is a standard motif in Ottoman accession scenes, starting with the Süleymanname of 1558.20 Such an officer also features in the accession scene of Süleyman in the Hünername (Book of Skills), an illustrated account of Süleyman’s reign, and in the accessions of Selim II in the Şehname-i Selim Han and in the Nüzhetü’lahbar.21 The piles of severed heads would not normally feature in an accession scene, but they are of secondary importance here. The compositional emphasis is very much on the grand vizier, the tent, and those who have come to pay their respects. The surrounding text, and the larger context of the manuscript, with other images for comparison, ensures the proper reading of this image. However, this is not simply a case of the text and image supplementing each other. The image here in many ways goes beyond what the text is telling us. While the narrative account encourages us to think of the grand vizier as a loyal servant to the old and the new sultans, the image elevates him to the level of the sultan, and thereby defies courtly decorum. Had this image been accompanied by a different textual narrative, its potentially scandalous depiction of Sokollu (if we go so far as to say Sokollu is depicted as usurping sultanic authority) would be more obvious. As it is, the verbal narrative tempers, or at least justifies, the daring depiction. The visual depiction, in turn, shows that Sokollu was more than a loyal servant. In order to better understand the distinct roles played by the words and images here, let us consider briefly the immediate audience of the manuscript. Such manuscripts were kept in the imperial treasury in the Topkapı Palace, and were accessible to the palace inhabitants.22 The audience consisted of the ruling elite surrounding the sultan and the pages in training at the palace as the future ruling elite. The book was completed only three years after the Szigetvár campaign, in 1569, so the memory of the events would be fresh on the minds

19 TSMK H 1339, 36b: “umur-u din ü devlet ve nizam-ı ‘adl ve intizam-i saltanat babında ka’im ve da’im olasın.” 20 TSMK H 1517. 21 The Hünername’s shelfmark is TSMK H 1524 and the Şehname-i Selim Han’s is TSMK A 3595. 22 Fetvacı, Picturing History, 25–57. For the treasury, Gülru Necipoǧlu, Architecture, Ceremonial, and Power: The Topkapı Palace in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1991), 133–41.

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of its first readers. The reigning sultan Selim II would be well aware of Sokollu’s role in his accession, and Sokollu himself, of course, was still the grand vizier. The initial audience, then, would know of the grand vizier’s special status and be aware of his power. They would have knowledge outside of the book to draw upon, and this would also shape their reception of the image in question. In other words, they would not be dependent on Feridun Ahmed’s words to help them reconstruct the events. Unlike the audience of Marker’s film, the initial audience of Nüzhetü’l-ahbar der sefer-i Sigetvar consisted of informed individuals. The image would corroborate the truths that they knew. The words, especially Süleyman’s last decree mentioned above, seem to work as justification for the grand vizier’s unprecedented power. While 1569 was still early in Sokollu’s career as grand vizier, and the court of Selim II was not the fractured and hostile court Sokollu would have to contend with during the reign of Murad III, there were certainly factions, and rival power wielders such as the sultan’s tutor Hoca Ataullah.23 Part of the book’s mission would have been to portray Sokollu in a positive light so as to counter the negative opinions about the grand vizier. The text appears to do this, while the image underlines his power, with a certain amount of subversiveness. The difference between the initial audience of Marker’s film and the initial audience of Ottoman illustrated histories is significant. When La Jetée was first released, it brought novelty, not only through its use of photomontage, but also because its subject matter involved time travel and a dystopic future. Its subject matter was the future rather than the past, and so the events depicted in it had not happened yet, unlike events in a book of history. At any rate, since it is a work of fiction, the events described in La Jetée could not have been “known” by any of the audience members beforehand, unless they had watched the film before. The success of the film depended on the ignorance of the audience. La Jetée used the alienation provided by the dystopia and the unusual narrative technique, to generate its shock value which in turn enhanced the viewing experience. The manuscripts discussed here, by contrast, depend on the audience’s familiarity with the types of images and narrative techniques to work. Only the audience who had seen multiple such images would recognize the similarity between Sokollu’s depiction in front of a tent and that of Süleyman or Selim’s accession scenes. Likewise, it was again the familiar viewer who could see the differences of degree in luxury as described earlier.

23 Emine Fetvacı, “The Production of the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān,” Muqarnas 26 (2009): 263–315, esp. 270.

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The book’s sole intended audience was not the contemporaneous and knowledgeable one, of course. Books such as this were also made to preserve and indeed shape memories and create a favorable historical record. Later audiences (like us) would not necessarily know the events depicted first hand, and are more akin to the viewers of La Jetée. For them the image without the words would perhaps not be read as a grand vizier but as a sultan. The words of the book then would explain the identity of the person, and justify the grandiose depiction. Together, the words and the images of the book would create the full picture of Sokollu’s role in this crucial juncture of Ottoman history and present him as a larger than life hero.

Voice-Over and Subjectivity: When the Analogy Works A second example which allows us to examine the word-image relationship comes from later in the manuscript where ceremonies relating to the transfer of rule are depicted. As we learn from Feridun Ahmed’s account, the sultan died in his tent during the night before Szigetvár was fully conquered. His death was concealed from the military, and was not revealed until the new sultan, Selim II, could meet with the army on its return journey to the capital. Sokollu had to take extraordinary measures to keep the Süleyman’s death a secret. Folios 101a–102a detail how the sultan’s body was perfumed with musk and ambergris in order to conceal his death from the army in the middle of the campaign. The body was then placed in a coffin, wrapped in a shroud and textiles from Mecca. The coffin was in turn placed in a carriage so it would not be seen by the soldiers. The silahdar was ordered by the grand vizier to stay behind the sultan’s head in the carriage and wave his handkerchief in the sultan’s place, to greet his warriors (fols. 101b–102a). When it was time to begin marching back, the carriage came out of the imperial tent. The officers and soldiers were lined up outside the tent and saluted the sultan, and then a slow march began.24 Figure 3 depicts the carriage bearing Süleyman’s coffin leaving the campsite. The green carriage carrying the sultan’s body emerges from the white imperial tent on the right, and moves towards the left side. Sokollu Mehmed Pasha is pictured directly below the carriage. The spatial relationship between his body and the sultan’s echoes the placement of the two in the Topkapı Palace, more specifically, in the imperial council chamber, where the grand vizier would be

24 TSMK H 1339, 101a-102a.

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Figure 3: Sultan Süleyman’s Casket Leaving the Imperial Tent. Feridun Ahmed Beg’s Nüzhetü’l-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār. Istanbul, 1568–69. Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi, H 1339, fols. 103b-104a. Photo: Hadiye Cangökçe. By permission of the Directorate of Museums, the Presidency of the Republic of Turkey. seated directly below the sultan’s viewing window, as his shadow and deputy.25 Sokollu is depicted in full glory, with richly embroidered horse trappings and plain blue and green mourning attire. He leads the group of four viziers behind him who proceed in parallel fashion, at the bottom of the page. The physical relation between the positions of the viziers (and the guards on either side of the coffin) to the ruler, and to each other, replicates the courtly hierarchy as they would be around the living sultan. Sokollu’s undeniable primacy in this composition is based on his isolated position below the imperial carriage, his richly decorated horse, his large turban and his stately pose. The green carriage bearing the sultan’s body has its curtains drawn to the side so the coffin, with the sultan’s turban placed above it, is easily visible. Reading the text, however, makes it clear that the coffin was not visible, but was deliberately hidden. The carriage leaving the tent was thought by the army to contain an ailing sultan, not a dead one. Thus, as the text leading up to this image explains, Sokollu approached the carriage and pretended to read some documents to the sultan

25 Fetvacı, Picturing History, 1–6; Necipoǧlu, Architecture, Ceremonial and Power, 76–86.

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so the army would not suspect death.26 The clear visual depiction of the coffin indicates that by the time the book came to be written and illustrated, everyone knew that the sultan had been dead. The image then contains two separate realities. The first one, which is described in the surrounding text, was the reality of the soldiers who thought the grand vizier was simply talking to the sultan. The other reality is the one of the reader of the book—that the sultan was already dead at the moment depicted. In this case, the text (and external knowledge) reminds us that we are not supposed to see a coffin here, but the image makes no secret of it. In another context, without the voice-over of the text or of historical knowledge, one would think of this as a funerary scene, and would assume that the people in the scene were in fact mourning the sultan. This time, we have an excellent analogy in Marker’s La Jetée, as the words are needed to explain what happened while there is also a complicated play on time and memory which gives meaning to the image. Which of the readings is primary? We are again compelled to think of the makers and the audience of the image. Surely, they were close enough to the event to know that the grand vizier concealed the sultan’s death until the army reached Belgrade. Why then depict a visible coffin? Is this simply carelessness and not paying attention to the details, or does it point to a small fissure in the image-text relationship? Given the multiple drafts usually made of books such as this, and the otherwise flawless execution of the paintings, the former is hard to believe.27 A deliberate departure from the verbal account seems much more likely. Instead of showing us what the text describes, the image makes obvious, and indeed underlines, what we all know: the sultan was dead, and the carriage was carrying a coffin. The artist gestures towards the fact that as he painted the image, he knew the reality. As a result, he is forcing us to think about the moment of depiction, and not only the moment depicted. The artist thus inserts himself into the narrative now before our eyes. While this is not quite the same level of subjectivity evident in the first-person narratives that Cemal Hoca has written about, it is nevertheless present. The next image in the transition sequence (fig. 4) depicts Selim II praying by his father’s coffin; the grand vizier’s duty of ensuring a peaceful march and uneventful announcement of the sultan’s death now complete, he recedes into the background. The text preceding this painting tells us the grand vizier stood to the right of the sultan as he said his funeral prayer, but it is difficult to even identify

26 TSMK H 1339, 102b-103a. 27 For the details of the production process, see Fetvacı, “The Production of the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān.”

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the grand vizier from among the rest of the court around the sultan.28 The visual narrative follows the words of the text, yet the paintings almost appear as a double feature. Two funeral scenes, one presided over by the grand vizier (fig. 3), and the other by the new sultan (fig. 4), expand the theme of transition that imbues the book and adds to Sokollu’s aura. The double funerals also create another opportunity to view Sokollu in a role adopted in other images by a sultan: the heir to the throne who participates in the funeral of his deceased father.

Figure 4: Selim II with his father’s funeral procession. Feridun Ahmed Beg’s Nüzhetü’l-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār. Istanbul, 1568–69. Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi, H 1339, fols. 103b-104a. Photo: Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi, Istanbul. By permission of the Directorate of Museums, the Presidency of the Republic of Turkey.

Conclusion In this manuscript, as in many works of illustrated Ottoman history, word and image work in tandem to create a narrative—at times contradicting each other, 28 TKSM H 1339, 109b–110a.

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and at times amplifying the same message. The paintings in the manuscript are among the earliest works attributed to the artist Osman, who, along with his colleagues in the corps of artisans, was responsible for the development of a particular visual idiom for the illustration of history.29 The historical idiom they created, and already on display here, privileges narrative clarity, and uses simple, pared down compositions with parallel lines. It emphasizes horizontals and verticals at the expense of diagonals, and also has a relatively limited palette. The aim seems to be to depict an orderly world, and to create the illusion that the Ottoman court is immune to change, that things are as they always have been.30 The legibility of the illustrations also suggests a certain transparency to them, implying that they depict events “as they happened.” But of course, these are representations, and as such, are only a version of “what happened.” The analysis of the image-text relationship, especially in the subversive or at least complicated cases discussed here, renders this more evident. The historical idiom’s deliberately limited vocabulary of compositions and subject matter and their repeated use contributes to the impression of transparency that the paintings create. The more familiar the images are, the more real they seem. The explanation provided by the narrative helps to anchor these images in a particular sequence and puts them in relationship with each other, much like the still images of La Jetée are inserted into a narrative sequence through the voice-over. However, the images in illustrated Ottoman histories convey their meaning through their familiarity to the audience, while the images of La Jetée work to alienate the audience, who, by definition, is not familiar with the strange future depicted by the film. The juxtaposition of 60s cinema with sixteenth-century manuscript painting, inspired by Professor Kafadar’s creative questioning, thus leads to a clearer understanding of the image-text relationship by bringing the audience into the equation.

29 Fetvacı, Picturing History, 75–94; Şebnem Parladır, “Sigetvar Seferi tarihi ve Nakkaş Osman,” Sanat Tarihi Dergisi 16, no. 1 (2007): 67–108. 30 Fetvacı, Picturing History, 78–80.

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How Did Evliya Çelebi Write His Travel Account? Hakan T. Karateke

More than a decade ago I sat in on Cemal Kafadar’s seminar on Evliya Çelebi’s (1611–after 1683) travel account the Seyahatname. The course was open to all interested parties—students, of course, but also visiting scholars and regular faculty at Harvard—and as such it generated a rich exchange of views. I remember many things from that delightful seminar, but one particular discussion stuck with me for years, instigated me to develop a close eye to the potential particulars related to that issue while reading Evliya Çelebi’s travel account, and eventually to write this article.1 One student gave a presentation exploring the circumstances around the composition of the travel account, and argued that our assessment of this work needed to be completely reevaluated, mainly because Evliya wrote the book at the end of his life reflecting back. It was a memoir, so to speak, chronologically earlier parts of which were likely heavily adjusted by the author to the course of events that took place later in his life. We needed to view his depiction of events, and even his errors, through that lens. The student’s methodological query was critically important: Pondering the circumstances in which the work was composed is essential to understanding 1

1 I am grateful to Helga Anetshofer and Robert Dankoff for sharing their thoughts on this article.

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the text. Ascertaining that the work in its entirety was or was not composed at the end of Evliya’s life in Cairo would necessarily complicate our view of his account. Remarks made by a mature man some sixty years of age and decades after an event would likely be entirely different in character than those jotted down in the heat of the moment or shortly thereafter. This issue boils down to two major questions: 1) Did Evliya turn his notes into a full-blown narrative later in his life in Cairo? Or, 2) Did he write his travel account during his travels? The general assumption has been that Evliya took notes (the precise nature of which remains obscure) while traveling, and wove them into his work when he sat down to write it in Cairo after 1673. Apart from his conscious or subconscious fine-tuned presentation of events, a work this size will inevitably contain errors, inconsistencies, skipped lines, missing words, orthographic mistakes, and more. In fact, an approach that views the Seyahatname as a pure mine of information for extracting numbers and descriptions is bound to encounter occasional disappointments. Discrepancies are not solely a natural consequence of the genre in which the work is composed—a genre that customarily shifted between the realms of fact and fiction—or because Evliya himself had a penchant for exaggeration. Rather, many errors stem from the very natural process of redaction and editing (or the imperfections thereof) of any work of this magnitude. One might argue that Evliya was further disadvantaged by his working conditions. He traveled long distances on horseback, and would presumably have had to take quick notes as he proceeded on occasion. Students of history learn early on that all source texts are composed in diverse circumstances and as a result of a multitude of motives. Autobiographical works are particularly prone to distortions or attempts to whitewash the author’s reputation. Therefore, it would be no surprise if Evliya indeed calibrated his narrative in a way to reflect well on himself and those he held dear. However, the fundamental question of how this remarkable man composed his travel account, which amounts to some thirteen thousand A4 pages in Latinized transliteration, still remains an unsolved problem in scholarship. Insights into the circumstances of its composition would provide us with new perspectives on the work as a whole, but also potentially the particulars therein. The procedure of copying the travel text into volumes, the first eight of which we today suppose are the autograph copies, has been meticulously studied by Richard Kreutel, Pierre MacKay, and Robert Dankoff.2 According to Dankoff ’s

2 Richard F. Kreutel, “Neues zur Evliyâ-Çelebi-Forschung,” Der Islam 48 (1972): 269–279; Pierre A. MacKay, “The Manuscripts of the Seyahatname of Evliya Çelebi, part 1, The Archetype,” Der Islam 52 (1975): 278–298; Robert Dankoff, “Where

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hypotheses, a secretary initially copied out the consonantal skeleton of the work (initial fair copy), and later, Evliya himself went over the text, added diacritics and vowels, but also made some interlinear and marginal corrections and additions (final fair copy).3 How the final product came into being is crucial and holds clues to my arguments here. However, this article is not directly concerned with the final copying process in Cairo. Rather, I scrutinize clues in the text which indicate when certain parts were composed. How do I do it? The fact that the narrative follows Evliya’s travels over the years largely in chronological order, with some flashbacks, allows us to test whether certain of his observations actually fit within the timeframe he is supposed to be writing, or if they seem to be composed retrospectively in Cairo. I suggest two strategies that can be used to help us understand the circumstances around the composition of Evliya’s account: To scrutinize the attributes of persons Evliya knew well and compare them with real-time happenings. I will list my hypotheses at the end of the article, so suffice it to summarize my final argument here: Evliya did not compose most parts of the travel account in Cairo. Rather, the traveler wrote sections of his travel account on the road— either during and between trips or a short time thereafter—as complete sections to be incorporated into the finished product. They were, therefore not (at least not all of them) taken as haphazard incomplete notes to be formed into a coherent narrative later. Equally importantly, it seems most of these complete sections were included in the text with minimal stylistic editing or no editing at all. There is evidence to support the position that Evliya worked in this way. This would also arguably have been the efficient way to write a book of this magnitude. A man who traveled so often would have easily forgotten or mixed up details of his travels. So, he wrote them as complete sections with the intention of compiling them into a travelogue later. What, then, did Evliya do in Cairo? He primarily arranged the order of the text and worked on transliterating the final fair copy on the large sheets that would constitute the final product. He also composed the sections based on his recent travels from his base out in Cairo. Since a large part of the text is in chronological order, it is reasonable to assume that his notes and chapters were organized according to years or trips. They were perhaps loose leaves of paper stacked or bound together. With an assistant clerk’s help, he undertook the

is Evliya Çelebi in the Autograph Manuscript of the Seyahatname?,” unpublished paper, n.d., accessed November 27, 2012, https://www.academia.edu/12820485/ Where_is_Evliya_%C3%87elebi_in_the_autograph_manuscript_of_the_Seyahatname. 3 Ibid.

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arduous task of copying these large chunks of prewritten texts into what would eventually become the fair copy. His assistant first transcribed the consonantal skeleton of the work on to the sheets. Evliya later put the diacritics, made some corrections, and added a few marginalia, interlinear sentences and transitions between sections.4 While doing this, Evliya reworked the order of the volumes. His actual travels start in volume 2. Most probably, the complete travel account would have opened with that volume in the original arrangement. Inserting volume 1 on Istanbul at the beginning of the account and volume 10 on Cairo at the end of the work were probably late decisions.5 My strategy below is to compare “time sensitive” information about a few individuals in the travel account. I deliberately chose people Evliya knew well, since I assume that he would be well-informed about them and up to speed about their appointments. Moreover, since these were people for whom he had a special affinity, I would expect him to refer to them using the proper prayers to denote their passing. In the two cases that I focus on, the clues demonstrate that Evliya refers to these people with the information concurrent to the time of his travels. Therefore, he must have written these sections as he travelled, and not later in life in Cairo.

Seydi Ahmed Pasha’s Execution Having met him first in 1057/1647 during Seydi Ahmed’s tenure as the provincial governor of Tortum in eastern Anatolia, Evliya later developed a special attachment to the pasha, who was also a friend of Evliya’s patron Melek Ahmed.6 The traveler narrates in detail about the raids he participated alongside Seydi Ahmed and portrays him in a fairly sympathetic way. The pasha was executed on the orders of grand vizier Köprülü Mehmed Pasha on 19 Şevval

4 For instance, he occasionally introduces topics that are digressions from the main narrative with “As the following fits the topic, I include it here” “Bu mahalle münasib olmagıla tahrir olundu” or similar formulae; cf. Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, 10 vols, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Library, Bağdat 307, 5:103b, passim. 5 See Hakan Karateke, “How Did the Volume Arrangement of Evliya Çelebi’s Travel Account Evolve?” Evliya Çelebi in the Borderlands: New Insights and Novel Approaches to the Seyahatname (Western Balkans and Iran Sections). Vjeran Kursar, Nenad Moačanin, Kornelija Jurin Starčević, eds. (Zagreb, 2021), pp. 129–148. For a possible timeline of the volume organization that article and the present one are complementary and should be read in tandem. 6 Robert Dankoff, The Intimate Life of an Ottoman Statesman: Melek Ahmed Pasha (1588–1662): As Portrayed in Evliya Çelebi’s Book of Travels (Seyahat-name) (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), 11–12.

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1071/17 June 1661. Evliya had joined the ranks of Melek Ahmed in Timișoara a few days earlier and was present when the events leading up to Seydi Ahmed’s execution unfolded. He included a long and captivating narrative of the reasons and circumstances of the pasha’s death in the travel account.7 A close scrutiny of Evliya’s references to Seydi Ahmed with the adjective merhum, or “the deceased,” provides us with some clues of the composition dates of certain sections in his travel account. Several references particularly in volume 2, but also a few in volumes 3 and 4 never mention the pasha as merhum. Evliya’s first meeting with the pasha occurs in Tortum, as mentioned above, and is narrated in volume 2.8 Volume 5 begins with the night of mirac 27 Receb 1066/20–21 May 1656 in Mosul and ends with a lengthy description of Seydi Ahmed’s execution on 19 Şevval 1071/17 June 1661. This volume is also replete with references to Seydi Ahmed, but not once is the pasha referred to as merhum until his execution is related at the very end of that volume. Obviously written only a little time after the unfortunate event, volume 6 contains vivid expressions of lamentation on the pasha’s execution. Hereafter, Evliya consistently mentions him as merhum throughout that volume. Volume 7, as well, refers to the pasha as “deceased,” but the frequency of references to him decreases, as, we can assume, the pasha’s active participation in Evliya’s life and psyche gradually faded away. Looking at Evliya’s references to Seydi Ahmed, it is reasonable to argue that most of these sections were written on the go, as he travelled, and as events unfolded. Volume 1 presents an anomaly. Of the six times Seydi Ahmed gets mentioned in this volume, it is clear from context or attributes that these sections were written after the pasha’s demise. Evliya refers to him as merhum, as “şehid efendimiz Seydi Ahmed Paşa” (“our master Seydi Ahmed Pasha, the martyr”),9 and once alludes to his execution.10 On the other hand, the pasha’s name gets mentioned three times without any attribute that would indicate that he had passed away. I have hypothesized elsewhere that there was no volume 1 dedicated to Istanbul in Evliya’s initial plan and that it was a late decision in Evliya’s arrangement of the volumes.11 The account would have opened with his travels in chronological time, which begin in volume 2 in the current arrangement. When he decided that volume 1 would be devoted to Istanbul, the change pushed the 7 Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Library, Bağdat 307, 5:183b. 8 Idem, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Library, Bağdat 304, 2:328bf. 9 Ibid., 1:51a. 10 Ibid., 1:85b. 11 Karateke, “How Did the Volume Arrangement of Evliya Çelebi’s Travel Account Evolve?”

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original arrangement of volumes 1 and 2 one volume ahead. This hypothesis is buttressed by Evliya’s references to Seydi Ahmed’s demise in current volume 1. Volume 1 was probably partially written earlier, but also was rearranged with many additions at the end of the process of organizing the volume order. Did Evliya have to include the attribute merhum every time he mentioned Seydi Ahmed after his passing? He did not have to, but his close friendship with the pasha, the fact that he had to witness the pasha’s execution, which probably left a scar in the traveler’s psyche, should all be taken as indicators that he would refer to the pasha with the formula merhum, which means “one whom God has taken into his mercy.” The other possibility is that Evliya carefully marked Seydi Ahmed merhum only in the sections after his death in the narrative, which does not seem likely to me. My premise here is that if Evliya indeed “composed” the entirety of the travel account, that is, wrote whole sections anew based on his notes at the end of his life in Cairo, he would spontaneously refer to Seydi Ahmed as merhum every time he mentioned him—before or after his execution in the narrative. Yet, his references to him with or without the attribute fit exactly to the chronology of the events. Therefore, the likelihood that the traveler wrote complete sections during his travels and that they were incorporated without (much) editing is very high.

Dahki Efendi’s Career12 Dahki Efendi was the head judge of Istanbul and later served for a short period of time as military judge of Rumelia. We can follow his career from contemporary sources. He was appointed the head judge of Istanbul for the first time on 15 Zi’l-ka‘de 1070/23 July 1660, dismissed from that post on 17 Rebi‘ I 1071/20 November 1660, appointed to the military judgeship of Rumelia on 4 Zi’l-hicce 1080/25 April 1670, and then dismissed from that post after seven months on 15 Receb 1081/28 November 1670.13

12 An earlier version of this section appeared in Hakan Karateke, Evliya Çelebi’s Journey from Bursa to the Dardanelles and Edirne: From the Fifth Book of Seyahatname (Leiden: E .J. Brill, 2013), 11–14. 13 Abdurrahman Abdi, Vekâyi‘-nâme: Osmanlı tarihi 1648–1682: Tahlil ve Metin Tenkidi, ed. Fahri Ç. Derin (Istanbul: Çamlıca, 2008), 337; İsazade Abdullah, ʻÎsâ-zâde târı̂hi: Metin ve Tahlı̂l, ed. Ziya Yılmazer (Istanbul: İstanbul Fetih Cemiyeti, 1996), 65, 67, 106, 109. The dates in Sicill-i ʿOsmani are not accurate: Mehmed Süreyya, Sicill-i ʿOsmani, vol. 4 (Istanbul: 1308–1316/1890–99), 401.

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Evliya evidently knew Dahki Efendi personally. He mentions that he received medication from him for his ailing eyes and, on another occasion, obtained a letter of introduction from him when Evliya visited Tire, a town whose revenues were allocated to Dahki at the time. In total, Evliya mentions his acquaintance Dahki three times in the Seyahatname with reference to his rank: (1) in Muharrem 1070/October 1659, as the military judge of Rumelia (kadı‘asker-i Rum);14 (2) in Zi’l-ka‘de 1077/May 1667, with a statement of well-wishing (“may God bring him to a happy end”)—probably in reference to his less than triumphant professional career at the time (Allah ‘akıbetin hayr eyleye)15—and (3) during Evliya’s pilgrimage in 1082/1671, as a dismissed military judge of Rumelia.16 Below are the relevant sections: (1) Muharrem 1070/October 1659; SN 5:92a [Bozcaada] Misket üzümü olur kim rub‘-ı meskunda yokdur. Hatta Kadı‘asker-i Rum Dahki Efendi baglarında olan on yedi gune mümessek üzümü olur kim cebel-i Sincarda olmaz. [The muscatel grapes are matchless [on the Island of Bozcaada]. The seventeen different types of fragrant grapes that grow in the vineyards of Dahki Efendi, the Military Judge of Rumelia, are not even to be found on Sinjar Mountain.] (2) Zi’l-ka‘de 1077/May 1667; SN 8:203b–204a Hikmet-i Bari bir hafta içinde taʿundan altı nefer ad[ed] ‘abd-i memluklarımın güzideleri merhum olup hakir kamil iki ay göz agrısı çeküp Allah ‘akıbetin hayr eyleye Dahki Efendi hazretleri meger üstad-i kamil kehhal imiş, hakire guna-gun şaflar ve gunagun münciler ile gözlerime deva edüp hamd-i Huda gözlerim ‘Arab meşali gibi münevver oldu. [By divine wisdom, six of my outstanding slaves passed away from plague in one week. I also suffered from an ache in my eyes for a full two months. Dahki Efendi—may God bring him to a happy end—as it turns out, is an expert eye doctor. He gave me several different medications and cured my eyes. Thanks be to God, my eyes became as bright as an Arab torch.]

14 Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Library, Bağdat 307, 5:92a. 15 Idem, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Library, Bağdat 308, 8:203b. 16 Idem, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Library, Bağdat 306, 9Y:80a.

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(3) 1082/1671; SN 9Y:80a [Tire] Ve şehri beş yüz akçe mevleviyyetdir. Zamanımızda Rumeli kadı‘askerliginden ma‘zul Dahki (---) Efendi hazretlerine bervech-i arpalık ihsan olunup kendülerinin mektub-ı dürerbarları ile bu şehrde ka’immakamı olan Yusuf Efendiye gelüp mahkemede mihman olup. . . . [[The town of Tire] is a molla district with a salary of five hundred akçe. Nowadays, its income is allocated to his excellency Dahki Efendi, who was a Military Judge of Rumelia—currently out of office. I arrived in this town with an eloquent recommendation letter from him and stayed at the courthouse as a guest of Yusuf Efendi, the deputy governor of the town.] Evliya’s latter two references mirror Dahki’s actual contemporary occupational situation: his blessing of well-wishing, apparently uttered with some empathy for his friend, comes at a time when Dahki had been unemployed since having been dismissed from the judgeship of Istanbul some seven years prior. The third time Evliya mentions Dahki, he is referred to as the dismissed military judge of Rumelia, six months to a year after he was discharged from that office. However, the first time Dahki’s name is mentioned, Evliya refers to him as the current military judge of Rumelia; the date of that journey is 1070/1659, that Table 1. Dahki Efendi: Timeline

Appointments Istanbul kadısı—appointed Istanbul kadısı—dismissed

Date October 1659 23 July 1660 20 November 1660 May 1667

Rumeli kadı‘askeri—appointed Rumeli kadı‘askeri—dismissed

Evliya mentions “kadı‘asker-i Rum”

“Allah ‘akıbetin hayr eyleye”

25 April 1670 28 November 1670 1671

“zamanımızda Rumeli kadı‘askerliginden maʿzul”

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is, some eleven years before Dahki would be appointed to that position. How are we to understand this? There is no solution to this conundrum other than assuming that either a) Evliya edited this section during Dahki’s eventual sevenmonth tenure as the military judge of Rumelia, that is, between 4 Zilhicce 1080/25 April 1670 and 15 Receb 1081/28 November 1670; or b) He actually wrote this section later, based on his notes from that time. The latter seems unlikely; it is illogical to suppose that Evliya would refer to Dahki as the military judge of Rumelia after his dismissal (that is, writing in Cairo after 1673), when he referred to him as a dismissed military judge (ma‘zul) a year after his dismissal in 1082/1671, as mentioned above. These three references clearly suggest three different composition dates for these sections. It would be safe to assume that Evliya had up-to-date information about his friend Dahki’s appointments. The first safe conclusion we can arrive at, then, is that Evliya did not rewrite or sweepingly edit these sections before he inserted them into the final version of the Seyahatname. As was mentioned above, probably a secretary transcribed these chapters into the final manuscript in any case. It is safe to assume he would not have had authorization to change the text, even if he were to spot any awkwardness therein. If it was not Evliya’s preferred method to incorporate the previously written sections into the final product without editing, that is, if he in fact constructed a narrative out of years-old notes, one would imagine he would have updated the various titles of his friend while copying them into the manuscript. Certainly there may be other reasons why the references to Dahki are varied, but to my mind, the assumption that he inserted them into the text wholesale, without further editing, is the most plausible.

Conclusion By scrutinizing “time sensitive” information about individuals mentioned in the Seyahatname, it may be possible to glean clues as to when the traveler composed the relevant sections. I availed myself only of two examples here and probed the concordance of this information with events in real time. More examples are available in the text. Admittedly, this method is not completely free of error, but it nevertheless provides us with some data regarding Evliya’s working method.

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My preliminary findings suggest that the traveler composed at least some parts of his travel account during, between, or a short time after his trips. He wrote them as complete sections and, later, incorporated them in Cairo into the book that would be the final product. He probably did not undertake major stylistic copyediting during this process. Therefore, viewing the entire Seyahatname exclusively as an elder man’s reflection upon his life’s travels is not the correct approach. That said, the natural process of copyediting a book would require that some missing sections would be filled in the final stages of compilation. Therefore, there may have been sections that Evliya composed for the first time in Cairo. Keeping Evliya’s circumstances and working methods in mind, scholars should closely examine the sections of their interest and decide whether they were written at the time of Evliya’s travels or much later, in Cairo.

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Book Ownership Across Centuries: The Case of Military Men in Bursa, 1620–1840 Hülya Canbakal, Meredith Quinn, and Derin Terzioğlu Drawing on probate inventories (tereke) from the Bursa kadi court, this chapter analyzes the book collections of the military population from the seventeenth to the early nineteenth century. The initial idea behind it was to combine two themes that we believe are close to the heart of our dear hoca: janissaries and books. We set out to investigate long-term patterns of book-holding among janissaries and the kinds of books they were interested in. When we began to examine their probates, however, we found out quickly that very few of the ordinary troopsmen were in the habit of possessing books. As a result, we expanded the scope of our investigation to include all members of the military. We provide a descriptive case study of book ownership in Bursa with careful attention to methodology. In particular, we consider the challenges of comparing any single social group over time given that the composition and relative social position of the group changed. We also attend to the complex matter of assigning book titles to genres, an exercise that is essential for making generalizations about book collections but is similarly complicated by changing definitions. We have found that seemingly technical matters—such as defining a sample or determining the genre of a book—in fact raise core questions about social and intellectual history. In the midst of a growing number of localized case studies on book ownership, we hope to contribute both a local case study and also a perspective on the methodological choices that book history scholars make.

Book Ownership Across Centuries

This study focuses on book ownership rather than on the more complex topics of reading, literacy rates, or the ways that books were used. As many others have noted, book ownership is an imperfect proxy for literacy and intellectual engagement.1 Just because people owned books does not mean that they read them—or agreed with what they contained! Conversely, there is abundant evidence that Ottoman readers read—or listened to—books that they did not own.2 While book ownership does not precisely indicate literacy or interest in particular ideas, neither is the ownership of books irrelevant to how individuals engaged with books. For the sake of accuracy, we hew closely to measures of book ownership and only very carefully suggest how these measures relate to literacy, intellectual interests, and overall engagement with books.

The Military in Bursa and Their Probates: Source, Method, and Context The probates used in this study have been extracted from a database of about 17,000 inventories covering Bursa and six other regions in the central lands of the empire. In this chapter, we examine Bursa in the period from 1620 to 1840 and follow the chronological structure of the mentioned database (Table 1).3 As

1 In addition, most scholars recognize “literacy” to be multifaceted rather than a singular, narrow measure of ability to decipher the written word. Derin Terzioğlu, “The Debate on Vernacular Literacy” (paper presented at the annual meeting of the Middle East Studies Association, Washington, DC, December 2, 2011); Dana Sajdi, The Barber of Damascus: Nouveau Literacy in the Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Levant (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2013); Derin Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident in the Ottoman Empire: Niyāzī-i Mıṣrī (1618–1694)” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1999), 77–79; Konrad Hirschler, The Written Word in the Medieval Arabic Lands: A Social and Cultural History of Reading Practices (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012), 16; Nelly Hanna, “Literacy and the ‘Great Divide’ in the Islamic World, 1300–1800,” Journal of Global History 2, no. 2 (2007): 175–193; Carl F. Kaestle, “The History of Literacy and the History of Readers,” Review of Research in Education 12 (1985): 11–53; Patricia Crain, “New Histories of Literacy,” in Companion to the History of the Book, ed. Simon Eliot and Jonathan Rose (Malden: Blackwell, 2007), 467–479. 2 Zehra Öztürk, “Osmanlı Döneminde Kıraat Meclislerinde Okunan Halk Kitapları,” Türkiye Araştırmaları Literatür Dergisi 5, no. 9 (2007): 401–446; Elif Sezer, The Oral and the Written in Ottoman Literature: The Reader Notes on the Story of Fîrûzşâh (Istanbul: Libra Kitapçılık ve Yayıncılık, 2015), 72–76; Tülün Değirmenci, “Bir Kitabı Kaç Kişi Okur? Osmanlı’da Okurlar ve Okuma Biçimleri Üzerine Bazı Gözlemler,” Tarih ve Toplum 13, no. 253 (2011): 7–43; Antoine Galland, Journal d’Antoine Galland pendant son séjour à Constantinople, 1672–1673 (Paris: E. Leroux, 1881), 242. 3 Hülya Canbakal, “Distribution of Wealth in the Ottoman Empire, 16th–19th Centuries,” TÜBİTAK Project No. 108K034, 2008–2012. The statistical infrastructure of the database has been managed by Alpay Filiztekin. Henceforth DWOE. For sampling and other details

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the share of the rural and non-Muslim decedents in the probate population is uneven across time and generally limited, we base our statistical survey of book ownership on probates of the urban Muslims alone (n=1270 male, 817 female decedents). For our detailed analysis of titles and genres, however, we use all military probates containing books (n=110 libraries), including those of rural residents as well as travelers who died in Bursa. The latter two add up to thirteen inventories of which four belong to rural decedents. In terms of the content and the size of the collections, the four rural collections are no different from urban inventories. The “libraries” of the travelers, however, are naturally all small and create a downward bias in the size distribution of the collections. Table 1. Sample size  

Urban Muslims

Military

Military book owners

1620–1640

203

60

8

1660–1680

483

57

7

1700–1720

249

67

18

1740–1760

447

78

20

1780–1800

429

93

39

1820–1840

276

33

18

ALL

2087

355

110

The chronological limits of this study are partly dictated by the source itself. There are very few identifiable military probates from before the seventeenth century4 and none are members of the central troops except for a certain janissary from the early sixteenth century. This is not surprising. Kul troops from Istanbul, both janissaries and cavalrymen came to be stationed in Bursa, like other places in Anatolia, after Bayezid’s rebellion of 1558 but it was after the Celali turmoil that settlement of the members of the central army in the provinces accelerated.5 It would appear that around the same time, the central bureaucracy in Istanbul generated the Askeri Kassam Defterleri, the register series

see Hülya Canbakal and Alpay Filiztekin, “Wealth and Demography in Ottoman Probate Inventories: A Database in Very Long-Term Perspective,” Historical Methods 54, no. 2 (2021): 94–127. 4 The sampling method used for the database in question is stratified random sampling. Therefore, we assume that the relative share of various population groups in the database reflects their share in the registers as a whole. 5 M. Asım Yediyıldız, “Şer‘iye Sicillerine göre Bursa’nın Sosyo-Ekonomik Yapısı, 1656–1658,” Vakıflar Dergisi 23 (1994): 177–228.

Book Ownership Across Centuries

containing estate inventories of the state elite. These were in addition to registers kept scattered in different quarters of the capital, a development that can be attributed to bureaucratic specialization, a new drive at fiscal centralization as well as growth of the elite population and a change in their resource base. The terminus of our inquiry (1840) to some extent reflects conventional periodization, i.e., abolition of the janissary corps and the onset of the Tanzimat era. At the same time, likely changes in our source material, the content of the inventories, as well as the probate population, pose methodological challenges for more extended analysis. As rich and indispensable as they are for students of Ottoman society and culture, terekes have important limitations they share with post-mortem inventories in other parts of the early modern world. Limitations concerning the content of the records and composition of the decedents with inventoried estates affect the representative value of the source whether they are used to take a momentary snapshot of things or to trace change over time, and both are relevant for the present study.6

Books in Probates: Issues of Content When using probate inventories to study books and book ownership, as with any other component of wealth, one faces the possibility that some items have been excluded, deliberately or by chance. First, intervivos transfer of assets as gifts or endowments before death by definition escape probate records, and generate a picture of a poorer book culture since we have no records of the private libraries that ordinary people kept while still alive. Second, some books may have simply been overlooked during the inventory process, especially those of lower value. Even when cheap books are recorded, one would not expect equal diligence in the inventory process.7 They would be more prone to oversight or collective valuation as “books” (kütüb) without listing individual titles, and the number of volumes or even the total value would sometimes be left unspecified (Appendix 1). Therefore, it is safe to assume that the book count in any individual collection in probates is most likely an underestimation. Furthermore, the degree of underestimation can vary if conventions of inventorying changed over time. It is known, for example, that European and North American estate inventories moved towards leaner records in the

6 For a methodological discussion, see Canbakal and Filiztekin, “A Database.” 7 Meredith Moss Quinn, “Books and Their Readers in Seventeenth-Century Istanbul” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2016), 27.

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eighteenth century with reduced number of entries and more collectively valued items replacing detail.8 The main reason for this was the proliferation of consumer goods and the decline of prices. Paradoxically, therefore, the cheaper and the more widespread some goods became, the less visible they were in probates. An implausibly sharp drop observed in book ownership in Bursa records in the nineteenth century and later suggests that a similar shift may have occurred here, too, and cautions us against a superficial reading of what probates tell us in long-term perspective.9

Book Owners in Probates: Issues of Demographic Composition Demographic biases of early modern probate inventories are well known and largely common across countries that produced and used them. Most important among these are class, gender, residence and, naturally enough, age.10 A number of methods have been tried in European and North American historiography

8 Jeff Cox and Nancy Cox, “Probate 1500–1800: A System in Transition,” in When Death Do Us Part: Understanding and Interpreting the Probate Records of Early Modern England, ed. T. Arkell, N. Evans, and N. Goose (Oxford: Leopard’s Head Press, 2000), 31; Ad van der Woude and Anton Schuurman, ed., Probate Inventories: A New Source for the Historical Study of Wealth, Material Culture and Agricultural Development (Utrecht: HES, 1980); Esteban Nicolini and Fernando Ramos Palencia, “A New Method for Estimating the Money Demand in PreIndustrial Economies: Probate Inventories and Spain and the Eighteenth Century,” European Review of Economic History 14, no. 1 (2010): 155. For a similar tendency in eighteenth-century Cretan records, see Gilles Veinstein and Yolande Triantafyllidou-Baladié, “Les inventaires après décès ottomans de Crète,” in Probate Inventories, ed. van der Woude and Schuurman, 202. 9 The opposite trend among the military decedents until 1840 hides this general pattern in Bursa. However, no such downturn is observed in other regions for which we have data up to 1840 in the DWOE database. The only exception is Kayseri. Book ownership declines significantly here until 1880. Anastassiadou’s study of late nineteenth-century Salonica, too, finds a very low rate of book ownership in probates and Grehan reports what looks like a major drop in respective figures in Damascus from around 1700 to mid-century. All these findings are highly suspicious in light of what period scholarship tells us about cultural trends and call for comparative inquiry into the respective samples as well as local court practices of these regions. Meropi Anastassiadou, “Livres et ‘bibliothèques’ dans les inventaires après décès de Salonique au XIXe siècle,” Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée, 87–88 (1999): 111–141; James P. Grehan, Everyday Life and Consumer Culture in Eighteenth-Century Damascus (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007); Colette Establet and Jean-Paul Pascual, Familles et fortunes à Damas, 450 foyers damascains en 1700 (Damas: I. F. E. A. D, 1994); Colette Establet and Jean-Paul Pascual, La gent d’État dans la société ottomane damascène (Damascus: Presses de l’Ifpo, 2011). 10 See Canbakal and Filiztekin, “A Database.”

Book Ownership Across Centuries

to correct such biases and make the findings more representative of the actual population.11 We make no such adjustment in the present study. The probates in the DWOE database from which we draw our general statistics about book ownership have been sampled in a way to reflect the probate population in the registers at a confidence level of ninety-five percent and no further demographic adjustments have been made. Consequently, the findings in this chapter carry the same degree of biases the registers themselves suffer from, no more and no less. Since this study concerns the military decedents alone, however, status is not relevant here and class bias, too, should be of more limited relevance than in a study of the whole population. In order to identify the members of the military for this study, we have relied on socio-occupational titles and direct occupational information, where available.12 We are aware of the limitations of this method. First, we do not know how consistently titles were used in written or oral culture.13 Secondly, and more importantly for our purposes, the signification of the honorific and socio-occupational titles was not static, probably anywhere or anytime. In the central lands of the Ottoman Empire, the referent of the titles changed in multiple ways over the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries as social mobility and title usurpation for prestige, power, and privilege democratized the markers of distinction, career lines crisscrossed, and the divide between the state elite and the commoners eroded.14 One observes two parallel changes. On the one hand, status competition generated an etiquette of address that promoted the adoption of multiple titles (for example, Seyyid el-Hac Ali Efendi), a graphic expression of what Stone calls “inflation of honors” in the case of contemporary western Europe.15 This process peaked in the eighteenth

11 Carole Shammas, “Constructing a Wealth Distribution from Probate Records,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 9 (1978): 297–307; Peter H. Lindert, “An Algorithm for Probate Sampling,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 11, no. 4 (1981): 649–668; A. Hanson Jones, “Estimating Wealth of the Living from a Probate Sample,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 13, no. 2 (1982): 273–300. For more recent suggestions to deal with selection biases, see Anne E. C. McCants, “Inequality among the Poor of Eighteenth-Century Amsterdam,” Explorations in Economic History 44 (2007): 1–21; Sebastian A. J. Keibek and Leigh Shaw-Taylor, “Early Modern Rural By-Employments: A Re-Examination of the Probate Inventory Evidence,” Agricultural History Review 61 (2013): 244–288. 12 The titles we trace for the military are ağa, beg, beşe, paşa, çavuş. Occupational positions encountered in the Bursa sample from 1620 to 1840 are cündi, el-bevvab el-sultani, racil, çavuş, odabaşı, yeniçeri, çukadar, turnacıbaşı, alemdar, kapıcıbaşı, kapudan-ı derya, muhafız, and vali. 13 Güçlü Tülüveli, “Honorific Titles in Ottoman Parlance: A Reevaluation,” International Journal of Turkish Studies 11, nos. 1–2 (2005): 20–22. 14 Hülya Canbakal, Society and Politics in an Ottoman Town: ʿAyntāb in the Seventeenth Century (Leiden and New York: Brill, 2007), 61–89. 15 Lawrence Stone, The Crisis of the Aristocracy, 1558–1641 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965), 71–95.

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century with triple titles becoming the norm for the top elite—whose wealth, too, was thrice that of the single title holders. On the other hand, old associations between titles, occupations, and status began to wane partly because of title proliferation and partly due to the reshuffling of social identities. Thus, for example, the title efendi, formerly denoting a scholar or a college graduate, probably came to signal literacy and gentility alone, like çelebi in the earlier centuries, while military titles such as ağa and beg were demilitarized, an interesting parallel to which was a decline in weapon ownership among “military” decedents during the same period. Some ağas, nevertheless, continued to hold military positions as late as the nineteenth century.16 The socioeconomic transformation of the military started long before this. We know that career boundaries of kuls were flexible enough for some to engage in petty trade already in the sixteenth century. Bursa was no exception. The military and the world of “business,” that is, crafts, trade and finances, small and big, began to come together early on, blurring the divide between ordinary economic agents and those who had a share in political mechanisms of redistribution.17 Our earliest example is a certain Ferhad Beg from the late sixteenth century, probably a prebend-holder, who owned looms, large stocks of textiles and a coffeehouse.18 From 1620–1640 onwards, members of the central army begin to appear in our database as shop owners, whether as rentiers, traders or, more modestly, as craftsmen, and by the end of the eighteenth century, close to half of the shop owners in Bursa inventories are ağas or beşes, as in Istanbul.19 As a result, it becomes increasingly difficult in the course of the

16 Bursa Court Registers (BCR) B-172/88; B-287/65; B-232/61; C-16/21–22; B-261/56–57; C-28/128; B-309/56–55; C-97 MŞH.ŞSC.d 3119/16b–17a; C-122 MŞH.ŞSC.d 3144/55b56a; possibly, B-222/3–4; B-82/54; B-309/100; B-290/51; C-115 MŞH.ŞSC.d 3137/93a95b; C-120 MŞH.ŞSC.d 3142/54b. Examples include a professor (müderris) beg in the late eighteenth century, a scribe ağa, or a retired officer efendi in the nineteenth century. BCR C-17/17; C-80/66–67; C-122 MŞH.ŞSC.d 3144/84b–87b; C-69 MŞH.ŞSC.d 3091/120a–b; C-100 MŞH.ŞSC. 3122/47b–48b (1860–1880). 17 Cemal Kafadar, “On the Purity and Corruption of the Janissaries,” Turkish Studies Association Bulletin 15 (1991): 273–280; idem, “Janissary-Esnaf Relations: Solidarity and Conflict” (MA thesis, McGill University, 1981); Gülay Yılmaz Diko, “Blurred Boundaries between Soldiers and Civilians: Artisan Janissaries in Seventeenth-Century Istanbul,” in Bread from the Lion’s Mounth: Artisans Struggling for a Livelihood in Ottoman Cities, ed. Suraiya Faroqhi (New York, Oxford: Berghahn, 2015), 175–194; Betül Başaran and Cengiz Kırlı, “18. Yüzyıl Sonlarında Osmanlı Esnafı,” in Osmanlı’dan Cumhuriyet’e Esnaf ve Ticaret, ed. Fatmagül Demirel (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yayınları, 2011), 19. 18 BCR A-176/17. Also M. Asım Yediyıldız, “Şer‘iye Sicillerine Göre Bursa’nın Sosyo-Ekonomik Yapisi (1656–1658),” Vakıflar Dergisi 23 (1994): 204–205. 19 1620–1640: A janissary shoemaker, BCR B-56/78; a janissary barber, BCR B-46/26–27; 1660–1680: A janissary herbalist (attar), BCR B-185/99; a janissary butcher, BCR B-185/51.

Book Ownership Across Centuries

period examined here to determine on the basis of titles alone who among the many men bearing a military title or, in fact, holding a military position, actually qualifies as “military.” Our peek into the book world of the “military,” therefore, should be read with these caveats in mind. One would hope that findings of this study about long-term patterns of book ownership provide further evidence/ insight also for social transformation of the military.

Statistics on Book Ownership in Bursa20 Ownership Trends Book ownership among military decedents increases markedly from 1620 to 1840, with major changes evident in the latter part of the period. Up until 1760, military inventories are more or less evenly distributed along the wealth spectrum, and wealth and book ownership are generally correlated despite aberrations at some data points. Overall, ten to fifteen percent of the military decedents have books, which is a low percentage compared to other men of comparable standing, both from a wealth and status perspective (Tables 2a– 2b).21 In other words, whether we compare them with others in the same wealth quartiles or with other men of social standing, such as the literati (ownership rate: forty-four to sixty-nine percent) or civilian gentlemen (ownership rate: twenty to twenty-four percent), military decedents appear much less interested in book-holding.22

1740–1760: B213/38–44, attarlar kethüdası; 1700–1720: B194/26–27, bazarbaşı; B-178/22, bazarbaşı; B178/64–65, sarraç kethüdası. Also Yediyıldız, “Şer‘iye Sicillerine Göre”: 212; Nilüfer Alkan Günay, “18. Yüzyılda Osmanlı Taşra Yönetim Düzeninin Sosyo-Kültürel Yapıya Etkileri (Bursa Örneği)” (PhD diss., Uludağ University, 2010), 113; Cengiz Kırlı, “Some Observations on Istanbul’s Artisans During the Reign of Selim III (1789–1808),” in Bread from the Lion’s Mouth, 271–272; idem, “A Profile of the Labor Force in Early NineteenthCentury Istanbul,” International Labor and Working Class History 60 (2001): 130–131. 20 We thank Pınar Ceylan for her help with the statistics of this section. 21 These figures are much lower than those Quinn found among the ağas of Istanbul (thirty-six percent in the mid-seventeenth century. Quinn, “Books and Their Readers,” 96. 22 The former refers to men bearing titles that imply significant education in letters and/ or literacy such as molla, fakih, mevlana, efendi, hafız efendi, halife, hafız, derviş, dede, şeyh, and baba, or those with occupations that presuppose such education. As we use the term here, “civilian gentlemen” includes holders of the titles seyyid, şerif, el-hac, hacı, (acı and hacı for non-Muslims in the nineteenth century), hace, halife, kalfa, usta, üstad, çelebi, and re’is.

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Table 2a. Book ownership by social groups (%)

 

Literati

Civilian title holders

Military

Sons of the military

1620–1640

68.9

19.7

12.3

11.9

1660–1680

59.1

29.9

8.7

36.2

37.5

1700–1720

52.3

21.4

13.5

35.0

57.4

1740–1760

43.7

24.0

11.2

54.0

58.2

43.7

1780–1800

44.4

15.5

30.3

66.2

90.5

26.9

1820–1840

56.8

12.9

40.9

39.4

 

 

Civilian sons of the military

Daughters of the military

This pattern changes significantly after 1760. The share of book-owners among military decedents sharply increases from eleven percent in 1740–1760 to thirty percent in 1780–1800, and then to forty-one percent in 1820–1840. This trend accompanies an upward shift in their wealth scale with most of them now standing in the top two quartiles of urban males. In other words, the economic status of the military within the decedent population improves even though their mean wealth declines slightly after 1700 (Table 2c).23 More importantly, while the mean wealth of the group is nearly the same in 1820– 1840 as in 1740–1760, their rate of book ownership is more than three times as high. It is plausible that military men’s taste for books began to rise in the second half of the eighteenth century, and their consumption preferences continued to shift into the nineteenth century. Yet, the shift appears too sharp and swift to be attributed to a spur of interest in written culture. Furthermore, it overlaps with a decline of ownership across all economic and status groups. Therefore, a good part of the impressive rise in book ownership among the military must reflect the social transformation of the group itself and a change in the meaning of their titles. Ağas, beşes, and begs of this period represent new social identities and milieus, as noted above. Their children provide additional clues for this process. Sons of the military have a significantly higher rate of book ownership than their fathers (Table 2a). Even the daughters appear bookish, not less so than the fathers, which is unusual since book ownership was at best half as common among women as men. Needless to say, these findings may represent a general phenomenon

23 We use Pamuk’s Istanbul Consumer Price index to deflate nominal monetary values. Şevket Pamuk, İstanbul ve Diğer Kentlerde 500 Yıllık Fiyatlar ve Ücretler, 1469–1998 (Ankara: Başbakanlık Devlet İstatistik Enstitüsü, 2000); idem, A Monetary History of the Ottoman Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000).

Bottom Quartile-UM

7.7

0.0

0.0

6.7

14.3

0.0

 

1620–1640

1660–1680

1700–1720

1740–1760

1780–1800

1820–1840

5.8

10.2

6.8

14.7

4.3

18.8

Bottom QuartileUMM

33.3

33.3

0.0

2.2

16.4

16.7

Second Quartile-UM

12.5

10.6

15.8

10.3

16.1

17.3

Second QuartileUMM

22.9

18.7

12.8

12.0

0.0

3.1

Third Quartile-UM

7.0

18.2

17.6

32.7

21.3

15.3

Third Quartile-UMM

63.5

41.6

34.4

43.8

21.5

22.6

Top Quartile-UM

Table 2b. Book ownership by wealth groups: Urban Military (UM) and Urban Muslim Males (UMM) compared (%)

38.2

41.4

42.5

39.3

35.5

38.4

Top QuartileUMM Book Ownership Across Centuries

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Table 2c. Distribution of the military across wealth quartiles (%)  

Bottom Quartile

Second Quartile

Third Quartile

Top Quartile

Mean wealth (akçe, 1740=1)

1620–1640

25.1

23.2

26.8

24.8

203,642

1660–1680

25.2

28.0

27.5

19.3

172,822

1700–1720

22.9

31.9

21.9

23.2

357,189

1740–1760

29.2

30.7

21.1

19.0

209,196

1780–1800

15.6

6.7

28.6

49.1

299,857

1820–1840

6.6

19.7

28.7

45.0

185,248

of intergenerational sociocultural mobility or simply a transformation of the military alone. Neither can we be sure at present that these changes do not derive from an overall sample problem (too small or biased) or medium-term idiosyncrasies of inventorying and record-keeping at the Bursa court. Further and comparative research would be required to tackle these questions.

Library Size Another axis of change observed in book holdings of the military is the size of their collections. In the period studied, the average library size doubles from 2.9 books in 1620–1640 to 5.5 books in 1820–1840. In part, this increase reflects the emergence of larger collections (twenty or more titles) in military probates in the eighteenth century. Nonetheless, these large collections constitute a very small minority, and no collections exceed seventy-six titles. From 1620 to 1840, on average sixty-seven percent of the collections are “Small” (one to three books) (Table 3).24 These and the next size category, the “Medium-sized” (four to twenty books), together account for ninety-two percent of the collections. Therefore, changes within the small and medium-sized collections may be more telling about the book culture among Bursa’s military than the largest collections.

24 The prevalence of very small libraries is evident in other tereke-based studies of book ownership. Sabev, for example, finds that seventy-two percent of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Sofia libraries comprise one or two books. Establet and Pascual found that forty-nine percent of nonmilitary book owners in Damascus around 1700 CE owned fewer than six volumes. Colette Establet and Jean-Paul Pascual, “Les livres des gens à Damas vers 1700,” Revue du monde musulman et de la Méditerranée 87–88 (1999): 148; Orlin Sabev, “Private Book Collections in Ottoman Sofia, 1671–1833 (Preliminary Notes),” Études balkaniques 1 (2003): 39.

135

250

99

695*

1700–1720

1740–1760

1780–1800

1820–1840

ALL

76

25

71

42

76

12

8

6.3

5.5

6.4

6.8

9.3

3.0

2.9

*Minimum number of books owned. See Appendix 1.

21

167

1660–1680

23

1620–1640

 

Number of Total number Mean number books in largest of books owned of books owned library

Table 3. Library size

2

3.5

2

2

2

1

2

Median number of books owned

64.5

50.0

66.7

60.0

66.7

85.7

75.0

Small (1–3 books)

27.3

44.4

23.1

30.0

22.2

14.3

25.0

Medium-sized (4–20 books)

Library size (%)

8.2

5.6

10.3

10.0

11.1

0.0

0.0

Large (>21 books)

Book Ownership Across Centuries

153

154

H ü l y a C a n b a k a l , M e r e d i t h Q u i n n , a n d D e r i n Te r z i o ğ l u Figure 1 Distribution of genres

Genre distribution of books Exegesis, 1.06 Occult sciences, 1.32

Logic , 0.79 Dogmatics and Theology, 0.26

Medicine; [VALUE]

Other, 0.26

Religious primers, 1.85

Philosophy, Astronomy, Mathematics, 0.26

Dictionary , 3.17 Prayers, 4.76

Quran Recitations, 0.26

Prophetic Traditions, 5.56

Rhetoric , 0.26 Biography, History, Cosmography, 6.88

Quran, 35.98

Arabic Grammar , 8.20

Jurisprudence, 10.32 Literature, 8.73

Sufism, Exhortations, Ethics, 8.73

Figure 1. Distribution of genres

The most noteworthy observation regarding the small collections and medium-sized collections is that the share of the former declines (from seventyfive to forty-seven percent) in the long run while the share of the latter rises (from twenty-five to forty-seven percent). The change signals more than a shift in book counts. Small libraries are heavily devotional (seventy-six percent Quran+prayer books+religious primers). Only two percent of the books in the small libraries can be considered outside this thematic cluster.25 Furthermore, of the forty-four single-book holdings, ninety-three percent are copies of the Quran or portions 1 of it, and the rest are about the fundamentals of faith and practice. As collections get larger, other types of books begin to appear (Table 4). Thus, the increase of medium-sized libraries among military inventories signifies not only a growth in average library size, but also increased thematic diversity. Increased thematic diversity may be a better indicator of literacy than book ownership as such, since devotional texts—above all, the Quran—carried a

25 For details, see the section entitled “Genres and Titles” below.

Book Ownership Across Centuries

symbolic value whether or not they were “read.” One would expect less of that in the case of other works even though all written works in the premodern world may have had some symbolic value as prestige goods. Therefore, with all the caveats in mind noted earlier regarding the relationship between literacy and book ownership, we propose that the rise of the medium-sized libraries may also signal increased literacy among the decedents, continuing a trend of the development of a reading public that scholars have observed for the seventeenth century.26 Lastly, one should remark regarding small libraries or single-book holdings that they cannot be dismissed from the perspective of book culture because, after all, nearly four-fifths of men who lived and died in Bursa in this period did not even own a copy of the Quran, and plausibly, this figure was even higher among unregistered decedents. High book prices were undoubtedly an impediment for the majority but there were book owners even among the lowest wealth group (Table 2b). One would imagine, therefore, that perhaps even slightly greater familiarity with written culture, or openness to it, may have been one of the factors that set book owners apart from non-owners.

Genres and Frequently Occurring Titles In this study we use the term genre loosely to refer to a range of categories used to cluster texts together. When assigning genres to titles, our starting point was to think with and through “native” (Ottoman) categories as much as possible. We turned to the 1502/3–1503/4 inventory of the palace library, Katib Çelebi’s Keşfü’z-zunun, the vakfiye of Feyzullah Efendi and the mid-eighteenth-century catalog of the Fatih library established by Mahmud I.27 Even though they fall outside our chronological boundaries, the Hamidiye catalogs also provided helpful insights, making explicit certain assumptions that were only implicit in

26 Derin Terzioğlu, “Where ‘İlm-i Ḥāl Meets Catechism: Islamic Manuals of Religious Instruction in the Ottoman Empire in the Age of Confessionalization,” Past & Present 220 (2013): 84. 27 Atufi, Defter-i Kütüb, Hungarian Academy of the Sciences, Oriental Collection, MS Török F. 59; for the facsimile, transliteration and a series of groundbreaking analytical essays on this inventory, see Gülru Necipoğlu, Cemal Kafadar, and Cornell H. Fleischer, ed., Treasures of Knowledge: An Inventory of the Ottoman Palace Library (1502/3–1503/4), 2 vols. (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2019); Katib Çelebi, Kashf al-ẓunūn ‘an asāmī al-kutub wa-al-funūn, ed. Şerefettin Yaltkaya and Kilisli Rifat Bilge ([Istanbul]: Maarif Matbaası, 1941); Feyzullah Efendi Vakfiyesi, Millet Kütüphanesi 2189, microfilmed in 1960 (Süleymaniye Kütüphanesi mikrofilm no. 579); Defter-i ‘Atik-i Sultan Mahmud-ı Evvel, Süleymaniye Kütüphanesi, MS Yazma Bağışlar 242.

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the earlier lists and rendering the earlier categories more comprehensible for modern readers. Where possible and necessary, we also took into consideration what the secondary scholarship has revealed about who read what kinds of texts, and for what purposes, in the Ottoman world. It is worth stressing that the Ottoman book taxonomies changed relatively little during the two centuries covered in this study. Many of these categories were well-established fields of study such as Quranic exegesis (tefsir), hadith, jurisprudence (fıkh), logic (mantık), rhetoric (belagat), and medicine (tıb), or else well-defined genres such as dictionaries. Some other categories, however, are less self-evident and tend to blend into each other. The Ottoman catalogers themselves acknowledged and accommodated the porousness between various genres and fields by grouping certain types of texts under collated categories such as “Sufism, exhortations, and ethics” (tasavvuf, mev‘iza, ahlak), “biography and history” (siyer ve tarih), and “philosophy, astronomy, and mathematics” (hikmet, hey’et, riyaziyat). “Biography and history” is actually an even more diverse category than the composite heading would suggest, comprising a variety of genres from annalistic histories to stories about the prophets (kısas-ı enbiya’) to epics and legends (destan). Literature (edebiyat) is another tricky category. The term seems to have gained currency as a comprehensive descriptor for a multitude of literary genres only towards the end of the seventeenth century.28 Ottoman catalogers tended to place under this category texts that were written in verse or in rhymed prose, and which were thought to be particularly artful or eloquent. Sometimes, however, some of the versified texts could also be classified under “Sufism, exhortations, and ethics,” or “biography and history” on account of their content. In this study, we have dealt with these murky cases individually, placing them in the category with which they were the most frequently associated during the centuries surveyed. While we have striven in general to be faithful to Ottoman taxonomies, we have also modified a few of the categories in line with the particularities of our sample. Because the military men surveyed in this study owned relatively few books on Arabic grammar and hardly any on usulü’l-fıkh (legal theory), sarf

28 In the 1502/3–1503/4 catalog of the Topkapı Palace library, literary works, comprising divans, a variety of other poetical forms and inşa compilations, were grouped together but without a catchall label such as “literature” (edebiyat) and were further sub-classified according to language (‘Atufi, Defter-i Kütüb, 203–268; Treasures of Knowledge, 2:140–179). By the time Feyzullah drafted his vakfiye, between the years 1699–1702, however, edebiyat had already emerged as a general category for the aforementioned kinds of texts (Feyzullah Efendi Vakfiyesi, Millet Kütüphanesi 2189, 243b–252b) and continued to be used in a similar way also in the later catalogs, including the Hamidiye.

Book Ownership Across Centuries

(morphology), and nahv (grammar) have been combined under the general category of Arabic grammar; and legal theory and substantive law (füru‘ü’l-fıkh) have been combined under “jurisprudence.” Likewise, because our sample contained only credal expositions and no works on speculative theology (kelam), the latter category has been relabeled as “dogmatics and theology” (‘aka’id ve kelam). In addition, we have added the word “cosmography” to “biography and history” to signal to our readers that this collated category also included works in this genre. (Until the nineteenth century, geographical works would have also been included under “biography and history,” but they do not show up in our sample.) Finally, even though ilmihals and manuals on worship were generally recorded under “jurisprudence” in the Ottoman catalogs, we have recorded them separately under the category of religious primers, bearing in mind that they were written for “ordinary” believers rather than for religio-legal experts and offered basic knowledge about a wider array of the religious sciences than just jurisprudence.

The Big Picture: Genre Groupings Probate scribes identified approximately two-thirds of the books in this sample by title or by genre. Unidentified books were mostly listed as kütüb, with some specified as “books in Turkish” (türki kitab) or “scattered folios” (evrak-ı perişan). It is reasonable to think that books in Turkish as well as cheap or less prestigious books made up a greater part of these generic “books.” Of the books identified by title, the Quran and portions of the Quran predominated in every period, comprising thirty-six percent of known titles (Figure 1; Appendix 2). It is worth noting that several of the Qurans in our sample were very expensive, costing more (and sometimes much more) than a modestly sized house. The fact that some of the probate records contain multiple luxury copies of the Quran and that the estimated prices of these manuscripts make up a significant percentage of the decedents’ total wealth suggests that the latter might have purchased these lavish manuscripts as a form of investment.29

29 The price of the most expensive Quran in our sample was estimated as 18120 akçe, which was more than the price of approximately one-third of the houses at the time. It had belonged to el-Hac Mahmud Ağa b. El-Hac Şair b. Abdullah, a wealthy man who had held a fifth of his estate in commercial stocks and who had owned the third largest library in our sample (BCR, B-194/46–47, date 1760). Perhaps an even clearer case of an individual who collected Qurans as a form of investment was Seyyid Mustafa Beg b. Cafer, who had made his wealth mainly in the credit market. Even though Mustafa Beg owned a total of six books, three of

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Although jurisprudence is the second largest genre category at eleven percent of known titles, it is notable that it is a smaller slice of the whole than is typically observed in tereke-based studies of Ottoman book ownership. (It is important to note, however, that all comparisons are cursory at this point because the findings are difficult to standardize.) In a sample from early eighteenth-century Damascus Colette Establet and Jean-Paul Pascual found that jurisprudence made up twenty-seven percent of the titles, all coming from commoner (beledi) backgrounds.30 In a sample from sixteenth-century Bursa, Ali İhsan Karataş has found that jurisprudence accounted for sixteen percent of books with known titles/genres, while Orlin Sabev has found that the genre accounted for fifteen percent of all books in his sample from eighteenth- to nineteenth-century Sofia.31 Similarly, fıkh titles are prominent among the most frequently appearing books in a sample from seventeenth-century Istanbul.32 The relatively smaller proportion of jurisprudence in this Bursa sample can be attributed to its focus on military men; none of the individuals whose books are studied here carried the title of efendi, which would have suggested a member of the ulema, the people most likely to have studied and used law books. Along the same lines, neither hadith nor Arabic grammar is prominent within the known titles of this sample. Hadith titles account for five percent of the known entries, and Arabic grammar comprises eight percent of the known titles. Besides, most of the titles that fall under the category of hadith in this data set belong to works that were produced for “lay” people and which were more devotional than “scholarly” in nature.33 We assume that the relatively smaller

these were Qurans, and the price of the most expensive of these copies was estimated as 1130 guruş, which was more than the price of forty percent of the houses in that time period (BCR, C-57/19, date 1828). Other inventory records that contain copies of the Quran which were estimated to be worth as much as a small house in their own period are BCR, B-46/78; date 1629; B-46/85; date 1629; B-91/43–44; date 1670; B-156/ 9–10, date 1717; B-190/52–53, date 1706. For a discussion of the purchase of Qurans as a form of investment in the latter half of the nineteenth century, see Edhem Eldem, “Un bourgeois d’Istanbul au milieu du XIXe siècle: Le livre de raison de Mehmed Cemal Bey, 1855–1864,” in Penser, agir et vivre dans l’Empire ottoman et en Turquie: Études réunies pour François Georgeon, eds. Nathalie Clayer and Erdal Kaynar (Paris, Louvain, Walpole: Peeters, 2013), 397–399. 30 Establet and Pascual, “Livres des gens”: 161. 31 Ali İhsan Karataş, “Tereke Kayıtlarına Göre XVI. Yüzyılda Bursa’da İnsan-Kitap İlişkisi,” Uludağ Üniversitesi İlahiyat Fakültesi 8 (1999): 324; Sabev, “Private Book Collections”: 40–45. 32 Quinn, “Books and Their Readers,” 191–193. 33 Examples would be Şifa’, Mesabihü’s-sünne, hilyes and şema’ils, which make up the majority of the “hadith” texts in our sample. Bagavi’s Mesabihü’s-sünne was a particularly popular collection of hadiths which dispensed with the chains of transmitters that accompanied the collections of hadiths intended for a more scholarly audience. Şema’ils were “literary expositions of the Prophet’s lofty qualities and outward beauty,” while hilyes were single-sheet calligraphic works that consisted

Book Ownership Across Centuries

Table 4. Distribution of genres according to library size (%) Percentage  Genres

Small (1–3 books)

Medium-sized (4–20 books)

Large (21